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salesman-of-century There are usually no surprises at the gas pump, except for the price tag. But this time was different. I drove up, stopped my car and was looking my phone when all of a sudden, a man was standing too close to my open car window, displaying a product in a can.

“Would you like to try this product?” he asked. He was a young sandy-haired man, with a sweaty forehead. “This will shine up your tires. It’s unbelievable how good they’ll look…”

“No, thank you” I said to him. Annoyed.

“Well, let me just show you…” he said in a hyper, pushy way, holding the can even closer for me to see.

I looked him right in the eye. “No means no,” I said and paused.

I’m lovin’ the long pause. I didn’t utter another word. He was surprised, like he’d been rejected before, but not quite that way, and he just stood there for a moment processing it before he turned away.

Well, I thought to myself. He’s got a tough job; it’s a job full of rejection day after day. I wonder what his daily sales quota is, but I’m not going to help him reach it.

A silver Toyota Camry pulled up at the pump across from me and I saw him run over to it.

A woman in her thirties with Farrah Fawcett hair climbed out. He began explaining the tire product to her. I heard her giggle—that’s right, giggle—and then I saw her flirting with him. “You can try it on my tires,” I heard her say. She twirled a strand of her hair and watched him spray her tires.

Different strokes for different folks, I thought. Maybe his sales quota will be just fine today.