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THE
MONEY OR THE FUN
by
Fiona Trembath "Sell
me this shirt." I look down at
the man sitting on his leather couch. His wife stands back a little, forcing a
smile. I push my self consciousness aside
and I take on the challenge, feigning confidence.
I
clutch the microphone, glad to have something to do with my hands.
I take a breath and begin. "Good
afternoon customers - " I'm
stopped short. "You need
to turn the microphone on," he
says smugly. What an idiot.
Him, not me. I
turn on the microphone and start again.
"Good afternoon customers. Today at Hot Stuff you will find some
fantastic bargains. For example,
have a look at this lovely shirt. It's
made of polyester cotton and comes in various pastel shades.
And for the next ten minutes, ladies, I'm giving this beautiful tailored
shirt away for just $39.95. That's
a whole 20% off..." "She's
good", the lady says as if I don't exist.
Nice voice." The
man's eyes haven't left me. I
should have checked my teeth for poppy seeds before I started.
"You need a little more life in your voice", he says.
"Give me more excitement."
(I have the urge to aarf and clap like a seal.
Give me a fish, give me a fish, go on, give me a fish.) She
agrees with him. "And
remember to keep repeating the key words: 'bargain', 'Hot Stuff', and 'the next
ten minutes'. Okay, try it
again." This
is my audition to become a spruiker: someone who stands outside department
stores armed with p.a. and microphone flogging goods for a dime a dozen.
The very same person crowds are both attracted to and repelled by.
I
get the job. I think I'm pleased.
Well, I need the money, and twenty bucks an hour isn't too bad.
My
financial desperation has clouded my memory.
Up until this moment I had forgotten how much I despised spruiking in the
past. How torturous, how pointless, how humiliating, how tiring on the feet and
vocal chords , and how embarrassing it is for others (who are not spruikers). I
recall many years before, to a time when I vocalised with enthusiasm the
benefits of hydroponic lettuces, for up to eight hours a day.
Followed by that was the stint with jewellery: "We have yellow-
gold-white-gold-rose-gold-sterling-silver (breath) earrings-necklaces-
bracelets-charms (breath) engagement-rings-wedding-rings-friendship
rings-eternity-rings (breath) diamonds-sapphires-emeralds-pearls-cubic zirconia
(breath) and for the next 60 seconds everything inside the store is free".
(I was testing out my "nobody listens anyway" theory.
Luckily for me, I was right.)
And
now, here I am, a spruiker once more. My
first assignment is at a Box Hill Central clothing store.
The
shop assistants are less than indifferent about my presence.
There is no greeting, no smile. Just a hand-over of the p.a., microphone
and the 'specials' rack, which I wheel outside the front of the store.
I
take a deep breath. (Spruikers
don't do sound checks. Feedback is
good. It draws attention.) The
first word is always the hardest. But
once that's out in the open, the rest is pretty easy. Not fun, not interesting, just easy. Ten
minutes drag by. I am not allowed
to stop talking, except to breath and swallow, which I do a lot.
Prices, brands, lycra percentages, washability - my mouth is on auto
pilot, a continuous loop.
While my mouth speaks, my mind wanders.
I find myself praying to the spruiker God (if she's out there) begging
for an intelligent conversation, an encouraging smile, a bit of empathy.
All to no avail. I
check my self esteem. Thankfully,
it's still intact. Only two hours
and fifty minutes and no pee break to go. The
general shopping public's worst fear must be the fear of a spruiker talking directly to them. To avoid this they surreptitiously sidle up to the
bargain rack and ignore the person with the microphone.
They keep their eyes down, and fossick like rabbits. There
is one good thing about spruiking: the joy an occasional faux pas can bring. Unfortunately, those walking past are customers, not audience,
so I merely laugh on the inside at my accidental spoonerisms. I
suddenly spot my husband's boss coming towards the store.
Yippee! A familiar face! A conversationalist! I
up the ante, magically drawing her nearer to my rack. "...Over here at Ojay’s we have some wonderful
bargains. Just take a look at these
lovely breasts. I mean vests." My
stomach quivers with contained laughter and erupts from my face in a manic
smile. "Hi Helen!" She
takes a step back, looking embarrassed
(I shouldn't have spoken her name into the microphone).
It's like a bad dream for both of us.
She looks right through me, trying to put a place for my face.
Okay, so she's never seen me like this before.
I usually have babies attached to my legs and puke on my shoulder.
But today I am a spruiker! I
am wearing the regulation short, black, tight skirt, stockings, white shirt,
stiletto shoes. I remind her who I am. I
paint a picture of trackie daks and babies.
She shakes her head in wonderment, stops looking at the bargains and says
a falsely cheerful goodbye. I
recall my delicious faux pas and relish it.
It makes me smile, which in turn looks like I'm enjoying myself.
Three
hours ooze slowly by. I bid a
hoarse and monotone farewell to the indifferent shopkeepers.
$60, less tax. That
wasn't too bad, was it? The
following week, I'm sent spruiking for shoes in my neighbourhood shopping plaza.
There's an up side and down side to this.
