DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

ArtWorks Downtown, in San Rafael, hosts an exhibition of movie models from Industrial Light and Magic this month. The show is called Magic Models; it runs through the end of October. On October 22, the venue will host a discussion with model builders from ILM.

Pieces from about a dozen movies are displayed. I expected a “greatest hits” show, which given ILM’s filmography would fill a city block. So I was disappointed at both the scope and scale of this show, which fits comfortably in a single exhibition room of about 400 square feet.

I liked the Mission: Impossible piece best, perhaps because it was the one movie from which models were taken that I’d seen. Also it was an impressive sequence: fly a helicopter into a tunnel behind a bullet train, have actors leap between train and helicopter, then (natch) blow it all up. The helicopter was built to 1/8 scale and bolted to a sort of railway car which could move at 50 mph, the speed necessary to simulate a 200 mph stunt.

Washington D.C. — In a shocking move, Presidential challenger and recent debate winner Senator John Kerry resigned from his bid for the nation’s highest office.

“I had no idea how much hard work it is to be President!” he exclaimed. “I’m going windsurfing instead. Did I mention that my wife is a billionaire?”

In a hastily convened press conference in the White House Rose Garden, President George W. Bush commented, “Being President is indeed hard work. I wake up every morning thinking ‘this is hard work,’ and it is, it’s hard work. But we’ll stay the course. Fighting the enemy. Hard work. Enemy. Stay the course. Hard work. Thousand points of light… Umm, Dick?”

Bush said that Iraq is “hard work.” Protecting America is “hard work.” Fighting terrorists is “hard work.” Moving from tyranny to democracy is “hard work.” Moving from a place where people get their hands cut off to a place where people are free is “hard work.” Loving Missy Johnson is “hard work.” Getting the job done is “hard work.” Basically everything he’s done for 3.5 years is “hard work.”

I humbly submit this time-management tip to George W. Bush: if you hadn’t spent 42% of your Presidency on vacation, maybe it wouldn’t be so damn hard.

Statistically speaking, in fact, it would be 42% less hard. I guess that of these eight choices you could pick approximately three of them — they’re the ones that wouldn’t have been hard if you hadn’t been out cutting fenceposts or whatever.

• Iraq
• protecting America
• fighting terrorists
• moving from tyranny to democracy
• moving from a place where people get their hands cut off to a place where people are free
• loving Missy Johnson
• getting the job done
• basically everything he’s done for 3.5 years

Even if you take loving Missy Johnson, which frankly sounds a lot less hard than you make out, you’d have got some quality work done.

Here’s a practice incantation: “Laura, look, I’d love to spend this month at the ranch, but I figure if I stay here at the office and put in an honest couple weeks’ work, I could fight terrorists and protect America and possibly even get around to loving Missy Johnson.”

(This is the second of a 3-part series on buying a new car. Read Part I.)

But now the waiting began. Buying a car is like going to the emergency room: it’s a four-hour process, no matter how desperate you are. Survival is a matter of bleeding slowly.

We chatted with our junior salesman for 15 minutes, him with his chin on the negotiating table. We never did hear back from the pricing guy on the podium who wanted to flay me with the paper cuts of a million overpriced estimates. Instead, we were joined by a sales manager, a 20-year veteran — salt-and-pepper hair, big watch, and a matter-of-fact if not gruff attitude. He noticed that I was sitting in the power seat, and tried to regain the upper hand. He nonchalantly spun one of the empty upholstered seats and sat on the arm, thereby staying at my height, but the chair tipped over and sent him stumbling.

I expected actual bargaining at this point, but the manager was also playing the game — he couldn’t sell me the car, but he could make an offer on my behalf to a second dealer that had the model I wanted. This is the traditional runaround, passing authority to a 3rd party.

We went back and forth for a while. The manager kept repeating the invoice price, which I knew to be irrelevant. The sticker price on the window is of course a work of fiction, not that that prevents salesmen from referring to it like “see what a good deal I’m giving you?” The invoice price, which used to mean the true cost of the car, is irrelevant too, for dealers make most of their money on kickbacks and bonuses from the manufacturer. I knew these “incentive” figures, from Edmunds.com. I knew there was $1000 in “dealer cash” in this sale — that, essentially, the dealer’s true cost was $1000 below invoice.

The manager disappeared for a long while, purportedly to pitch our offer to the second dealer. When he returned, he presented a carefully constructed page of numbers describing various payment schemes. In essence, he hoped to bypass the negotiation over the car’s price, by focusing on the payments instead. He led us through his schemes in order, from a $660/month payment (36 months) to $500 (48 months) to $400 (60 months), as if by magic he was saving us hundreds of dollars with each new offer, even though he’d begun with a purchase price we’d already rejected.

