Did I buy a car or…?Posted: August 5, 2009
The madness is over. My wife has seen all the cup holders she needed to see to make up her mind. I looked at engines as if I planned to do something more than put gas in that hole in the side of the car and drive it.
The winner is Subaru. I settled “the deal” yesterday. The Sweaty, Nervous Guy said “we did a nice smooth deal, no problems.” Why does that phrase make me wonder if I bought a car or a suitcase full of kilo bricks of heroin?
All the same, I felt complimented, I am one smooth dealer. I got rid of one car, haggled over the price of a new one…but not without first looking under the hood to make sure the design met with my approval. Smooth, slick. I am like a playground slide.
The Subaru started its trip to our driveway at the end of last month. We drove one just like it on our first day of shopping around. We met the Sweaty, Nervous Guy that afternoon. We’d parked out near the cars we wanted to look at. He peered at us for a bit, then got in a car and drove the fifty yards up to where we were.
Cup holders. Look under the hood. Lots of nodding by me. He gives us the keys and lets us drive it without him.
A week later I return to “do the deal”. Five guys are standing around out front, smoking. Why do they all smoke? Most people don’t smoke anymore. All the car sales men I talked to smoked. The smoking is bad memo hasn’t reached car dealer world yet.
We size each other up. One asks if he can help me. I tell him I’m here to see Sweaty, Nervous Guy. He tells me to step inside and he’d get him for me. A moment later the loudspeaker blares SWEATY TO THE SHOWROOM; SWEATY TO THE SHOWROOM. While I’m thinking the next time I do this I’m just going to stand out front and yell out the salesmans name, I see Sweaty put out his cigarette on the other side of the building and come in.
Sweaty looks around as he comes in. He doesnt know who he’s looking for. I introduce myself. “I was here last week, we drove a Forester”. He remembers now, he tells me so. “Your wifes a pretty blond, kinda short.” He is exactly right, as long as by short blond he means tall brunette.
Maybe he is on the metric system. Everything is different when its metric. Six miles is ten kilometers. Short is tall, blond is brunette.
I drive the car again. Sweaty and I dance about the price. I hate the car price dance and I vent my hatred for it on Sweaty.
We finally agree and share a clammy handshake.
I return with the check, collect the keys and head for the door with Sweaty. The owners daughter is walking in. She does all the dealership’s TV ads. She is a tall brunette…if you’re on the metric system. She carries herself as if she believes herself a celebrity. Sweaty certainly does. He asks “Do you want to meet her?”. I let him know I’m not interested. He is stunned. I’m equally confused why meeting this woman is considered a privilege.
The car is now in our driveway. I like it. There’s a police dog sniffing the car though, I’m worried I really did buy heroin.