Putting the Vehicle (and a Salesman) On the Back Burner

We are still planning to purchase a new car or truck sometime this year. Life gets in the way of living sometimes. Right now there are other pressing matters that need tending. Like gathering the tax forms and mailing in those checks. Oh, the taxes are done all right. It’s just that I’m in no hurry to send them in. That task kind of lacks urgency when you’re not getting anything back. Darn Genius for those scholarships and RA room and board!

The last couple of vehicles were bargained for by Hick. I trusted him, because they were used Ford Rangers for Genius and The Pony, and most recently he traded Genius’s truck for a Mercury Mariner. Despite the fact that Hick kept referring to it as a Mountaineer, he did a good job checking out the mechanical condition and the worth of that little car. However…there was a time when I insisted on trading cars without the presence of Hick.

I know a little about trading cars. Like not to pay sticker price. Not to take a pittance for my trade-in, even though it may be missing a side mirror. And especially not to agree to pay for undercoating, even though it’s not listed on the sticker, like my friend Jim did when he bought a new little truck back in the 80s. Seriously! Who does that? I guess Jim was intimidated when he drove his big ol’ tan Chrysler in there and the salesman called him out for the side mirror dangling by a cable, and the plastic ash tray masking-taped to the front hump carpet because there WAS no ashtray, and asked sarcastically, “Jim, does your car have a radio? Jim…does it WORK?” I could have worked a much better deal for Jim, except he turned to me when the salesman went to get approval on one of the contracts, and said, “I don’t care. I want it. I’m going to give him what he asks for.”

Way back after Hick and I were married, when Genius was just an old-goat snort in Hick’s nasal cavity, I took it upon myself to purchase our next car. We needed another, and had no trade-in because Hick was selling his jalopy outright. I told him I could do the deal myself, and he agreed. After all, I’d bought two cars on my own before I met him. I waited until the last day of the month, and arrived at the dealership around 2:00 so as to cut the dilly-dally time considerably.

I had done my research. Hick and I had already stopped by the lot and picked out the car, a four-door silver 1992 Toyota Corolla with a sunroof. Yes. Back then it was a fancy car for us. I wasn’t too keen on the sunroof, but that’s what the car had on it. I had taken notes on the options and prices on the sticker. Then I looked in the Kelley Blue Book and Edmunds New Car Buying Guide to see what everything cost the dealer, and the markup. It wasn’t as easy as today, when you can find all that stuff on the internets. I figured that the figures were probably fudged a little bit in those books, too, so the dealers could get a profit, even if all of their buyers caught on to this tactic.

Anyhoo, I pulled onto the lot and walked to that car, and a salesman was on me like Juno on cat kibble. He said he’d get the keys so I could drive it. I did. I told him I wanted it. As he motioned for me to follow him inside, I reached into my favorite car of all time, my 1990 four-door cherry-red Toyota Corolla, and grabbed my hardback copy of Stephen King’s “The Stand.” I read it every summer. And what better book for whiling away the hours at a car dealership?

We sat down in the cubicle and Swifty started double-talking about the options and what he could do for me, and what he could give for my trade-in. At no time did I tell him that I wanted to trade my red Toyota. And at no time did I tell him that I didn’t. I knew what I was doing. I was not a difference-buyer that day. I wanted to pinch every penny I could on that new vehicle.

My first offer was the cost to the dealer, according to my research books. Again, I’m sure a little cushion was built in, but I was playing hardball. I knew there would be many refusals and counteroffers before we came to an agreement. Swifty looked at my offer and laughed. But he had to write it up and run it past his manager. I suppose there was a manager. I suspect Swifty was simply going into an office and sipping a soda and shooting paperwads at the wastebasket with some cronies. It didn’t matter to me what he was doing, because I had “The Stand.”

I chose “The Stand” because it was the thickest book on my shelf. So Swifty would know I meant business. I was not about to give in due to all his trips for approval. If I was a meditating person, I might have sat on the floor and chanted “Ommmmm.” The idea was to give the impression that I hadn’t a care in the world about my offer or the time it took. I was prepared to sit there until closing time, reading my book, to agree on a price.

At one point, Swifty mentioned that it was getting late, and that I might want to increase my offer in greater increments, because he didn’t think his manager would do that deal. “Oh, that’s okay. Ask him and see. I can always come back another time, if I don’t find another car.”

They hate that, you know. Hate it like ghosts hate Bill Murray tinkling on their piano keys (heh, heh, I said tinkling). A car salesman hates to let a customer walk, to escape his clutches, especially after he’s spent a few hours with them. Because once they think it over, customers don’t come back.

That poor guy. He was really getting flustered. He needed his own copy of “The Stand” to calm him down. I reached my maximum offer, which would give the dealership a profit of about $500. Of course, he thought he was getting my trade-in, on which they could no doubt have made another easy $500 or more, because used cars are a grayer area when it comes to figuring their condition and worth. He came back with the last contract, scribbles here and there, the price he could let that new car go for, and what he could allow on trade-in.

“Oh, good. That’s the price I can buy this car for. But I don’t want to trade my other car. I just need another car.” I think I noticed a pulsing vein on Swifty’s forehead. It was hard to tell, what with his skin that shade of red that nearly matched my favorite car of all time. Swifty said that the price on the new car was contingent on that allowance for my trade-in. “What? I thought you said you could give me the new car for that. I guess I’ll just have to go look somewhere else.” I took my index finger out of “The Stand” and marked my place with the book flap. Stood up.

Swifty looked like he wanted to squeeze me in a bear hug and make me refund that Coke he had bought me out of the soda machine a couple hours ago. “I’ll go ask my manager, but I’m sure he’ll say no.”

“Well, if it won’t take long. I don’t want to waste your time. I can find another car.” I sat back down and cracked open “The Stand.”

Let the record show that I got my deal. I had read back then that a dealer would even write a deal for a $300 profit rather than let a customer walk. He still made money, moved a car, and got it off his inventory. I was not a heartless customer. I didn’t begrudge that dealer a $500 profit. But I was not about to give him more.

Swifty was not as friendly now. “We won’t be able to get it ready for you today. We have to inspect it and get all the paperwork done. It’s too late for that now.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll come pick it up on Saturday. My husband will drive me up here. I have my other car now anyway.”

Hick was thrilled at my deal. More future auction money for him, I guess. “Hey, when we go in, ask for a hat. They always give out a hat. It’s advertising for their dealership.”

Well. Can you believe it? I asked for a cap for my husband after Swifty pulled the car around front for me to take possession. “Lady, for the price you got on this car, you’re lucky we’re giving you the keys.”

Buyer beware. If the dealer gives you a complimentary cap, you've left money on the table.