Well, the new foster dog is all settled in, thanks be to crates and portable kennels. How did anybody ever introduce new dogs to a pack without ’em?<\/p>\n
All went reasonably well. Robbie issued a few pro forma<\/i> growls, then backed off on command, duty done. Ava — the most volatile of my pups — lunged at the newsomer’s crate repeatedly shouting, “I’m gonna rip your foul entrails out, you Spawn of Evil. If it’s my last act in life, I’ll tear your throat out of your wretched body and … oh, look. A tennis ball!” Nadja (who is one of the few dogs I’ve know to possess almost a human level of duplicity), stared persistently at the new dog — rude and provocative behavior, in canine terms — then protested, “But Mom, I’m only looking at her. What’s the big deal?”<\/p>\n
Newbie Betsy seems perfectly capable of holding her own, growling back at my mob with vampire fangs. Give it a couple of days, and as you guys predicted all will be well. Still, at some point with three temperamental females There Will Be Blood.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
The vacant lot in town that usually hosts two or three private-party used cars for sale (and occasionally a logging truck or rock hauler) suddenly blossomed into a real car lot this week and opened today for a one-week sale. “Wholesale to the public,” said the manager when I bearded him yesterday before the official opening. “Liquidation of repos,” said a voracious salesthing when I stopped by today on my way home from picking up the new foster.<\/p>\n
Now, you who live in Civlilzation are used to this sort of thing — car lots with hundreds of vehicles, balloons, flags, tents, and high-pressure tactics. For us here in the middle of nowhere, it’s as novel as the circus coming to town, complete with elephants and acrobats.<\/p>\n
I don’t need a new (used) vehicle. But it’s occurred to me that the Xterra — purchased for regular 12-mile treks through desert washes — isn’t the ideal vehicle for around-town errands or even quick trips up the local logging roads. I love the Xterra. But 15 mpg is looking less likable all the time, and its one great flaw is that, for all its size and bulk, it doesn’t have as much cargo-carrying capacity as a little red wagon. I do garage sales. And dogs. And home improvemtent. Cargo-carrying is a Big Deal.<\/p>\n
So I stopped to have a look.<\/p>\n
A salesthing descended on me almost before I’d shut off the ignition and started trying to tie my brain in knots.<\/p>\n
I haven’t been on a real car lot in 20 years. That’s when I bought the only new-new vehicle I’ve ever owned, the 1991 Toyota 4WD pickup truck that I had until just a few years ago. Nice truck, but I got completely snookered — from the bait-and-switch (“Oh, I’m soooorrry. I didn’t know the used 4Runner you called about had gone home with another salesman today. But you know, I can get you into a brand new<\/i> pickup truck for the same price!”) to the $600 Scotchgard package and the 12% financing (because after three hours of being trapped at the dealership, I’d have agreed to anything just to escape). As I say, nice truck. But for 16 years, every time I looked at it, I thought, “Claire … you idiot.”<\/p>\n
So I knew going in that I was absolutely, 100 percent, not going to buy anything today (not that I could have afforded any of these late-model vehicles, anyhow). Homework first, vehicle later. Pressure will be to no avail against the cynicism of experience and Kelley Blue Book on the Internet. But I got to enjoy the artistry of the high-pressure pitch.<\/p>\n
I’ve never made a study of car sales tactics. That would be as unsavory as making a study of how congressional committees work. But it’s as if these guys go to school to keep the mark off balance. Everything is geared to seem both friendly and insulting at the same time. (At least this is the approach they take with women; can’t speak to how they treat men.)<\/p>\n
I’d ask a question, and instead of answering it, the salesthing would ask me one — and never one related to my wants or needs, but only related to The Deal. “Do you have any used vans around X-price?” I’d ask. “What year’s your Xterra,” he’d respond, “and how many miles has it got on i?.”<\/p>\n
“What’s the price on that one?” I’d ask, looking at a particular vehicle. “What do you want to pay per month?” he’d counter.<\/p>\n
“Have you got one a few years older and maybe not so fancy?” says I, peering into a 2010 van whose interior looked like a jet liner and whose sliding doors closed by themselves once the handles were manipulated a certain way. (Neither my budget nor my lifestyle can cope with such ameniities.) “Let me put it this way,” he’d counter. “Would you accept this vehicle right now<\/i> if you could get the payment down to $300 a month?”<\/p>\n
Gaging the value of my supposed trade-in, gaging my credit-worthiness and income, gaging my willingness to give personal information. Trying to make me feel sold before I’d even had a chance to think about, let alone drive, one of the vehicles.<\/p>\n
The weird thing is that there were no sticker prices anywhere. Each vehicle bore a bright yellow tag with a monthly payment on it — $471, $525, $597. I suppose it’s different for you folks in Civilization, but around here those are more like monthly mortgage payments than car payments. But there were no bottom-line figures. No asking price against which to make an offer.<\/p>\n
Nor would the salesthing give one, no matter how I pressed.<\/p>\n
“You don’t understand, M’am. As I explained, this is a liquidation sale. You find a car you like, you go into the tent there and tell them what you want to pay per month, they’ll look at your credit and tell you if they can do it. Just ignore the monthly prices on those tags. You can get the car for a lot less than that. It’s to your advantage, you see. You bid what you want to pay on the car, and if the bank accepts, the car is yours.”<\/p>\n
“But what’s the sticker price?” I’d ask.<\/p>\n
“M’am,” he say with the infinite patience one needs when trying to teach a retarded child to spell d-o-g and c-a-t, “I already explained that.” Then he’d explain again. “That’s the way these repo sales work,” he’d conclude, as if every human being on earth — except the benighted, totally hopeless dunce of a woman he’d happened to get burdened with — already understood.<\/p>\n
“You mean,” I finally asked, “that if I want one of these vehicles, nobody will tell me the sticker price until I’ve given all kinds of personal information and applied for credit?”<\/p>\n
“Yes, M’am. That’s exactly right. It’s to your advantage, believe me.”<\/p>\n
“Ummmmm … I’ll see ya later.”<\/p>\n
Of course, maybe I am exactly as ignorant as Mr. Salesthing implied I am. I don’t go to car lots, so I don’t know. Maybe this really is<\/i> how things are done — at least in One! Week! Only! Liquidation! Sales! It’s not how I do things. Even if I could have afforded one of the vehicles (not likely) I knew going in that there was no way, nohow, that I’d buy a vehicle without doing excruciating research and having my bottom-line price already in mind before negotiating. Nor would I buy a used vehicle without having my blessedly wonderful, marvelously honest, spectacularly competent mechanic have a look first.<\/p>\n
But it was masterly the way the salesthing strove to keep me off-balance, on the defensive, under pressure, and filled with self doubt from the moment he met me at my car door to the moment I walked away. A lot of the pressure carried the subtle — or not so subtle — suggestion that other people<\/i> — smarter, more in-the-know people — than I were right there snapping up all the good deals while I was so foolishly dithering (and wasting his valuable time) over silly details like price. <\/p>\n
I think car sales is where sleazebags go when they’re not smart enough to get elected to office. Or maybe politics is where sleazebags go when they’re incompetent at selling cars.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Well, the new foster dog is all settled in, thanks be to crates and portable kennels. How did anybody ever introduce new dogs to a pack without ’em? All went reasonably well. Robbie issued a few pro forma growls, then backed off on command, duty done. Ava — the most volatile of my pups — lunged at the newsomer’s crate repeatedly shouting, “I’m gonna rip your foul entrails out, you Spawn of Evil. If it’s my last act in life, I’ll tear your throat out of your wretched body and … oh, look. A tennis ball!” Nadja (who is one…<\/p>\n