Storytellersunplugged

by John B. Rosenman

A few days ago, my wife and I bought ourselves a new car. Now, some of you might think it would be a simple, joyful, liberating experience, especially when you get just the one you want at a reasonably low price. However, in other ways the experience can be like writing, a decidedly mixed bag. Call it one part joy, one part frustration, another part hope, another part anger. The recipe itself depends on the buyer, the dealer, the salesperson, and the flaming red, fickle finger of fate.

Did I mention that the situation was complicated by the fact that my son David’s car was in a repair shop because of engine death? This definitely complicated matters. Dave had a ’97 Hyundai worth about $12.16. Anyway, while buying a new car, we had to get an estimate for rebuilding his engine, so we tooled back and forth between the dealer and the shop. The next day we learned that it would cost $5000 for a new engine, which meant the Hyundai was a loss and we would give him our second car, a ’97 Grand Am.

The things we do for our kids.

Anyway, Jane needed a new car and originally thought she saw just the one she wanted in an ad for a Kia Sportage. The car was a manual, 2007, and it was advertised for around $12,000. Both of us were skeptical, but Jane called the dealer up. They assured her that she could get that model and year WITH AN AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION for about the same amount.

So we drove over.

Well, it was just like some editors I’ve known. The closer you get to them, the longer your association, the less you find you can trust them. Not only were all the Kia’s in The $20,000 PLUS range (notice the PLUS), but some of them were four cylinder jobs. Less pep and power.

These days, more and more folks do their comparison shopping online. We could have gone home to my computer and started sniffing around there, but truth be told, I’ve always been a bit of an impulse, gotta-have-it-today buyer when it comes to cars. I’m similar when it comes to submitting stories and novels. I tell myself I can’t engage in deep research and read all the markets, and so after scanning their guidelines and web sites and perhaps reading one of their stories, I submit to what seems a likely place.

Meanwhile, back at the dealer, Kia Sportages were out, so we ambled toward the used car lot where we eventually found the car of MY dreams. It was a silver Grand Pris with 21,500 miles on it. List price: $21,995.

Well, that was just too much. We’d told the salesman that our limit was $12,000 and that we would be paying with cash on the barrel head rather than finance at 6% for three or more years. But you know how it is with dealers. $12,000 will barely buy you a set of tires these days. We told them to chop that $21,995 price down and split for dinner, visiting the repair shop on the way. There we received the tentative sad news that it would probably cost far too much to rebuild or replace our son’s engine for it to be cost-effective.

After a couple of $4.95 specials at Boston Market, we returned to the dealer. The salesman was a nice kid who had parachuted from planes 45 times in the Army. He smiled and laid the “final” offer on the table before us. They’d come down – a lot.

But not enough. It was still too high. We reminded him that we had said $12,000 tops at the beginning. Jane and I double-teamed him and murmured about leaving.

Wait, he said. What if he could get it down to . . . he named a figure considerably lower. I really liked the car, and found it difficult just to walk away. When I had test-driven the Grand Pris, it had handled like a dream. Maybe it had over 21,000 miles on it, but it had a new car smell and when I looked under the hood, the engine had seemed pristine and virginal. Dammit, I wanted that car.

So I shrugged. We both shrugged. And eyed the door.

Did I mention one thing we did that was smart? We waited to the last day of the month before going in. For many dealers, the last day is quota time, make your last sales period look good time. The old bottom line time. The message we were sending was that we wanted to close the deal that day because the next day it would be too late. And they wanted to close the deal too, end July with an extra sale.

The young salesman came back from his superior and said the figure he’d mentioned was a lock. Jane and I sighed and reluctantly said no. I indicated that we’d come up from $12,000, but his figure, while it was a fair deal, was still too rich for our blood.

The salesman consulted his boss, who came out and joined us at our table. He was a short Middle or Far Eastener, and he opened a multi-colored brochure and smoothly summarized the wonderful benefits and features they were already giving us. The Message: WE’RE ALREADY GIVING YOU THE DEAL OF A LIFETIME AND STILL YOU HAGGLE, YOU UNGRATEFUL PUPS!

Jane was less impressed than I was. She just didn’t want to spend that much. But I could already foresee that the Grand Am was going soon to David, leaving us with no car at all, and on top of that, I liked the way the Grand Pris looked and handled.

After listening to the pitch of the Man from the Mysterious East for a while, I interrupted and mentioned a still lower figure, a compromise. It was, I thought, my last bit of horse-trading. I felt like a tourist in a Mexican market, haggling over the price of a dress or donkey. ALWAYS assume the bastards are trying to cheat you and bid lower. ALWAYS make it plain that you don’t need their wares that much and are prepared to leave without even a backward glance. NEVER show too much interest or desire in what they have to offer.

My offer stopped Omar Sharif on a dime. Without another word the salesman and he went to his nearby office, where he made a phone call to HIS superior. Was it real or Memorex? What it real or for show? After a few minutes he hung up and they both returned and held out their hands. “Congratulations. You’ve just bought a car.”

Hallelujah. Praise Jesus – and I happen to be Jewish. Jane, despite her reluctance, was happy for me. Have I mentioned that she’s a wonderful girl? We had initially come to the place to buy HER a car, but the Grand Pris would basically be mine, even though we would have joint ownership. After all, I would be driving it to work, and she felt that a distinguished professor such as I should not have to drive a ten-year-old car.

At this point we were happy. I could see the sleek silver baby we’d bought glistening outside in the lot. Oddly, it was similar to just selling a story or novel for good bucks, just before the deal goes south and you find the editor/publisher is (1) a liar (2) incompetent (3) a fly-by-night incompetent con artist, (4) all of the above.

