Trunk Monkey

Part of Bee's business requires him to sell his craft at a farmer's market downtown each weekend. Bee's been doing it for years, and he's a natural-born salesman. He must have the perfect amount of playfulness to attract female customers, mixed with enough harmless innocence to not be a threat to their husbands, topped by sufficient manliness to attract male customers on their own.

Business, however, tends to falter as soon as I show up to give Bee a break. Siiigh: perhaps my Toxic Housewifely good looks make the ladies too jealous and the men so bamboozled that they just can't think to actually buy anything.

Or maybe it's just that I suck as a salesman.

At any rate, I have practiced my selling techniques over the years and have actually gotten better, to the point where business only drops about a third when I make my appearance. I have learned to plaster on a smile and an air of casual business, bustling around to move product from Point A to Point B whilst I indulge in sparkling repartee with potential customers on subjects ranging from the weather to . . . the weather. Then, after the customer has bought or not bought, I thank them and send them off, welcoming the next customer with a smile and an air of casual business, bustling around to move the same product from Point B back to Point A.

I still can only think to talk about the weather.

One thing I've noticed that truly impacts how much I sell is what I wear. I actually can't wear anything nice. I think people don't want to buy Bee's product from someone who looks too fashionable to have made it, so I have to be casual without being sloppy. It's actually a very interesting sociological study.

One thing I've noticed that truly doesn't help me sell is Mr. C. Which is kind of surprising: one would think an adorable little cherub-faced child would melt potential customers' hearts to goo. Particularly once they were given the opportunity to contribute to said child's college fund. I don't know: perhaps potential customers just get distracted by a sticky-faced toddler screaming for snacks and throwing products on the ground. Even if it is all done with an adorable little cherub smile.

What Bee and I have discovered is that Mr. C will be entertained for nearly an hour if we plug him into the portable dvd player, like the excellent parents we are. He's even happier if he can be plugged into the dvd player while snacking on Cheerios and reclining in the temporarily empty crate Bee uses to transport his product. And he's even happier if we put the lid on the crate. Which is fine with us: we can then attend to customers, with a break every ten minutes to lift the crate's lid for air circulation and a quick check. And I do mean a quick check: anything more than a few seconds and Mr. C screams “Lock me up!” at the top of his lungs.

The funniest part is that, as he lounges on his back watching movies, Mr. C will distractedly push the crate lid with his feet. Sometimes he'll push hard enough that the lid shoots off the crate, causing him to scream, “Lock me up!” until Bee or I drop what we're doing to comply. Since customers, obviously, had no clue there was a child in the crate, it comes as quite a shock for them to see the lid suddenly hurl itself into the air like the contents of a geyser while the crate itself starts shaking and screaming. But, once these select few customers are allowed in on the crate's secret, they become laughing members of an elite group, and seem more likely to buy. It's brilliant!

But . . . sometimes it backfires.

Take this last weekend, for instance. I left Bee at the booth and Mr. C in his crate and ran off to buy something incredibly important. A cookie, I think. I was gone less than a minute when Mr. C caused the crate to erupt. Bee caught sight of the lid as it crashed to the ground several feet away, just as Mr. C began screaming, “Lock me up! Lock me up!” Bee rushed to his aid, yelling, “OK, OK! I'll lock you up!” and, with fumbling hands, swooped up the lid and slammed it back into place over the crate. Then he turned around.

Two ladies, just rounding the booth's corner, were frozen in their tracks: eyes wide, Child Protective Services on their minds. Bee smiled hesitantly while they stared at him. He suddenly realized they weren't able to hear what Mr. C was yelling: they'd only witnessed Bee slamming the lid on the crate while a child inside screamed.

Bee recognized how ridiculous the scene looked, so he just started laughing. “He likes it in there,” he offered, lamely.

They nodded, shocked and mute, apparently willing to accept his explanation, even if they didn't totally believe it.

Shockingly, they did not buy anything.