The Furniture Salesman

Hardcastle couldn't tell you when the lassitude was first upon him. And so probably (he would have reasoned) it had been a gradual succumbing. As far as he could make out, it was linked to sales-patter - should he ever risk launching himself into the wide showroom towards a customer seeking help, he knew that before two paces had been taken, all energy would have been drained from him as if taps had been turned full-on. The lassitude may be linked to sales-talk, thought he, but not to any perceived pressure to meet sales-targets, for he had never felt the least bit anxious about whether he would meet monthly figures or not. All he could identify was an overwhelming boredom with the very sales words just before utterance. He no longer felt able to sell to these bobbing customers who remorselessly bent down to touch and rub and shake furniture before straightening themselves up all of a sudden; and so he began to avoid contact altogether. He began by avoiding the gaze of even the most determined of customers; those who urgently cleared their throats in a bellowing fashion by his ear. Most drifted away, complaining, to find one of the other salesmen criss-crossing the floor seemingly on tiny wheels. However, even the small number who got through his ruse was too much for him to bear, and he became anxious. Should some customer spot him and manage to approach from behind - a misfortune that Hardcastle permanently dreaded - and should he approach silently across the showroom where the carpet was deepest (whether by accident or out of sheer maliciousness) and should he rush the final steps and tap Hardcastle briskly on the shoulder before he could sense the approach and flee - then Hardcastle invariably released an involuntary squeak. And thus the obscure corners of the store became his very favourite haunts, and regularly he began to manage to stay hidden in a particularly shadowy nook until closing-time.

Of course a different form of lassitude eventually began to overcome him, one born of inactivity. And to combat this new dullness, he struck upon the idea of impersonating a customer himself. He could detach his clip-on tie and tear off his name tag and, in a trice, pass himself off as quite an enthusiastic customer. One minute he would be reclining on a double-bed examining the head-board; the next bouncing on the newest line of sofa. He was sure the other staff had not noticed - and anyway he was senior to them all and his sales-figures were still good (made up of contract-purchasers he'd cultivated for years past). 

It was not long though before he became weighed down again, this time by the inane conversations he was dragged into by fellow customers; this gossip and functional politeness became even more troublesome than selling to them; and thus he gave up the impersonations.

Back as a 'salesman' now, of course the day had to come when he was exposed. The manager had caught him crouched on all fours at the bottom of a cupboard. The manager had opened it to show a middle-aged couple the superb teak-effect finish which was a special feature both outside and in. Hardcastle had begun to extol the virtues of this teak finish himself, backing up the manager's claims with extra technical detail he thought the manager might have forgotten. But already he was being lifted bodily from the store, still urging the interested purchasers to consider a matching side-table.