My second lesson in selling was also taught to me by my mother: There are no "dudes," only customers.
I was somewhere between the ages of 12 and 14 years old. Old enough, my parents thought, to let me help with gift wrapping in the jewelry store my father ran. It was a week or two before Christmas and the store was packed with shoppers. People were popping in and out of the store to browse, shop, or just to get in from the cold. A mixture of cigarette smoke, cologne, and bursts of fresh air wafted throughout the store as the radio blasted out Christmas tunes. It was the late 60's, when downtowns were still thriving centers of community and economy.
Sales men and women rushed to the backroom where the wrapping station was set up. They handed-off ring boxes, watches, bracelets, Cross pen sets and other finery for Mom and me to giftwrap. I had just finished wrapping a birthstone ring when my mother asked me who the gift was for. "The dude in the brown jacket" was my snappy answer. Mom stopped wrapping and looked me straight in the eye. "We don't have 'dudes,'" she said sternly, "We have customers."
I felt as though the wind had been knocked out me. I had crossed a line I did not know existed and, to top it off, I was the boss' daughter -- the same standards applied to me as they did to each and every employee regardless of their role in the store.
The door to the sales floor was ajar. I glanced through opening and saw the man in the brown coat patiently waiting for the lovely ring he had selected for someone special in his life. Embarrassed by my slang, and humbled by the elite status my parents placed on everyone who entered the store, I carried the small packaged wrapped in gold-foil paper topped with a small, perfectly shaped green bow as if it were the most prized possession on earth and placed in the customer's hands. I thanked him and returned to the wrapping station to serve the next customer.
My parents are no longer living and their downtown store has long been a distant memory for many, but every now and I then I meet someone who grew up in Martinsville, Va. and shopped at the Jewel Box. Every single one of these encounters ends with statements like "Your Dad was great! I loved shopping at his store! You Mom was so nice! They always took care of me!" Then we part, smiling, each knowing we had been part of something special.
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