So I've started selling shit at work. Like expensive shit of the two-wheeled variety. In order to sell said shit, I have to be able to finance your ass. Therefore I am now working sales and F&I at my store. Like as in they are getting me a sales license. If that isn't adulthood, I don't know what the hell is. I am trusted enough (and believed in, mind you) that they are going to let me sell motorcycles like I know what I'm talking about. Okay, I kind of DO know what I'm talking about, but let us be honest: I am a girl. I like pretty things like glitter, kittens, dresses, birdies, and cupcakes. And they take me and toss me out in a pinstriped work shirt and want me to bring in some skrilla. Lots of skrilla. Like in the thousands to tens of thousands range. These fuckers even trusted me to take a $10k cash deposit to the bank last week. That's ten thousand. Cash money. Certified. Anyway, I sell Harley-Davidson motorcycles for a living now. And balance the daily books. And do SubscriberMail emails. And install bar code scanners. All the things. I do them.
And you know what?
I love every single second of it.
Seriously. I love my job. If I have to leave Cookeville, that is what I will be sad about. I work with some great people- I like everyone... even crazy Bill in the back, and trust me- that motherfucker is crazy. And yells sometimes. But I like him, damnit.
What I don't like is how some potential customers treat me v. my boss/store manager. The difference: boobs and a penis. I mean really- I know, I'm a girl. I have hips the size of a small country to prove it. That doesn't mean I'm completely retarded. Not in general and not about the product I'm trying to sell you because I know you want to fucking buy it. When I approach someone, ask how they are, what they're looking for, and how I can help- I usually get 'Fine, and you? Just browsing/killing some time, thanks.' When my boss asks, they have questions. Always- they have questions. You know what, I know more about the bikes on my floor than 75% of the dick hauling motherfuckers that walk in the door. For example, I know that horsepower really doesn't matter in the motorcycle world. It just doesn't. So when I say 'Harley actually doesn't give us a hp rating in specs...' I'm not lying. It's true. Go ask the guy with the dick- he'll say the same. Also, all of our bikes have more 'power' than imports. We have an 883, which is actually measuring the cc's while most H-D's measure the cubic inches. Compare that to a 650. Are you with me? Because most people aren't. 650 < 883. And that's only on our Sportster line... and only some of those. Others are 1200's. Again... 650 < 1200. You get up to the bigger bikes with the 93 and 109 cubic inch motors and that works out to 1523-1687 in the crotch rocket world. That shit will haul. Heavier, yes- but still. Point is: I know my shit. That is a basic question, and I know the answer. Carrying on...
I have had a guy in the shop almost every day for over a week now. He comes in, sits on one of my favorite bikes...
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| Iron 883... sigh... |
... and I imagine he makes 'potato potato' sounds for a while. He sits on the bike for a good 10-20 minutes at a time, walks around, comes back, does it again... he spends at least 2 hours in the store. I've tried to initiate conversation with him SO MANY TIMES, and he won't talk to me. Seriously. I've stood and stared and tried and he is having NONE of it. Dude, just tell me to fuck off and I WILL. Gladly. You irritate me as it is so just SAY SOMETHING. BAH.
Bottom line is that I love my job. LOVE IT. But there is always the underlying inferiority almost that I feel... because I'm not a 'dude'. I am thankful my parts manager, service manager, boss, and mega boss don't feel this way. They answer my stupid girl questions (because I still have them) and tell me to go out and kick ass- sell the shit outta some shit then finance the hell outta it. Besides, it could always be worse. I could have people trying to hug me (only happened once so far) or a boss who constantly nags and screeches at me still. Instead I get to look at cool stuff all day long, learn nifty things and come home to my best friend at quitting time.
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| And Murray, too. |
Life is good. :)
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