Taking license

Over the past few weekends, I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about looking for a used—excuse me, certified pre-owned—car for my son. Or daughter. We’ll see whose room is cleaner when I get home.

What struck me about the whole ordeal is how monumentally unpleasant the experience is. Not a revelation if you’ve ever bought a car, but always a surprise to me. I guess it’s because like surgery or Christmas shopping, I don’t do it often enough to remember the amount of pain involved.

On paper, it should be one of the most exciting, fun experiences you can have. You get to test drive lots of different models, pick one that makes you happy, and drive off into the sunset, preferably up a winding coastal road where you can let your right foot loose and see how many curves your new investment wants to hug.

Well, not so fast there Edsel.

Because of an incident at Keyes Toyota years ago, where the wife and I were virtually held hostage for three hours because they wouldn’t give us back our car keys (they were checking it out for trade in—no we didn’t buy there, yes we finally escaped), I’ve been adamant about laying down a few ground rules when car shopping.

The first is never give them my keys.

Here are the others: I don't go inside the dealership and have a seat if I’m just shopping. Instead, I’ll have the salesperson go inside, get their best price and walk it back out to me. I make two things clear—they only have one shot at it, so the number they give me has to be the final offer the first time. And I won’t wait longer than fifteen minutes.

Which brings me to my next rule: I don’t deal with anyone but the salesperson. No closers, no sales managers, no fleet managers coming out the door with their shark tooth smile and hand ready to shake mine. If the salesperson can’t make the deal, meeting his boss isn’t going to help.

Speaking of the deal, I never take the deal. Any number they give me has profit built into it, otherwise they wouldn't be selling it at that price. So even though I've asked them for their best offer, I have no qualms about being the bad guy and letting them know it isn't good enough. I'll try to knock another ten to fifteen percent off whenever number they give me. If they're willing to negotiate, I know they haven't given me their best price (which they never do). If they're not willing to negotiate, there's always another dealer who is—all you have to do is remind them and they usually change their tune. However if they start whining about how they're not making any money on the deal, or ask me to come up just $200 more on my offer, I'm out of there.

With car salespeople it doesn't take much for my bullshit meter to go into the red.

For the time being I've taken a break from car shopping, although I still peruse online to see what's out there. But my time right now is mostly being spent figuring out how to pay for the upcoming kitchen remodel. Plus for the moment we seem to be managing with the cars we have.

But if anyone has a fairly new model, safe car they'd like to sell, we can always talk about it.

C'mon inside and have a seat.

Padding my story

 If you know me at all, you know there are some things I have absolutely no trouble stopping.

Like work, cleaning, work, reading, work, eating – okay, maybe not eating.

One thing I was having trouble stopping was that two-ton hunk o’ depreciating Japanese metal I drive everywhere (although I suppose in light of recent events, there are worse things the metal could be than depreciating). Seems my rear brake pads were worn down to almost nothing (I know the feeling). Not quite metal on metal, but nanoseconds away from it.

While I had my car at the dealer for a regular service, my service writer broke the news about the brakes. Then he told me how much it was going cost to replace the pads and turn the rotors. After I shook my head and asked if I’d heard him right, that’s when I put the brakes on.

Now, I’m all about easy. I like having a relationship with my dealership, as well as recourse should something go wrong. It’s not my first rodeo - I know I pay more for that, which up to now I’ve been willing to do. Maybe that’s because up to now it hasn’t been that much more.

But I found out on this last visit that there’s only so much I’m willing to fork over for someone to smile at me while they’re picking my pocket (not exactly the phrase I wanted to use, but it’s a family blog).

Let’s get right to it shall we? $459. That’s how much they wanted to lighten my wallet for the work. Seemed a little excessive to me, so I decided to do something I should’ve done a long time ago – take my business somewhere else. After all, my car’s out of warranty, and it’s not like other places don’t guarantee their work.

I searched Yelp for brake places near me, and much to my checkbook’s delight there was a great one only three blocks from my house. I went there, and explained the situation to Bob. I assume it was Bob. That’s what the patch on his industrial, grease-stained jumpsuit said.

Bob smiled the knowing smile of a man that lives in a very big house thanks to people who are mad as hell at their dealers and not going to take it any more. Bob checked out the rear brakes, and agreed I needed the work done. For $210.

Not that I’m counting, because I don’t want to seem petty or anything like OH GOOD LORD IT'S 54% LESS!

Bob ordered the pads that day and I brought the car in the next morning. While they worked on it I walked over to the donut shop across the street for coffee and a maple twist (I told you stopping eating wasn’t my strong suit). By the time I got back, twenty minutes later, the car was ready to go. And stop.

My neighbor always asks me, “How old do you have to be before you realize you’re getting screwed by the dealer.”

Now I know the answer. This old.