“We’re sampling a really rare oolong tea just inside if you want to try it…”
The fish-customer perks up at the words “really rare,” and before she knows any better, she follows me into the store. My excitement heightens. I know that the further I get her into this labyrinth of half-truths and illusions, the more lost she will become, and the more willing she will be to hand over a larger and larger sum of dough.
“So, this is one of the best teas we offer.” I am choosing my words more carefully, since my conscience is getting to me. I could have said that this the rarest tea in the world, just like my coworkers. But my experience knows better. I have done the math. I know full well that a tea that fills 500 jars with a capacity for about six pounds of this tea throughout the nation hardly constitutes it as rare.
I confirm her taste buds and tell her about the heavy body and floral notes. I do not tell her that the quality is mediocre at best, especially compared to other monkey picked oolongs that are available at more than half the price. No, the salesperson in me conceals this truth and leads the fish-customer into the mystique that the company creates for her. I especially do not tell her what I taste: the blood and sweat of the producer of this tea, subtle yet present, the effort that was not compensated for, causing the starvation of her and her children, the injustice of it all.
But no, the salesperson in me tells me not to think on this. It is fun to play with the catch before making the kill. A bit more fun? Why yes, there is a cast iron pot sitting right there, why don’t I tell her about it?