I took the sheet and appeared to considered it. I borrowed the manager’s pen, pointed at his downpayment figure and said, “We’re not making a down payment.” I drew a big jagged X through the number. It was rude, but we’d already discussed terms with the junior salesman: $0 down, 60-month 0% APR loan from VW. The manager was either not aware of this, or attempting to manipulate us, and I hadn’t the patience for either miscommunications or games.

I pointed at his 36-month financing figure with the pen. “We’re not interested in this.” Another X. I pointed at the 48-month figure. “And we’re not interested in this either.” Another X. Then I handed him back his sheet and pen, feeling satisfied that I’d decimated his stupid pitch but also nervous that he might jab that pen through my eye.

We didn’t make much progress after that. Finally I revealed that I had a quote from a competing dealership. The sales manager doubted that the quote was real (“Did he give you the VIN? Without a VIN, the car is only hypothetical!”) but ultimately encouraged me to pursue it. “It’s a great deal,” he said.

I’d had two goals for the dealer visit. One was to test-drive the vehicle, which we’d done. The other was to determine whether the price quote I’d secured through CarsDirect was as good a deal as it seemed. The sales manager had just admitted that it was; therefore we’d met both goals. We should have left immediately.

Instead I asked the sales manager to give me his best quote, in case the other deal fell through. He left us waiting for another 15 minutes, a revenge break, then returned to claim that the car we wanted didn’t actually exist in California. Was this an attempt to cast doubt that our Internet bid was real? Or was he simply bitter that I’d refused to play the role of the docile, undereducated customer? We ended up leaving the dealership without a quote, suspicious that the Internet guy was also playing games.

(Read part III)

Having just read about the dirty tricks played upon unsuspecting shoppers by car salesmen, I figured the best way to test my newfound bargaining muscles would be to go out and buy a car.

We picked a 2004 VW Jetta GLS Wagon, 1.8 liter Turbo, leather seats, sport package, and “Electronic Stabilization” system. I researched pricing online, both at CarsDirect.com and Edmunds.com. I used the CarsDirect site to request bids from two dealerships. To my surprise, one of them wrote back within a few hours, with an amazing price — below the Edmunds.com “invoice” price, well below the “True Market Value” price, and within a few hundred dollars of the CarsDirect price.

Then we geared up for a dealer visit, to a different nearby lot.

I dressed for sympathy. I wanted to look like a guy without much money (not a stretch)… a sort of “needs financing” look. My hair looked like it hadn’t been cut since November. And my wife put on a shirt that, I swear, made her look about seven months pregnant.

To fully play the slimy-salesman game, we needed to find a slimy salesman. They’re all slimy, I figured. This turned out not to be the case. We were approached by a guy who later admitted he’d only been selling cars for three weeks. He wore the requisite tie, but no flashy jewelry. In fact, despite the tie, I think he’d more successfully conveyed the message “needs financing” than I did.

This dealership didn’t have the car we sought, but we test-drove a similar model and then went inside to work up some numbers. Our junior salesman had no office, so we weren’t put “into the box.” Rather, we sat at a little negotiating table at a quiet end of the showroom. The table had one rigid cafeteria-style chair, which I took because it was closest, and three upholstered chairs that looked a lot more comfortable (had I been paying attention). It immediately became apparent that I’d sat in the power seat, for once the salesman sunk into one of the other chairs I was a foot taller. The salesman leaned forward to make his pitch, but was dismayed to find that the table came up to his sternum.

He had no idea what our Jetta would cost, or maybe that’s part of the game, so he left in search of a sales manager. I recognized this ploy, so I waited three seconds and followed him. I caught up at the other end of the room, where he’d climbed onto an area with a raised floor where two mean-looking unshaven guys sat at terminals working up price quotes. My salesman was leaned over the desk muttering things about our car, or about us. I rustled some paper to prevent overhearing something that they’d be embarassed about, and I got a look from the seated man that made my contacts frost over. He asked “can I help you?” but his tight face and the daggers shooting from his eyes more clearly sent the mesage “stepping onto my podium just cost you 20%.”

I felt like I’d drawn blood, so even if I really had just blown my deal I was going to enjoy it. I put on a big smile, a whole-face sort of smile. I beamed at him. And with what I hoped was an innocent and somewhat clueless tone (again, not a stretch), I replied enthusiastically “I’d like to buy a car.”

His armor pierced, he gave up any pretense. He shook his head slightly in angry disbelief and said, in a voice that nearly cracked, “And who are you?!” Wheee!

I pointed at the document in his hand, which noted my Jetta and options and name and address, and said with another big smile, “That’s me!” I radiated car-buying happiness. I was practically glowing.

The guy at the desk sent a cold stare at my salesman, who actually took a step backward when it hit him. He was wounded. I’d just earned him an enemy, which was not the effect I was going for. I offered apologetically, “I just figured I’d save you guys a lot of back-and-forth…” and I waved my hand limply in a side-to-side motion while my voice trailed off. My salesman looked sheepish and led me off the dais, which by today probably has a gate with a lock on it.

(Read part II)