North Star Writers Group

A haphazard career choice has literally forced me to spend an inordinate amount of time in Costco recently. I’d explain, but then I’d have to kill you.

Suffice it to say, it has been against my will, and were it up to me, I would more likely be caught in a synchronized swimming class than dodging SUV-sized carts filled with 28-gallon tins of crushed red pepper. But Costco is not all bad. There are lots of free samples.

I made a commitment to myself and my family that, one way or another, I would leave the store on a full stomach without spending a penny. Unfortunately, there are not enough booths to satisfy the demands of my stomach with only one lap around the store. At this point, the astute reader deduces that an uncomfortable dynamic inevitably develops between the people who prepare the samples and those who eat them (me).

At first, I filed free samples under random acts of kindness. But after several unmistakable glares and some lousy-at-best sales pitches, I realized that I was actually a target of consumerism, a mark, a pawn, a wallet with legs. The whole Costco establishment was transformed from a harmonious community into a battle of wits. Thankfully, I’m considerably well-adjusted to the latter.

Ideally, there are so many people thrusting appendages onto the red sample trays and grabbing the tiny little sample containers, that the employees could not possibly recognize me after my second, third or ninth time around.

But as luck would have it, I had to wear a suit… in Costco. I stuck out a little.

I developed a very amicable working relationship with some of the employees of Costco, to the point where they actually loaded me up with more than the average amount of samples whenever I came around. We would chat about the thrill of existence, how lucky we were to be working in such a bustling environment, how much money we’d pay to be shot with a tranquilizer dart, among other pleasantries. But unfortunately, some of the workers are sticklers, intent on making their pitch. “Sun-dried tomato sausages, only five bucks a pound! Jalapeno sausages, $5.50! Good, aren’t they? Take some home to your wife!” You can’t really ignore them in good conscience. They’re giving you free food, for crying out loud. So I tried some things.

One option is the Bill Murray routine from Groundhog Day, in which you pat down every pocket you’re wearing as if you’re searching for your wallet. The trick is to check deliberately, not rushing it, giving yourself ample time to slowly back away. It’s not easy, and unless you really sell it, you look quite foolish. But if you perform it effectively, not only do you save an ounce of dignity, you can also make a pretty swift getaway.

The routine I prefer is: Ask about the product, followed with some semblance of an, “I might come back.” Any salesperson with half a wit to his name realizes that this means, quite literally, “I’d buy a bus ticket to Ottawa if you’d just leave me alone.” But the beauty of the phrase is that, there’s not much you can say in response, besides, “I hope to see you again,” or something a bit more honest, like, “Have a fabulous life. Don’t forget to give your mother my regards.” The other wonderful part of this equation is that I’m quite sure that the salary of Costco sample-makers is not commission-based. They don’t seem to understand that “I might come back” does not at all suggest that, well, I might come back.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve performed this routine in the past four days. “What kind of steak is this again? Mmm. It’s delicious. Could I have one more bite? Wow, so good. My wife’s got to try this. Would you mind giving me one for her? She’s looking at toasters. Thanks so much. I might come back.” And like that, I’m gone.

With any luck, I’ll never set foot in that store again without an SUV-sized cart of my own filled with a 48-pack of beer and a 15-pack of frozen pizzas. But if I’m not so lucky, at least I won’t have to pack a lunch.

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This is Column # NS060. Request permission to publish here.