My Italian grandmother had a few choice words for folks who wouldn't mind their own business. "Vicino ficcanaso," she would mutter darkly, which translates loosely to 'nosy neighbor'.
Last week, while picking up a truckload of consignment furniture in a suburb of Boston, we ran into a guy who qualified. His shirt billowed over his beer belly as he sauntered down the street and over to our truck in his flip flops.
"What's goin' on?" he asked. "They movin' out?"
When it comes to busybodies like this guy, we're polite but vague. Then, we ignore them. That's our policy at FCG. After all, our clients want and deserve privacy. But this particular schmoe wasn't getting the hint.
"Nice dresser," he said, eyeing each piece as we were loading into the truck. "What's the deal?" When I left to talk to our consignor inside the house, he seized the opportunity to mosey up the ramp of the truck and poke around inside. "Donations?"
Tony tried hard to extract some info from our delivery guys. They cheerfully explained consignment, but it seemed to baffle Tony. That probably wouldn't deter him from delivering a report to the rest of the neighborhood, though.
Inside the house, our consignor was fuming as she peeked through the curtains. "Ohhhh, she groaned. "That's Tony. He thinks he's some kind of neighborhood watchdog."
Finally, unable to stand his prying eyes a moment longer, she poked her head out the door. "Get a job, Tony!" she barked. "And get outta here!" He smiled, waved and sauntered off. Some folks just don't get the message.
