Proverbs 12, Verse 17
"A good man is known by his truthfulness;
a false man by his deceit and lies."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
It's fun to pretend, isn't it?
It is, you know. The world of make believe, of Peter Pan-ery, of faerie dust and cardboard boats escapes before we even know it's gone and, once we do notice its absence, we don't care. Because we've discovered tits. Of course, until we get our hands on a pair, there's a rather prolonged and fortuitous return of make believe to help get us through, though we don't call it "make believe". We call it "the internet".
Today, I pretended like I was going to buy a car. I had taken the day off work, because my dog needed to be put under anesthesia and I didn't know when she'd be waking up and requiring transport back to our domicile for rest, repose, repast and recuperation, so I had some time to kill. I went to the bookstore, hit the thrift shop (and scored a dynamite pair of powder-blue Ralph Lauren trousers for $5.00) had lunch with my mother (she still thinks Velveeta is cheese) and then I headed off to the local Toyota dealership and pretended like I was going to buy a car.
I told them that my Volvo wagon was killing me at the gas pump (this is not part of the make believe) and that I was looking to purchase a bite-sized Prius C because of its outstanding fuel economy (50mpg combined city/highway). My car averages 16mpg combined, which is pretty abysmal and would make Al Gore want to curb me. I'm a pretty convincing actor (read: liar), so I gave them my driver's license, insurance, and owner card and they put me behind the wheel of a 2014 Prius C and a 2014 regular Prius. I loved the Prius C. It was nimble, agile, frugal and surprisingly comfortable. Yes, hard plastics surrounded me like Federal troops during Pickett's Charge, but it's 2014 and you're going to be swimming in plastic unless you're piloting a Rolls Royce. The question is: are the plastics going to be hard or soft to the touch.
It's all fucking plastic. Who cares?
The regular Prius feels heavy and sad. And it looks like a spaceship inside. If I want to be at the controls of a spaceship, I'd have cheated off David Kim's science tests in 7th grade with a little more aplomb and consistency.
I filled out all their forms. I sat at the table and waited while the salesman had hushed, urgent-sounding conversations with the manager. I watched their body language. I did my own research on my phone. They undervalued my trade. I got angry. Nobody insults the car I'm pretending I'm trying to get rid of.
"We made phone calls to Volvo dealerships-- people aren't jumping up and down to give us $6,000 for your car."
"Jason," I said, leaning in. Sometimes it's nice when you use people's first names. Other times, it's condescending. You decide. "My car is 13 years old. No Volvo dealership is going to want a 13 year old car on its lot. Take a look around this place. Do you have any 13 year old cars around here, Jason?"
Jason frowned.
"I'm not a dummy, Jason. You're going to ship my car off to some auction house in East Moofongong, PA to be bid on by some farmer's wife. So let's get real, okay?"
Let's get real. Pretty funny words from someone who's just there trying to kill time until his Basset Hound wakes up at the vet's office. But, hey-- Jason didn't know that.
"Let me see what I can do," he said, scooting his chair back.
Ten minutes later, they came back with a better value on my trade, but not much better. They gave me lease numbers and purchase numbers. They kept asking for "what number are you looking for" as far as a monthly payment. I refused to give a figure. They didn't like that. There was more negotiating. Then, abruptly, I announced that "this is a lot to think about" and told them that I needed to talk to my wife, "as our finances are joined-- legally and spiritually."
They didn't laugh.
"Maybe I'll be back tonight-- who knows?"
The funny thing is, if my wife had somehow had a stroke this afternoon before I talked to her about my day's adventures and she said, "go for it", I would, even though I bought the Volvo in October (that's October of 2013, in case you were wondering) because, let's face it, I'm crazy, and I'm trying, apparently, to be the guy who owns the most cars (consecutively) before he dies. I think I'm up to fifteen or so. I have no idea really-- I lost count at around 11. It's disgusting. Hopefully there's a lot more to come, because, as fun as it is to pretend, there's nothing more fun than the thrill of the chase, watching the guys in the shirt-and-tie combos sweat a little, and shaking hands on a deal.
Everything I learned, I learned from my father. Going to car dealerships with him as a boy as the greatest thrill there was. He was an absolute bloodthirsty animal in an auto showroom.
"DREW!" he once screamed, prowling in between shiny cars and metal desks until he found the one with the name-plate of a salesman who had wronged him in some way, "WHERE THE FUCK IS THIS DREW?!"
"I am DONE with this BULLSHIT!" he screamed at one Saab dealer.
"How can you sit there and lie to me? What kind of PERSON are you?"
"Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!!" he frothed in the face of a Buick dealer who had the audacity to not offer him the appropriate value on his Oldsmobile Cutlass trade-in. That salesman chased him down into the parking lot and begged him to come back.
"I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS! I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOU FUCK-UP GAMES!"
Of course, I don't roll exactly how he does. I'm casual. I'm lazy. My specialty is appearing disinterested and disaffected. If they know your heart isn't in it, they know you'll walk like it's no big thing. I remember when I purchased my Volvo S40, two-or-so cars ago, I walked around the parking lot appearing almost stoned. A cluster of salesmen were outside chain smoking and one of them pointed at me with a huge grin on his face and said, "Now there's a guy who looks like he's leaving with a new car today-- he could give two shits about what happens here."
And you know what? Whether I'm pretending or not: he's right.
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