What would it be like to work at the gun store, where tourists, in their khaki shorts, fanny packs and big white sneakers arrive to try out the weapons? The wives stand silently aside, while their husbands ask questions about ammo, load time, never safety.
Anna, who is an army brat, and grew up hunting every fall with her father, works there. She sees the men come through the door and look surprised to see her behind the counter. If one of the male associates is there--even Nate, the gun store owner's pimply son, who doesn't know squat about how to handle a weapon--they will head straight to him.
The coupon idea was hers. She made a deal with the owner: she'd finance the ad, and anyone coming in with that coupon was her customer. The first few weeks they trickled in, one or two over the course of a few days. But then it was one or two a day. They came in for all sorts of reasons--some just because they'd never squeezed off a round on a full automatic before and were looking to add it to their list of Las Vegas thrills, some serious gun buyers, some who didn't even care about the guns, but just couldn't resist a coupon for anything.
She started to find her niche. She was good with the couples. Anna would engage the timid wives, get them to put on the goggles and fire off a few rounds in the back. She'd see the fire come into their eyes, the adrenaline surge, watch their husbands get turned on--sometimes embarrassingly so. She knew if that happened, she's have a sure-fire sale.
Just by watching out for the couples, she increased the gun store's sales by eight percent over the last three months and her own commission had gone through the roof. All the sales men--even the guys who'd mocked Anna for her gimmick--were now trying to get the owner to let them do their own coupon too, thinking it was a magic trick. But only she got it. It was looking out for that special American combination of sex and violence that was bringing in the cash.
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