There is a scene in Al Pacino's 1991 film "Scent of a Woman" in which Pacino's character, a blind retired army colonel, enters a Ferrari dealership and tries to convince a salesman to let his young escort (Chris O'Donnell) test drive a Ferrari around Manhattan.

The salesman balks at the idea and gives a haughty explanation of why he won't allow it. Then, the blind colonel chimes in.

"Freddy, the 80's are over. Are you trying to tell me these things are walking off the floor?"

The salesman gets defensive: "This is a Ferrari, sir. This is the finest piece of machinery in the auto industry."

"Well if you like so much why don't you sleep with it?" quips the colonel. "Why are you selling it?"

The irony of this scene, and the reason I mention it, is that Pacino, in a few lines delivered as crisply as a military salute, reverses the roles and begins selling to the salesman.

"Don't worry about the boy," he quips, "he drives so smooth, you could boil an egg on the engine. When we bring the car back, I'll peel the egg for ya."

"Colonel, you made me laugh," admits the salesman.

And that, it seems to me, is what a good salesman should do.

He should not only offer to help, but know exactly what he's selling and why, and he should sell it to you in a way that flatters your intellect rather than insults it.

I have realized lately how rare it is now to find a salesman who really merits that title--someone who takes a genuine pride in their product and can convince you of its utility until you wonder how you ever did without it.

I met such a man last week over at the Tanger outlets, where I was shopping for some new shoes.

I was looking at a pair on special display and had one of them in my hand, marveling at its weightless design, when he appeared suddenly from another aisle.

He was a short, tiny-eyed man and gave me a knowing nod when he saw the shoe in my hand.

"That's a great shoe," he said.

"It's incredibly light." He nodded.

"Put the other one on and walk around a little."

So I did, and he watched as I took a stroll around the store, enjoying every step. He asked me what I needed them for, and I told him I had a new job as an editor. This, for some reason, tickled him.

"Editor, huh? Do you write editorials? Now I can editorialize - I can pontificate," he said confidently. He began doing just that, in his New York accent.

"See, we're in the comfort shoe business here. That shoe will save you four ounces of weight with every step," he explained.

"Now if you walk as much as the average person, that's over a thousand pounds of lifting you'll save each day."

Wow, I thought. That makes perfect sense.

"I have people come in here with back pain, foot pain; their legs are sore...I have people come to us because their orthopedic specialist recommended us to them. Our shoes aren't orthopedic, but we have a reputation for comfortable shoes."

He went on, sealing every sentence with a matter-of-fact wink.

"You're a good salesman," I said. I wasn't telling him anything he didn't know.

"Well," he smiled. Then, in a confidential tone: "I'd say about nine out of ten people who come in here walk out in a pair of our shoes.

Then if they're ever in the area again, most likely they'll stop by our store. I just give the people what they're looking for. Now I can't fit every foot..." and he was off again.

But he was never obnoxious; never arrogant, and that is key.

Besides honesty, energy, and a touch of eloquence, a great salesman should have a gift for reading people. A salesman with the gift of gab and no feel for his customers quickly becomes a nuisance; just the same, there are those like the Ferrari dealer, who take so much pride in their product they forget that customers actually need to be convinced of its fine quality.

It is a pleasant feeling to walk out of a store knowing that you have made a good purchase, that you have been neither handled nor neglected; that you have been truly "sold" something useful.

As I took off the shoes and put them back in the box, the salesman asked me if I needed some socks.

"They're six pair for $20," he said. Nah, I told him, I probably had enough socks already.

He led me to the front of the store, where I pulled out my wallet to pay.

Before ringing me up, the salesman casually took out a small polishing brush and ran it over the smooth brown leather.

"This is a good thing to have," he said without looking up, as if polishing unworn shoes required his full attention. "In case they get scuffed up or dried out."

Charmed as I was by the shoes and his smooth manner, I was determined not to be fooled into buying something unnecessary, so I told him no thanks.

I paid, and he put my shoes in a bag and handed them to me.

"Come and see us again," he said.

"Will do," I replied. But this time I meant it. I left the store feeling like I had been the only customer there, and that I couldn't have found a more fitting pair of shoes anywhere else.

And a week later, finding my dresser emptied of dress socks and a small scuff on the toe of my shoe, I wished I had listened to him.

(Chris McCandlish can be reached at news@moultrienews.com. Chris is the new Moultrie News copy editor and reporter. He will be covering local feature stories, writing an occassional column called The Moultrie Muse and covering local sports.)