If you’ve ever purchased a motor vehicle at a dealer, you know that you usually just don’t walk in, slap your money or credit card down, and split. There are further steps and folks to see, hidden charges or options, subtle tricks in the boiler plate. Specifically, after you think you’ve closed the deal, the beat continues and you run or more likely crawl through a gauntlet. Oh sure, if you’re a multi-millionaire, you can just call them up and tell them that the ashtrays of your current Rolls Royce or Mercedes are full, and would they please deliver another one in the same color at your mansion by noon. But for us wage slaves, for us mere people on the pavement, it ain’t so streamlined and easy. After you’ve signed your name on the dotted line, you have to go from desk to desk and occasionally wait to see the next VIP in his office.

In our case, the whole process took over three hours. After “buying” the car, we had to submit to a finalizing process that involved two men. I forget their precise designations and job titles, but basically they introduced us to hidden expenses, charges, and options that dealers don’t want to mention earlier because the customers would sometimes bolt.

The first guy was very smooth. I’m not putting him down. At this stage, such a cog in the car-selling business has to be well-lubricated and slick. This gentleman introduced us to two basic options, one a car-repair package and the other, an elaborate processing treatment for both the inside and outside of the car so it would never chip, stain, or be dented. And if did chip, stain, or get dented, we could take it in for repainting or body work. After reflection, we went for the processing treatment, which cost slightly over a thousand dollars. After all, our salesman had already covered numerous features that we would be receiving, including a complete warranty that was good for five years or 100,000 miles. Knowing what many new cars look like after a few years, we figured a thousand bucks was a reasonable investment in the investment we had already made.

Then something happened that soured things somewhat. Our salesman had told us that we could simply use a credit card to buy the car. One of our cards was good for up to $35,000. But now this man informed us that their limit was $4000 per credit card, and we could use only one credit card. This meant it would be really inconvenient to purchase the car. We could use a credit card, but then we’d have to drain one of our accounts, and . . . well, you get the picture. What bothered me was why the salesman hadn’t known of this policy. I was also troubled because none of the senior sales consultants or experts knew why the dealership had this policy in the first place. (Later I was told that the reason for the policy is that credit card companies charge dealers more for higher credits.)

Anyway, this meant that I – or to be honest, Jane – would have to run around the next day transferring funds and making arrangements. They assured us we could still drive the car home. I thought, “Well, duh, of COURSE we can still drive the damned car home. You want us to take it off your hands.”

I couldn’t help thinking of publishers I’ve known who have sprung surprises on me at the last moment. Yes, you’ll get paid; it will just take a while. Or there’s been a delay in the publishing schedule. Instead of July, it should be November. Just fill in the blank here based on your own experience. In buying a car or selling to a publisher, a healthy amount of self-defensive, self-protective cynicism is essential. It’s not even enough to read the fine print. You have to be unceasingly vigilant and assume that something is about to go wrong or that someone is about to scam or deceive you.

Still, the business with the credit card was only an inconvenience. What the hell, I told myself. The next morning I’d drive in my new car to play tennis and would let Jane, my faithful, long-suffering wife handle the credit card mess. No problem-o.

After a ten-minute spell cooling our heels on a bench, Jane and I were led to the last high muckamuck, the man not only with the Keys to the Kingdom but with the Key to our new car. He was billed in advance as brisk and efficient. He talks fast,” our salesman said, the same one who had told us we could charge everything on our credit card. “He’ll whisk you right through.”

Yeah, right.

We went to the last office and the man there initially reminded me of Speedy Gonzalez. He commented on the fact that we’d been there for hours, and assured us that he would quickly facilitate the endgame. Okay, he didn’t use the word “endgame,” but that was what it was.

Things went well till he whipped out a sheet of paper and started talking about our car’s odometer and how much it would cost for repairs in five-thousand mile increments. By the time the car reached 100,000 miles, the charge for coverage would be nearly $2500.00. Jane and I both came alert at that point. “Wait a minute,” we chorused, “the salesman already said we had full warranty coverage. Five years, 100,000 miles of it!”

The man told us no, that could not be because our car was not CERTIFIED. Uncertified cars basically didn’t come with a warranty. We’d have to pay for that ourselves. We said no. Since the full, generous warranty was a major reason we had purchased the car, Jane indicated that we would vote with our feet and hit the bricks. They weren’t happy about it, especially since it would cost them $800 to certify the car themselves.

What would they do?

The guy frowned and left to consult with the salesman, to see if he had indeed promised us this warranty. Left alone in his office, we recalled that the salesman had now made TWO mistakes. The first one, which involved the credit card, was annoying but minor. This one was different, for it involved well over $2,000.

Eventually the guy came back and informed us that they were going to certify the car. We would get the warranty free.

That’s about it. Except I had to wait a while for the key. Finally I’d had enough. I barged into the last guy’s office. Sitting behind the desk, he looked like every shyster editor and publisher I’d ever dealt with. Gazing at him, I saw myself going postal and whacking the sumbitch right there, like a nutcase in one of my horror stories. “Hey,” I shouted, “how about throwing in a key with the car. Or is that extra too?”

A few minutes later, we had the key and drove off. So far, we’re happy with the car and glad we chose this dealer. Still, folks, my advice is to remember the Latin warning, “Caveat Emptor,” and to be always on the alert, even if it involves an apparently honest car dealer, editor, or publisher. No matter how conscientious and well-meaning they are, in the end you may be the one who is stuck with their mistakes and has to pay the penalty.