I had no intention of ever learning to drive, and then I moved to Texas in my 40s. The choice was no longer really a choice.
My driving instructor was a former prison guard and had very strong ideas feelings about racism and race relations that she was not shy in sharing. Luckily, I was too busy gripping the steering wheel like it was a life preserver to give her political opinions too much thought.
She told me, very early on, that if she shouted and ripped the wheel from my hands (I’m paraphrasing), then I should not take it personally. She had a duty to take care of both of us. And if wrenching the wheel from my cold, sweaty grasp was what it took, then that’s what she’d do. She never, I’m pleased to say, had cause to do so. But I expected it every second I was driving beside her. I think, not so deep down, I’m still waiting for it every time I get into a car to drive to this day.
Our first lesson was a low-pressure meander around the neighborhood; our second was a full-throttle dash down a busy Austin, Texas, freeway. That, maybe, was what broke me in terms of driving. Or maybe it was the time we came back up the freeway and the skies opened in the typical Austin storm – the kind I would later class as an “adventure car wash.” Being behind the wheel for a matter of only a few hours in terms of total experience, and doing 60 on the grown-up roads in very limited visibility, was not something I was mentally prepared for. It was at that exact moment that I began to earnestly wish for the arrival of affordable self-driving cars.
Over the course of five days, she guided me from my starting position of a terrified non-driver to my intended end point of a terrified non-driver with a driver’s license. Which is an achievement of a sort, I suppose. On our final day, when the clearly unhinged examiner gave me a pass, she seemed genuinely pleased. She told me that I was such a good driver, she’d be happy to lend me her car to drive, and she assured me that she didn’t say that to everyone she teaches. Which is nice. And also likely not true.
Now, with my driving license stuck securely into my wallet, the next step was buying a car. Not a new car, you understand; just a new-to-me car. And, while driving did – and will forever more – give me a sharp, acidic ache in my soul, looking at cars is a thing I’ll happily do for hours.
I’m not really a car person, in the sense of someone who likes to rummage in an engine, talk about throttles, and even discuss their favorite routes to and from somewhere. But the psychology of buying a car is fascinating, even if some of the tricks of car salespeople have become something of a cliché. As a social experiment, it is one of my favorites. Although, granted, as a real-life process to sit through, it’s a lot of waiting followed by quite a huge amount of long-term debt. But, now having been part of three car-buying adventures, I think it’s time to pass on what I learned to both of you, my readers.
Personalizing the office. The first time I bought a car, the salesman was on point: photos of family members on his desk, sports pennants on the wall, a motivational poster or two. Look at me, it said: I am a caring family guy just doing his job to feed my adorable kids. I exist outside of work: I care about sports because I am a guy, and you can rely on me. And look how motivated I am! You can be that motivated too, in the car I have chosen specifically for you. On my second car-buying adventure, the guy had many fewer things on the wall. But the world had moved on. This guy just happened to have his Facebook page open. While we waited, he took me through photos of his wedding. We were best friends, if not Facebook friends, for the short time I was there.
Jurgen, my current car, a dark, metallic-green 2018 Beetle, was gently-used when we rescued him. The used-car section of the dealership he called home was situated a short walk and a million miles away from the main building where the new cars were sold. Inside the (let’s be honest) slightly shabby used-car building, the desks were close together, the decoration sparse. A small TV sat in the corner; a half-eaten apple rolled around on the Sales Guy’s desk. He offered us bottles of water while we went through the long process of shouldering vast amounts of debt.
As we made our way up the car-buying ladder, that evening, finally we were allowed access to the main building. There, everything shone with a righteous internal light. There was a huge TV and a coffee bar. The finance guy, when he arrived, looked like a model and treated us in a manner not unbefitting visiting royalty. In his personal office – no cubicles here – instead of a straightforward desk, he had a touch-screen desk. All of our paperwork appeared on this touch screen. We dabbed at virtual buttons and scrawled our respective signatures on this from-the-future marvel. There were no half-eaten pieces of fruit in view. My wife and I both muttered WOW under our breaths far too many times to be considered cool.
Back in the used-car building, I’d spent the time with the sales guy talking about movies. He said he’s taken his two kids to see the new Hellboy movie at the local dollar cinema. He loved the dollar cinema. In the gleaming main building, the finance guy told us he’d just bought his wife a new car and that he was at the front of the queue for the self-driving electric Volkswagen van when it finally arrived.
