Surviving Skirmishes Over Car Sales

I inherited some money recently but still planned to keep my 1971 car. It started sluggishly and was covered with rust but usually managed to lurch out of the yard with a little prayer and about $300 in yearly repair encouragement.

When it got a nail in a new tire and a leaky fuel pump, I decided fate was leading me toward a new car. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I bought my other two--a disastrous Corvair and my ‘71--at full “retail manufacturer’s suggested price.” On the treacherous road to buying a new car, I had been a passive passenger in the hands of skillful salesmen.

Weaknesses surfaced on my first trip to test-drive a few “advertised specials.” Stepping onto the lot, I was hailed by Fred, who regretted that I was almost too late.

“We’ve got only one left at this special price,” he said conspiratorially. But when I rejected that color, he spied a white and two silvers that he had “overlooked.” After a test drive, I asked to drive a cheaper model next to it. “It might be sold,” he said and went to check, but returned instead with sales manager Gus.

Gus swerved around my inquiry about the cheaper model and asked if there wasn’t any way we could deal on the more expensive car.

“I’m just beginning to look,” I said.

He shook his head: “Too bad. These specials will be gone by the weekend.”

I pulled out of the lot. I hadn’t bought, but I was hardly in command.

After more exploration, I settled on a high-rated ’86 model priced at $12,050 with no radio or other extras. Now I was ready to deal. What turned the key was knowing the make and model of car I wanted, having a price for a car of similar quality and realizing a dealer’s primary concern: sealing the deal NOW. My source of power? My phone.

I called all area dealers who handle the car of my choice and told them I had an offer on an ’86 in a competitive model for $10,500 (my assumed price for the ’86 I had let go) and asked what deal they would give me on an ’87 if I would make a deposit now.

My maneuvering seemed doomed to failure when five of the six dealers wouldn’t bite. (All said that they could make me “a real good deal” if I came right down.)

A salesman at the sixth dealer, with a musical name like Chopin, returned my call with an offer of my ’87 in choice of color, with cruise control, radio and air conditioning for $12,500. Bonanza! An excellent price and with unexpected extras. But could I do better?

Shifting into high, I soared into a pricing war. I called back the reluctant five and asked if they could better Chopin’s offer. Dealer Two stepped aboard with $12,300; Three leaped in with $12,000, and Four unwittingly brought along a cassette tape player, which I added to my package of requirements.

Two refused to ride, with one particularly indignant salesman telling me his boss warned him not to get involved with me. “Listen,” he lectured, “we don’t like to go jerking the customers around.”

Realizing I had come to the end of my telephonic price war, I phoned Chopin. He agreed to match the $12,000 deal and found “no problem” with getting me a written contract with my $500 deposit. A momentary burst of exhilaration.

Little did I realize that the most tortuous part of my journey lay ahead. Arriving at the showroom for my contract, I found Chopin had gone for the day and I was greeted by a beaming Roy, who ushered me into a paneled cubicle. Not “wanting to get into trouble with any of this,” Roy called in handsome Habib, a sales manager, to work out details. Habib was in a blink overjoyed to meet me and then appalled at the price.

Shaking his head, he asked if I had not been told about the price increase.

Ray glanced at Habib. I gripped the desk. “The $12,000 was the total price promised,” I said, looking straight ahead, “and I have the same promise from two other dealers.”

This seemed to straighten Habib up and, slashing his signature across a half-legible paper, he mumbled, “Well, if you were promised by others.” Then--all smiles again--he stood, and I gave him a big smile, feeling a bit guilty for being so difficult.

I asked Roy for a copy, and he said my “receipt would do it.” Waiting in the showroom by the cage of a green and yellow parrot, who was clawing up a newspaper, I resisted the urge to squawk, “How’re you doing?” to ease the tension.

Soon Roy bounced back with my contract-receipt. It read: “Refundable deposit of $500, pending pricing.”

“Pending pricing?” I asked. “I had a firm price of $12,000.”

Roy’s response: “Well, we have to check for any possible new price increases. We’re only doing this to be fair to you so you won’t be slapped by an unexpected increase.”

He patted me on the back, and said. “Don’t worry.”

On the way home, I tried to persuade myself this was OK, but, of course, I had no contract at all. Beady-eyed all night, I planned strategy--deciding to get my deposit back from Chopin but to first call the others who promised a contract to see if I could pin them down. The first was vague and the second said “it sounded fair.”

Not encouraged by this, I decided to give Chopin another chance, because he hadn’t participated in the earlier bogus contract. He told me to come down and he’d “get my contract just the way I wanted.”

This time Chopin and I waited 45 minutes on the showroom’s black plastic couch until burly Bertie appeared. Bertie greeted me with a knuckle-breaking handshake that instantaneously dissolved into sneers and snarls when he learned the promised price.

He stomped into his office with an “I don’t know if we can do it,” and marched back with a contract for $12,300. When I refused, he lunged back--this time eliminating the tape player and answering my protest with, “The cars we’re getting don’t have cassettes.” When I asked if they might put one in, he glared and fumed again, finally offering the world’s tiniest contract written on the back of my receipt.

As I tucked it into my wallet, he left abruptly. He seemed enraged, and I felt wary of him. Bertie had lost this round, but I didn’t have my car yet.

At last my silvery blue car, the color of my birthstone, arrived, and I knew it was for me. By chance, I was to pick it up on my birthday.

“You must be so excited,” a friend said. I was, but not in the way she meant. I was waiting for anything to happen. Predictably, it did.

To prepare for any possible “price adjustments,” a friend and I calculated the approximate total price with tax and license at about $13,000.

At the showroom, Chopin, like a proud father, escorted me into his cubicle, where we were soon joined by midwife Bertie, overflowing with good cheer. Bertie took my contract and departed, leaving me with an uncomfortable feeling that something was afoot. My apprehension vanished when he returned with a bill for $12,718. Happily, I wrote out the check.

Upstairs, Mike, the finance manager, explained the many routine forms, and I began to sign until I was stopped by the bill of sale. TOTAL: $13,328.

“But this isn’t the price I paid for the car,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” Mike said. “Let me show you.”

I was on my feet. I had forgotten the $500 deposit I had previously paid. I had been overcharged by several hundred dollars.

“This is wrong,” I said. “I made a contract for $12,000.”

I ran to the stairs. “Where is Chopin? I’ve got to get Chopin up here.” “Yes, do,” Mike said. “I want to clear this up.”

Running down the stairs Scarlett O’Hara style, I grabbed Chopin’s arm. “They’re overcharging me,” I said. With paternal calm, Chopin came upstairs.

“I’ve got a contract,” I said, grabbing my wallet. Then I realized I had given the contract to Bertie and could not recall getting it back. Would it be my word against theirs? Miraculously, Chopin had returned the paper to me, and I handed it to Mike.

Soon a sheepish-looking Bertie slunk into the office.

“She made me sign it,” he said.

Mike was stern. “This is not the price sent up to me.”

Bertie glanced sideways. “I must have made a mistake,” he said, backing out the door. Mike said he hoped I didn’t think any of this was done on purpose. I rolled my eyes.

On the lot, Chopin alternated between apologies for “the mistake” and a minute run-down of the car’s workings--until another woman customer came along, and he was off on a new adventure.

Nervously, I pulled my treasure onto the road. I was exhausted but felt a burst of liberation. I had managed to steer my own deal at last.