Any good mechanic will tell you the most important thing to look for when buying a new vehicle is the color. Of course, sometimes you have to take other things into consideration, like making sure it has a steering wheel. As a very wise and taller than average consumer, I took it upon myself to shop for a new vehicle, one that would fit my needs as a commuter and as a masculine man.
You might suppose that being a man has nothing to do with shopping for a new vehicle but that is where you are wrong and completely idiotic. Of course being a man comes into play when buying a car, or in my case, a big truck. You see, us men have to maintain our image when it comes to vehicles, or anything that has an engine, a motor or even an electrical cord sticking out of it. Even if, like me, you know next to nothing about cars, as a man, you have a reputation to uphold and that means one thing: Never show weakness.
The first step in buying a vehicle, aside from knowing what color you want, is to know what KIND of vehicle you want. If you want something that has good gas mileage, you’re obviously a boring twit. However, if you want something that makes a lot of noise and comes in black, then you’re probably pretty cool, with great hair and a fantastic physique and members of the opposite sex want to get with you. Since that description pretty much sums me up to a frickin T, I went off one rainy Saturday to buy a loud black truck.
I saw the ad for the truck I wanted in the paper and so early in the morning I drove way down to the south side of the city. Normally, I try not to go beyond a 12 block radius of my house if I need to buy anything because I believe in keeping it local, but that day I was prepared to make the long drive to the dealership in order to buy my truck. I was determined, even going out in the rain, sleet and snow (it was a dreary day, my friends) but after wandering around the lot, getting soaked and feeling like a drowned rat, it was clear that the truck from the ad wasn’t there. I should have been prudent and left right then and there, but suddenly, as if from a dream, a salesman appeared, demanding that he assist me. He was a tiny East Indian man who came up to my waist. I was firm and told him “No, the truck I want isn’t here.” But then he said, “Why don’t you come inside. We have hot coffee.” I’m not a coffee drinker but when he added, “There’s also hot chocolate.” I couldn’t resist, because I knew it would be free and dammit, I’m a shrewd consumer.
As we walked toward the office, I spotted another big black truck and went over to it but it was more expensive than the one I wanted and there was a sold sign on it. My persistent little salesperson insisted that he would sell me that truck or die trying. He would track down his sales manager and force him to sell me the truck. Suddenly, he ran off into the rain, dodging cars and leaping over puddles in a breathtaking display of energy and wherewithal. I watched him for a few seconds and then I remembered the hot chocolate so I went inside the dealership and stood around, sipping my beverage. I was only approached by 74 different salespeople during the half hour that I stood there, watch the tiny salesman run laps around the building outside. When he re-appeared, wearing a huge smile and looking like a soaking wet kitten (kind of sad, but kind of funny too) he said that because of his efforts, the truck was now available. My theory is that he ran around the building at supersonic speed, like Superman did in Superman II, and managed to reverse time, back to a point where the person who wanted to buy the truck opted for the fuel efficient Prius instead.
So the process of me buying the truck began. First we discussed trade in value for my SUV – they were prepared to make a generous offer of $42.00 but again, I was very shrewd (remember the free hot chocolate) and declined. Then we haggled over the price of the new truck. They wanted $27,000.00 but I managed to talk them down to $29,000.00. The deal was done, hands were shaken, celebratory free hot chocolate was shared and then for some reason they stuck me in an office while they prepared the paperwork. I only had to wait a half an hour before the effects of being soaking wet began to sink in. I began to shiver and make snorting noises with my nose every few seconds. I was feeling miserable but fortunately another salesman appeared, holding a bunch of papers the size of a New York phone book.
The flurry of pages being signed began and I was desperate to get out of there and get myself some chicken soup. But then he began to tell me about vital options that had to be purchased or someone very close to me might have an “accident”. I refused the undercoating option and the salesman looked very shocked and hurt – as if someone refusing that necessary service was either retarded or very retarded. After 10 minutes of pitching the service and me refusing, he left me alone to think about it for another 20 minutes. Then he reappeared with a brochure offering the exact same service that I had refused. He went through each picture and caption in slow, mesmerizing detail and when I refused again, he left me alone. That time for half an hour.
Then a scary looking woman came in and told me she was the supervisor and that some people might think I was borderline insane if I didn’t get the truck undercoated. I refused and then she asked if I saw the brochures. I said I had, then asked me again if I would reconsider purchasing them. I said no. Then she looked very sad, mumbled something about her terminally ill mother needing an operation and the only way to pay for it was by me buying the undercoating. When I refused again, she burst into tears ran out of the room crying, “Oh mommy, I’m sorry I let you down!”
Half an hour later the second salesperson came back, said something about the scary looking woman committing suicide because I wouldn’t buy the undercoating, and then spread more brochures out in front of me. He looked at me with imploring eyes, “Frank, can I call you Frank?” I said no. Then he showed me pictures of starving children in Africa who didn’t buy the undercoating package. I felt bad for them, but still refused. So he left me alone in the office again, presumably giving me a chance to commit ritual suicide to salvage my honour over refusing the option.
After another half hour a group of salespeople gathered outside the window, pointing at me and shaking their heads. I can’t read lips, but I’m pretty sure I could make out “undercoating” being brought up a few times. When the very first salesman appeared again, he reminded me how he got me hot chocolate and ran around the building in the rain. I told him I really appreciated his efforts and then he said, “But yet you spit in our faces when we offer you undercoating, which will not only prevent rust, but will act as a guardian angel, protecting you from evil.” When I said no, he narrowed his eyes as if he were contemplating spitting on me. He left the room.
I stared out the window, wiping my nose on my sleeve, sniffling and shivering, missing my home and my loved ones. Then the saleswoman appeared again, looking refreshed, presumably because while I spent the last 2 hours sitting in Interrogation Room 2, she had sold someone some undercoating. She smiled a chilling smile and looked down at the paperwork in front of us, checking to see what my name is. “Frank, may I call you Leonhardt?” I said no, because that was my middle name. She didn’t appear to hear because she wrote some numbers down on a piece of paper and turned it toward me. “Leonhardt, that is half price on undercoating.” When I didn’t respond because of the pneumonia that had set in, she said, “Leonhardt, I’m going to keep calling you that until you sign off on that goddamn undercoating.” Her voice sank down to a menacing whisper, “Because if you don’t, I will go to your house and kill your dog. I will call your boss at work and tell him that you steal. I will never, ever let you out of this room until you buy that undercoating. Leonhardt, I will make your life a living hell if you don’t…”
I got the fucking undercoating.