Do you see what I’m saying? Be the Finance Guy is what I’m saying.
Asking his manager. (Why aren’t there female salespeople?) When I tagged along as moral support and co-signer for my wife’s most recent car purchase, our salesman did the thing where he has to “ask manager” three times. Maybe he felt that we hadn’t swallowed the hook deep enough. Maybe we looked like we would get away. Would his manager let us take the car for the weekend while we decided? Yes, he would! For people who wield so much power, they sure like to stay out of the way.
Discounts. This really happened. During a test drive, the sales guy continually focused on my awesome, cute, and highly intellectual English accent. He loved it. “Say ‘smashing’,” he said, “and I’ll take $500 off the ticket price.” I was offended, patronized even. But still, I said “Smashing!” and I instantly felt like a master negotiator.
Talk as if the customer has already decided to buy. My wife called this “Manifesting the purpose,” because she’s good with the wordings. It’s not a subtle process, though. Minutes after meeting our sales guy, he introduces us to some of his co-workers: “They’re buying a car today,” he tells each one of them. We are not buying a car today; we are test driving. But, all through the process, he keeps up his reality; he is manifesting his purpose through his sentence structure. Never “If…,” it’s “When…” From choosing the color of the car for the test drive to confirming which bells and which whistles you want on the car you’re not here today to buy, he’s creating the reality. And it works.
Backloading the expense. Before I came to this country, I’d never understood the phrase “Waiting for the other shoe to drop.” This is what it means in a car-buying context: You look at the car, you drive the car, you decide to buy the car, you spend an hour or so discussing the details. And then you’re left alone. You turn to your partner and you say, “I can’t believe they haven’t tried to sell us the extended warranty.” She turns to you and says, “Maybe they don’t do that anymore because people hate it?” You’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it won’t drop just yet. It has to be the right time – you have to really be done with the whole process, to be worn down, to be prepared to sign anything to get the hell out of there. And then, they bring in The Closer who will get you to pay for the thing you promised right at the start that you didn’t want. And you’ll negotiate him down just enough to feel like you’re in charge. And then you’ll sign. And the thud of that other shoe will be heard echoing down the hallway.
And then, finally, we’re led back out into the light. Although it’s not actually light anymore. It’s nighttime. The day has flown by in a whirl of forms and signatures and making new friends and seeing their Facebook feeds and family photos. And I take my first look at Jurgen as his owner.
I have long held an aversion to the color green. It’s OK for Kermit, sure, and for grass and the wonders of nature. The Hulk is also pretty cool, but for me? No thank you.
And that’s why, when I went to start my new life as a VW Beetle obsessive, I had disdained the dark-green 2018 Beetle on offer and first test-drove an older model. The sales guy loved this older car. It had Apple Play, which Sales Guy seemed to think was the greatest thing since the moon landing. My personal audio tech preference in cars starts and ends with Bluetooth — Apple Play seemed like an unnecessary tech step too far. And that feels weird for me to say.
You see, I love gadgets. I love things that light and beep and make one kind of thing do other kinds of things. And, as I wandered through the admittedly limited options I had at the time, not every improvement looked worthy of the name. Although I love any kind of technology that will make driving easier, some advances seem like a backward step.
For example, keyless cars make me nervous. A workmate of mine had one and he told the following story:
He was preparing to go on a long trip with his shiny new keyless car and his wife came to see him off. She waves him goodbye and he drives happily down the freeway for quite a while. Just as he’s thinking he would like to stop, he realizes that he doesn’t have his key. The car had started because his wife had her key in her pocket when she was seeing him off. And so he cannot stop the car because he cannot start it again. He has to turn around and head for home…and hope he has enough gas in the tank (and strength in his bladder) to get him there…
For this first Beetle in line for me to test-drive, the driving felt wrong. The brakes were funny-feeling. The whole experience was bleh. Stop me if my effortless slip into automobile-technical-speak is intimidating to the lay-person.
And when we got back to the car lot, my co-driver and I, we noticed that the green 2018 Beetle shone. It gleamed under the streetlights that were now turning on. And it didn’t need Apple Play to try to impress me. I swallowed my pride, got inside, and fell in love.
Long story short, I named him Jurgen and took on the responsibility for his well-being for the next 5–6 years.
And the best thing about him is, all being well, I won’t have to spend a day with a car salesman until 2026 at the earliest. And odds seem good that the apocalypse will be on us before then, so Jurgen might well be the last car I ever have to buy.
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