It's good because it's close to home, and it's bad because I will
probably see somebody I know. I pity them in advance.I arrive to the usual wet
fish reception and spend the first 30 minutes fixing the crackling and
distorting microphone. That only leaves me with 90 minutes to spruik.
Good. The
amplification begins and the crowds are drawn like bees to a honey pot.
"Fifty percent off your second pair of shoes.
Yes customers, that's right. Buy
one pair and get your second pair for half price!"
I
see John, my old childhood sweetheart, walking towards the shoe store, his
teenage son and daughter either side of him.
He jumps with fright as I greet him (away from the microphone -
I learn fast). He looks nervously around, looking for a way out, but sees
there is none. He resorts to small
talk, but it's obvious he's overcome with shame: him, the civil engineer, home
owner, financially secure investor, ashamed of ever going out with me, the
Spruiker. I see his mouth contract
like he's sucking a lemon. I talk
too fast, trying to cover up the awkwardness, apologising for my public display
of poverty and desperation. "Twins.
Mortgage. University." I beg his compassion. He
begs his leave. Chirnside Park has
just lost a customer for life. "Fifty
percent off your second share of poos", I say. No point in correcting myself.
Nobody heard anyway - except John. Today
I am no longer a spruiker, but a writer in search of spruikers.
I want to reach out to my fellow impoverished and desperate raconteurs,
offer them an understanding ear and a keyboard to tell their story.
I re-visit Chirnside Park in the lead up to Mother's Day.
Prime time for spruikers. I
notice a woman in a navy blue leotard with red frills looking out of place, when
a beautifully elocuted honeyed voice-over informs us that this woman in the gym
gear is about to demonstrate her national award winning aerobics routine.
I
spot the spruiker. She looks nothing like her voice.
There's nothing liquid or honeyed about her:
small build, short hair, tailored suit, stern mouth, thin red lips.
She sounds so friendly and warm, yet
looks military and cool. Before
her words stop reverberating, she thrusts the cordless microphone under her arm
and walks away with quick efficiency, wheeling her p.a. behind her like a
lagging child. The
leotarded aerobic champion strikes a pose.
The music starts with a loud stab and the show begins.
I keep my eye on the spruiker who is hovering near the perfumery display,
ready to take up as soon as the aerobics leaves off.
The champion lurches and jumps, bends and flexes, and smiles a fixed
smile. Her small tattoo winks below
the high cut leotard. She finishes
the routine with a taught, dramatic pose. Her
biceps, triceps and gluteus maximus clutch tightly to her bones.
I feel flabby and lacking of definition.
"Would
you like a pear?". A lady with
a tray of chopped up green and brown crispy pears accosts me as I kick start the
twin stroller. This lady is not a
spruiker, she's a demonstrator.
She is at the top of the food chain, revered by shoppers.
I tell her I already have a pair, indicating my boys.
She doesn't get it, so I take three pieces.
Then in a flash, my children, this lady, our respective pairs/pears
become the centre of a photographic session, along with the leotarded aerobics
champ. Apparently, in some very
bizarre way, she and the pears lady
are somehow connected. We all pose
for our pear shots, then the pear lady gives me a pair of pears for my pair as a
thank you. I
look for the military spruiker. Her
voice is now into the throes of perfume. I
watch her briefly, studying her technique, still bemused by the incongruity of
voice/person. I watch her once again as her armpit clutches the microphone as
marches towards a jean store. I
wheel my children over to where she's standing.
I try the friendly smile, the eye contact, which she avoids. Who's
spruiking who here? "Hi, I'm a freelance writer and I'm doing a story on
spruiking..." She looks at me
like my twin gene is contagious. She
interrupts, not wanting to waste precious speaking time. "I'm not really a
spruiker", she says, in denial.
I notice that without the microphone and its acoustic enhancers, she
sounds more like she looks. "I'm
the Shopping Centre's Promoter."
"Oh", I say, not deterred by her superiority complex.
"Am I able to ask you a few questions about your promoting
then?" She looks at my dirty faced, pear fisted children with
undisguised disdain. I give her my
card. It doesn't say 'Spruiker', or
'Mother', it says 'Freelance Writer'.
By now, I'm hoping she says no. She
says yes, but not today. I thank her and resist bowing.
"I'll give you a call", I say, lying. I
head for the toy shop. The spruiker
I had passed earlier was a cheery, friendly early twenties toy shop kind of guy. I wouldn't mind observing his technique for a few sentences
more. I approach him as he pauses to breath and swallow. I give him the "freelance writer doing a story on
spruiking" line. Interestingly,
he too is in denial. "I'm not
really a spruiker", he says, grinning like a puppy. "I just work for
this toy shop. I do this for
them as a favour. But I love it. It's
good fun". I thanked Darryl
(who generously gave me his name and phone number) and left, bemused by his
enthusiasm for not spruiking.
On my way back, I pass by the amplified honey-voiced spruiker - I mean promoter
. She's moved onto donuts.
I
ruffle the heads of my boys, feeling like Moses as I part the crowds with the
extra wide stroller. Today I spent
$60 on children's shoes and toys. That's
three hours of spruiking. Fiona Trembath
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