Car Buying: A Game of Truth or Dare, Minus Madonna
It’s a cruel paradox, an experience that smacks you upside the head, then--once the deal is done--launches your spirits into the ozone. Few things in life are as universally rapturous as driving home in a new, unadulterated vehicle. The touch, the smell, the glory of a new car. Oh, what a feeling.
Unfortunately, you have to buy it first.
No . . . you have to earn it first.
And that means you must visit all 5 billion car dealerships in the greater Los Angeles area, hack your way through legions of sad-faced, recession-weary salespersons (all of whom look at you the way a Rottweiler looks at a pork chop), grind sales managers for a decent deal, and crawl out of the finance office and off the lot with your mental well-being intact.
One recent car buyer--let’s call him Gordon because, well, that’s my name--was beaten senseless by this unique consumer process. He would rather throw himself off a tall building than relive it any time soon. The truth is the first casualty of car buying. At some dealerships, it seemed as though all honesty had been sucked into an airtight container and buried under the sales manager’s desk.
For instance, one salesman quoted me a wondrous price on a Saab over the phone. It clearly beat anything I had seen anywhere else.
“Are you absolutely sure about that price?” I asked.
“Yes sir, I am.” He answered with such sincerity, I would’ve sworn he had the phone in one hand, the Good Book in the other.
When I showed up at the dealership, the guy fiddled around with stacks of papers for five minutes and finally said, “Oh my!”
“Oh my what?”
“Oh my! I’ve given you the wrong price,” he said, explaining that his quote mysteriously fell $1,000 short of what he’d have to charge. “I’m sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
So had I.
Can anyone imagine buying a loaf of bread this way?
“People would starve to death first,” said Steve Bezaire, a 36-year-old estate-planner/attorney, who has bought seven new cars over the past 15 years and lived to tell about it. “It’s a dreadful task that you kind of have to accomplish. Aggressive salespeople, the haggling, the paperwork take the fun away from the joyous occasion of driving home in a nice new car.
“I compare the experience to someone having to sign a prenuptial agreement before getting married. It takes the joy away from the occasion. The word trust kind of takes a beating.”
Indeed, during my two-month ordeal, which included visits with about 15 salespeople at 10 different dealerships, trust was in short supply.
Maybe I was paranoid, maybe I should have given salespeople the benefit of the doubt when they, with straight faces, told me:
* “People confuse these Hyundais with BMWs all the time.”
* “The Range Rover really is a practical car.”
* “Your wife will love driving this van.”
* “With all the rain and flooding in Los Angeles, you need a four-wheel-drive vehicle.”
* “Your children are so well-behaved.”
* “You look just like Harrison Ford.”
Yeah, right. Credibility had never plumbed such depths.
Salespeople’s personas ranged from that of Barbara Bush to Attila the Hun, most leaning more toward the Hun. I was argued with, told I was confused, and misled. On one occasion, a salesman accused me of telling untruths when I mentioned that I could beat his price on a car by three grand at another dealer.
“There’s no way,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”
Not only was the customer not right, by his way of thinking, he was a stinking liar, too.
A salesman at a Jeep store tempted me with a seemingly reasonably priced truck I had absolutely no practical use for--a tricked-up, black and chrome model that would comfortably fit about half my family. It’s the kind of vehicle husbands get killed for buying. We both knew this, but he wanted me to buy--and die.
“I don’t want this. I don’t need this,” I said.
“Oh yes, you do. The Mrs. won’t mind,” he replied.
This ridiculous conversation went on for 20 minutes until I discovered the sticker price on the window to be in error. Seems someone had forgot to add on the cost of the extras--the truck’s actual asking price would be an additional $8,000.
The salesman, not exactly an Oscar candidate, feigned shock. His bad acting, however, threw cold water on my truck lust. He lost me.
Still, there was a sense of desperation among some of these salespeople that made me feel sorry for them. One guy flat out begged me to buy a car. Refusing him felt like punching out the little sisters of the poor.
“Don’t ever feel sorry for a car salesman,” advised Ruben Aguirre, a friend and former brother of the trade who sold cars for four years at a dealership in Pasadena. “It’s their job to play on your emotions, to do what it takes to make a sale, to turn you from a logical thinker into an emotional buyer. They try to make as much money as they can off you.”
Not that all salespeople are money-hungry pond scum, Aguirre said, “Only about 60%.”
Most new-car buyers say the main pain in the buying process comes in negotiating a fair price, ensuring that they don’t get ripped off. “You know when you walk in that the car is grossly overpriced,” said Guy Mason of Brentwood, who recently bought a Mitsubishi Galant GS. “You know it, they know it. But getting the right price right away is difficult. In my case, there were four different offers and counteroffers made. There was a lot of artificial posturing going on. It took several different bargaining sessions before we agreed.”
In the end, Mason’s negotiating saved him $6,000 off the original price. “But it was hard, a real hassle,” he said.
For their part, dealers say they are not the profiteers consumers make them out to be. They say they want the customer to find automotive happiness.
“Ninety percent of car dealers are good guys,” said Steve Nelson of Nelson Honda in El Monte. “The others are the goofy guys who give us a bad reputation.”
For several weeks, I ran into a lot of the goofy guys. When I finally found a dealer who would give me both the truth and a deal--one who would sell me a Toyota Land Cruiser at fleet price, which was about $7,000 less than some sticker prices I saw--I signed a check.
On the drive home, I discovered automotive happiness. Universal rapture. At last, it was a joyous occasion--until I asked my wife if I really looked like Harrison Ford.
Unfortunately, I could trust her.
