Buyer Be ...
Buyer Be ...
a Man!
by sonya hammond
The next time you're fed up with sales people who insist that you 'have a nice day', try buying a new car. There 's nothing like it to make you appreciate innocent clichés that do not involve enriching total strangers by an amount of money that would have been, about the time I bought my first car, sufficient to purchase a 2-bedroom house.
All of our days would be 'nicer' if we never have to view again the commercials of one local new car dealer who promotes his wares on TV using his own children, none old enough to drive, but all in need of serious counseling. Judging by their persistent commercials, you may assume that new car dealerships need your business in order to feed their starving families.
Get over this misapprehension immediately. Walking into a car dealer's showroom with that attitude will merely enhance your humiliation when the salesperson slithers up wearing an expression that strips you down to immediate amateur standing.
I quickly learned that nothing I could do or say, in spite of studious perusal of Consumer Reports advice, would change my status in the game these people play. Face it, in the world of vehicle purchasing the one thing a salesman can spot is a patsy. There are various clues, but in my case there's a clincher: I'm a woman.
Secure in the knowledge that I was road kill waiting to be squashed, the first salesman I encountered inquired what I had in mind, a gratuitous token gesture of civility that barely hid his obvious conviction that whatever it was, I probably couldn't afford it. As I listed my requirements, it was all this chauvinist could do not to slather as he mentally calculated a commission based on female stupidity.
All new car salespersons attend schools where they major in Rudeness and Demeaning, talents they take particular relish in demonstrating each time you make the mistake of trying to get the upper hand.
As you go through the motions of pretending that you understand window stickers that rarely list any equipment you have previously used on an automobile, the sales spider adjusts his web until, inevitably, you are entwined in the bottom line ... the dreaded 'manufacturer's suggested retail price'. Even I know that this has nothing to do with what the dealer expects to get, but although I correctly assumed that any offer I made would be greeted with a fit of hysteria, I felt compelled to fulfill expectations by making one.
Shaking his head sorrowfully, Mr. Congeniality sighed that he would have to 'crunch some numbers', whereupon he pulled out a handy pocket calculator and quickly burned out a couple of batteries with an assault of figures that produced a result he obviously found highly amusing. Barely controlling his disdain, he made a counter offer a few cents under the sticker price and listened unruffled to why in my wildest dreams this was not acceptable.
Cool as yesterday's soup, this sexist twit called my bluff. What WOULD be acceptable? he inquired, dripping with reasonableness. Viewing my response with pity, he offered to discuss it with his manager, since we had reached that crucial point in negotiations where no mere salesperson has the authority to do anything that doesn't involve taking money and several pints of blood.
Somehow it adds insult to injury that in so many new car dealer establishments, the manager's office is a glassed-in area. This is no mere accident of interior decoration. When a salesman goes in to conference with his boss, they do so in full view of the buying public behind soundproof glass. Although they are probably discussing last night's baseball game or the latest issue of Playboy, they are protected by the sanctity of a cone of silence, while the buyer sweats out the results.
My salesman returned from his conference to announce that the higher authorities MIGHT consider something near my offer providing I paid cash that very minute and added a number of 'optional items', most of which seemed geared for driving on an arctic ice floe. I informed him haughtily that I would 'think' about his offer, but in the meantime I would continue shopping.
Executing a tricky dance step, the guy swiftly change roles, suddenly becoming not only my confidant but my trusted advisor. He assured me that he would meet any competitive dealer's offer. He expressed sincere doubt that I was going to find elsewhere the sort of largesse he offered. He warned me of the despicable tactics employed by unscrupulous dealers whose mission in life was to take advantage of poor defenseless women.
I suspect that it really didn't matter what I did after that. I did consult a couple of other dealers, but after enduring multiple humiliations I was forced to slink back and make another offer for the only car I really wanted. My salesman countered; I counter-countered; we reluctantly shook hands.
In spite of the tears that threatened to roll down the hypocrite's cheek, and even as he congratulated me on making the deal of the century, and assured me that they would be out of business tomorrow if everyone could deal on my level, I knew I'd been had big time.
Hopelessly smitten by a piece of machinery, I took one last futile swat at my tormentor as I handed him my check. There had to be, I insisted, some way to avoid this ordeal which I was actually paying to receive.
With a look specifically reserved for idiot women car purchasers, he assured me straight-faced that there was. The next time I chose to buy a car, all I had to do to avoid the game was pay the sticker price.
I don't doubt for a minute that he actually thought I'd buy that. I'd bought everything else.
©sonya hammond, 1995