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Discover Mid-America — May 2008

Customer courtesy is
a two-way street

It takes at least two people to form a commercial transaction, and both sides of that transaction are capable — sometimes even guilty — of offensive behavior.

The title of this month’s article means to suggest that customer relations is a two-way street: not just hospitality toward the customer but courtesy from the customer.

The dealer dark side

The trade has its share of crotchety and cantankerous sellers. These are folks who have burnt out on the business and should probably have left it some time back. A certain small percentage of the dealer clientele of any group shop is likely to consist of these crispy critters; some of them flatly refuse to deal with the retail public and make no bones about it. The attitude is ironic, not to say paradoxical. An antique dealer not wanting to deal with the retail public is a bit like a piano teacher wanting to bypass students and only deal with the piano.

Aside from that extreme in misanthropy, there are at least two types of scenario in the public antiques trade that annoy customers and defy hospitality. One is the proprietor who sits at the front counter and spares visitors to the shop little more than a cursory glance over the tops of his bifocals — a sort of once-over as he sizes you up to see if you’re worth his attention. Returning to his newspaper with not so much as a wink or a nod and without sparing a word, this guy has served you notice that he considers you beneath his. It’s hard to browse comfortably in a shop where the customer is made to feel like an intruder.

The second annoying scenario is being hit with this question as soon as one steps across the threshold:

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Now, I believe this question is actually inspired by a genuine (if misplaced) desire to be helpful. But because it cuts right to the chase, its effect is to discourage browsing by any shopper who falls into the trap of answering it. (“Oh, we don’t have that…” “You don’t have that? Oh, okay, see ya!”)

How much nicer it would be instead if the shop owner or staff simply said, “Hello, there! My name is ______________ (insert first name), and I just want you to know I’m here to help you if you need me to open a case or if you have any questions. Otherwise, welcome to ______________(insert name of shop), and enjoy the hunt!”

This acknowledges and welcomes the customer and offers assistance without being intrusive about it. Shoppers may not even know what they’re looking for until they see it, which describes many veteran antiquers for whom a significant aspect of the experience is the thrill of the hunt. Why would a seller want to disappoint that potentially lucrative customer impulse?

The customer dark side

Nowadays, when every type of business establishment from banks to grocery stores provides public “comfort stations” for its patrons, it may seem surprising that so many large antique group shops do not. (Boy, nothing says “Welcome” like a sign on the front door saying, “Sorry, no restroom.”)

An establishment whose size and layout give people an incentive to travel a good distance to get to it, then spend some time once they arrive, would, it seems, want to provide access to a rest room. (Actually, nearly all these shops with the signs that say “No restroom” actually do have one. Think about it: one can’t legally keep employees at work for eight hours a day without a bathroom break and a place to take it.)

Still, anyone whose ever had to use a public restroom after someone too delicate to be touched by the porcelain has fouled the area for everyone else can understand why there are so many closed doors marked “Employees Only” in antique shops. Not to put too fine a point on it, a woman who wants to be able to go standing like a man should at least lift the seat like one, and a man should learn to get it in the bowl rather than on the floor in front of it.

Lest you think that antique shoppers have too much class to be that crass, consider my nomination for the hands-down worst customer behavior. I encountered it often while managing the front desk of a very classy antiques emporium: being expected to dispose of the trash from someone’s car, including the greasy dregs of the passengers’ last takeout meal. (Someone once walked up to the owner of the shop where I worked and asked him to dispose of her baby’s dirty diaper!)

I don’t know, maybe I was raised funny, but it would never have occurred to me, at any time of my life, to walk into an antique store, car trash in hand, and ask the shopkeeper to dispose of it. So I’m afraid my distaste sometimes got the better of my customer relations in such situations. I dearly wanted to tell these trash trooper to take a look around the high-class shop and ask themselves if it looked like a landfill to them.

“Well, there’s no trash can in the parking lot!” they’d say. (As if it were the antique shop’s responsibility to provide trash disposal along with the parking!) “Well, what would you have me do, throw it on the ground in the parking lot?” Dude! How about putting it back in your car until you can find a more appropriate place to dispose of it — like back home in your own garbage can?

Sheesh, can’t we all just play nice?

(Note: Regular readers will note the absence of photos to accompany this month’s article. The week before deadline, my computer managed to fry its hard drive, leaving me without access to my photo files. The machine’s at the shop, and the files appear to be still intact [said she with her fingers crossed], so better luck next month!)

Peggy Whiteneck is a writer and collector living in East Randolph, VT. If you would like to suggest a topic she can address in her column, email her at allwrite@sover.net.

> Good Eye Archive — past columns