Dispatches From Small Businessland
Dec. 3rd, 2007 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraDifficult weekend. Saturday was dead. Nary a soul came into the Little Store all day. There was a brief flurry of sales shortly after sunset, and they were all big ticket sales: we almost made the minimum amount below which I start panicking and wondering where I hid my pill stash and staying up all night to watch Snoop Dogg bios on E! Entertainment.
But not quite.
Consequently when I got out of bed Sunday morning, I knew more about Snoop Dogg than any other person on the face of the earth with the possible exceptions of Suge Knight and Mrs. Broadus, Snoop's own mother.
Sunday, on the other hand, was much, much busier than normal although, little dance hall hostess that I am, I had to work hard for that money – reciting practically the complete bibliographic oeuvre of Harry Turtledove to force that fat guy to buy a bottle of coffee barbecue sauce; having to listen to the insurance guy rant and rave about the supervisor who was 20 years younger than he was and had an MBA from Harvard and knew nothing about selling insurance before he'd spring for that bottle of Ass In the Tub.
Right after dark, though, the Perfect Customer came into the store – this tall, unbelievably handsome guy who looked like Kyle Chandler and who loved chile. And who kept saying, "This is the most amazing place in the world; I love it, I love it." And who let me feed him an assortment of my own favorite flavors. And who bought stuff! Lots of stuff.
Still. Because last week was so far below my projections I find myself in the cash crunch that usually doesn't come till January. And I'm not really sure what to do about it. I feel paralyzed, kind of as if I'm sitting in a crawl space watching it fill up with water. At some point, the water is going to go up over my head and I'll drown. I should be looking around for ways to bail the water out. But I'm tired. Very, very tired.
However, really, there's nobody else but me to do it. So I better get crackin'.
But not quite.
Consequently when I got out of bed Sunday morning, I knew more about Snoop Dogg than any other person on the face of the earth with the possible exceptions of Suge Knight and Mrs. Broadus, Snoop's own mother.
Sunday, on the other hand, was much, much busier than normal although, little dance hall hostess that I am, I had to work hard for that money – reciting practically the complete bibliographic oeuvre of Harry Turtledove to force that fat guy to buy a bottle of coffee barbecue sauce; having to listen to the insurance guy rant and rave about the supervisor who was 20 years younger than he was and had an MBA from Harvard and knew nothing about selling insurance before he'd spring for that bottle of Ass In the Tub.
Right after dark, though, the Perfect Customer came into the store – this tall, unbelievably handsome guy who looked like Kyle Chandler and who loved chile. And who kept saying, "This is the most amazing place in the world; I love it, I love it." And who let me feed him an assortment of my own favorite flavors. And who bought stuff! Lots of stuff.
Still. Because last week was so far below my projections I find myself in the cash crunch that usually doesn't come till January. And I'm not really sure what to do about it. I feel paralyzed, kind of as if I'm sitting in a crawl space watching it fill up with water. At some point, the water is going to go up over my head and I'll drown. I should be looking around for ways to bail the water out. But I'm tired. Very, very tired.
However, really, there's nobody else but me to do it. So I better get crackin'.
