This week has been such a disorganized mess on the home transportation front, I hardly know where to begin.
We have two cars. One has 104,000 miles on it, and the other has 105,000 miles. No, we did not plan it that way. But the expense of fixing the cars has really begun to look like some sort of signal; actually, a giant flashing neon sign that says “GO GET A NEW CAR ALREADY!”
We won’t get into the fact that my husband has an expired license, so he can’t actually test-drive anything. Or the fact that when he tried to renew the license, he learned that the Social Security office and the DMV have two different birth dates for him. Or that when he went to Social Security to try to rectify this, he found out that he actually has two Social Security numbers! Whee!!! Is it cocktail hour yet?
So after some test-driving on the part of yours truly and lots of online research, we settled on a dealership and a car. And then proceeded down this long, torturous path that led straight to the mysterious land of Dealers Who Inexplicably Do Not Really Feel Like Selling You a Car. It is a strange, awful land, inhabited by strange people who may or may not be androids.
The scene: desk-side in the showroom
The time: last night, 7:55 p.m.
The players: me, my husband, the salesman
**Important to know: We have settled on a model, price, color. There is $500 in cash—our deposit—on the desk.
Salesman: “Oh. I’ve made a mistake. This car is a 2011, not a 2010.”
Me: “Oh no.”
Salesman: “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
Me: “Oh no.”
Salesman: “Really. I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know why I thought it was a 2010.”
He hands the money back to us. Looks at his watch. The dealership closes at 8. The price difference between the 2010 and the 2011 he has to offer is $1,200. Did he genuinely make a mistake, or was this a bait and switch? Who knows?
What he does not say: “Listen, folks, you clearly want to buy a car. I’m sure we can work something out.”
And so my husband and I left. No, he did not follow us out to the parking lot, like car salesmen do in the movies. He did not seem particularly sad to see us go; if anything, he seemed happy that we reached this disappointing conclusion before 8 p.m., so he could leave on time.
I have read and heard scores of stories about the horrors of buying a car. About the mystifying behavior of car salesmen. And now I’ve experienced it, and I still don’t get it! If anyone out there has any advice—well, clearly I could use it.
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