Are there any professions that enjoy a consistently worse reputation than car salesman? A few, perhaps: politicians, ambulance-chasing lawyers, and, in this modern age of financial crisis and enormous public bail-outs, perhaps we can add bankers.
Mafiosi? Surely not: consider the attention lavished upon organized crime by both Hollywood and Guy Ritchie. Then consider the portrayal of car salesman in the movies. Off the top of my head, I can only think of two: the faux secret agent played by Bill Paxton (or is it Bill Pullman?) who ends up wetting himself in True Lies, and the bumbling would-be criminal mastermind Jerry Lundegaard in Fargo. While the mid-90’s may have been the glory years for car salesmen in the movies, they nevertheless came across as little more than spineless weasels.
Sounds about right, eh?
And so it was with trepidation that the missus and I took on the mantle of dealing with auto salesmen in both our old and new homelands: the wife is trying to sell our Audi back to the dealership we bought it from five months ago, while I have been conducting a long-distance transaction with a car dealer in Philly, from whom I bought a new Golf GTI over the internet.
Where, oh where, to begin? My initial experience was a decent one. The company with whom I’ve maintained a US credit card (but not, alas, a US credit history!) during my sixteen year foreign odyssey offers a car-buying service. You spec out the car that you want, plug in your zip code, and dealers will offer you quotes that they are obligated to honour. That sounds fair enough. So I duly plug in what I’m after (a high-spec GTI), press enter…and then in a minute or so I get three quotes from dealers as close as Fairfield County and as distant as Philly.
OK, fine. The Philly guy’s the cheapest by some distance…but then again his location’s the furthest by a similar margin. I’ll contact the Connecticut guy first. I send him an email….and he duly replies, saying “oh, we haven’t got the car that you asked for, we’ll have to order it, it’ll take a few months.” A quick check of his online inventory confirms that he doesn’t have the car….which raises the thorny question of why he bothered quoting me on it to begin with.
Still, at least he had the decency to respond, which is more than can be said for the guy in Westchester County. Perhaps he likes a challenge, and customers emailing him about buying a car is an affront to his sales skills. Would fishing be so popular if the bass simply jumped into the boat? Perhaps he was busy and my email slid off the front page of his Outlook; I know when that happens to me, important emails sometimes get missed. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s the archetypal car salesman, who’s too thick and lazy to do a proper bit of work.
Alas, we’ll never know. For the guy from Philly also emailed back, echoing his Connecticut comrade that he didn’t have the car to hand. This time, however, a check of his online inventory suggested that he did indeed have a car with everything I wanted (and actually, a bit more) on the lot. So I fire an email back, asking “what about car X”, to which he sheepishly replies “oh…err…yeah, that’s a demo model we have, I suppose I could sell you that.” Funny, I thought that was his job…..
Anyhow, this is where the stupidity ends and the dissimulation begins. When I ask how many miles it has on the clock, he replies “about 8000.” Really, I say, well in that case it’s not so much of a demo as a used car, so we’ll need to negotiate a pretty tasty discount from what you’ve quoted me.
“Ah,” he replies, “it’s actually only got 2000 miles on the odometer.” Actually, perhaps I was wrong. Maybe stupidity was still in the ascendance at this juncture, for how else could he say it’s got 8000 miles on the odometer when it’s actually only got 2000? (The answer, of course, is that you get your service guys to wind the clock back, which I suppose would be possible if this chap were clever enough to think of such a ploy. I’m not sure he was. Eventually, the figure was revised back up to 2800.)
So I knock him down from his original quoted price by another $500 or so; at $1700 below invoice, I think I’m getting a pretty good deal. A few hours later after we agree a price and do a virtual handshake, he emails back saying that he needs to increase the price by a hundred and ten bucks. Now in the context of the price of the car, that’s not a load of money. But after spending the better part of a day haggling back and forth and finally agreeing a price, why does he then need to come back and change it? (As it turns out, he’d forgotten to add in some mandatory fee from the state of Pennsylvania; perhaps we’re still in the realm of stupidity at this juncture.)
All of this took place several weeks ago, while I was still in the UK. Before yesterday’s scheduled pick-up, I duly got the car insured, though my salesman provided the vehicle identification number (a prerequisite for insurance, evidently) only grudgingly. The impression I got was that he couldn’t be arsed to type the 20 or so characters of the VIN into an email.
Now, I’ve always paid cash for my cars, and in the UK it couldn’t have been easier. On the day of the sale, you give the salesman your debit card, the bank has a word to make sure it’s you, and it’s job done. Surely America, land of the free and home of the customer-friendly service industry, would be the same?
Uh-unh. On Friday afternoon, the sales guy emails me to ask if I have got my cashier’s check (i.e., a banker’s draft) ready and if my license has been registered to a Connecticut address. Ummmmm…..no. Wouldn’t that information have been fairly useful before 1.30 pm the day before I’m supposed to pick up the car?
Thus started one of the more surreal hours of my life.
I call the salesman. A familiar voice answers “XXX Motors”, but when I ask for the salesman by name, I get told “Oh, he’s out on the floor with another customer. Can I take your name and have him call you back?” When I tell him my name and say that a return call is extremely urgent, he says “Oh, hi Impatriate, it’s me. “ (What kind of salesman screens his calls?!?!) “I thought you were the mortgage guy after me.” (Ah…..the kind in some sort of personal financial trouble. Splendid!)
When I explain that I haven’t got a bank account yet (another story for another day), let alone a cashier’s check, he says “Hmmm….well we’re going to have a problem. We can only take cashier’s checks, not cards or personal checks. Let me talk to my finance guy and get back to you.”
Errrkk!! This is trouble. Not only do I not have the acceptable form of payment for my new car, but I am supposed to drop off my rental in Philly at the same time. Sans new car, I’ve got no way to get back.
Fortunately, my colleagues overhear my side of the conversation and offer to help. I can write them a personal check for the amount, and we’ll go to the bank together and get a cashier’s check for the relevant amount. Problem sorted, right?
Well, maybe not. After half a dozen unanswered phone calls to the sales guy, he finally picks up again. When I explain that I can give him a cashier’s check from someone else’s account, he sounds dubious. A check with his finance guy appears to confirm that a check from someone else will not suffice. (At this point we are seriously considering withdrawing $30k in cash and paying with Benjamins. Not an ideal solution, to be sure!)
Radio silence from the sales guy again. An email marked “urgent” goes unanswered. Finally, he rings back (the first time has ever managed to successfully phone me, despite having had my number for the past month- both in the UK and US.)
“No, “ he says, ”it cannot be a check with his address on it.”
Now hold on, I say. A cashier’s check is from a bank. Your counterparty is the bank, not me or my colleague. “Really?” he says. Yes, I reply. You don’t get a cashier’s check without giving the bank the money first. “Oh.” he says. “I’ll call you back.”
Slowly, it dawns on me. Despite demanding a cashier’s check, this guy doesn’t actually know what a cashier’s check is. Un-bee-lievable.
So eventually he calls back and the crisis is averted. Yes, they can accept a cashier’s check if the money came from someone else. (In the end, we actually sorted it so it had my name on it. And unbelievably, I’ve actually omitted a few details, such as my attempt to send funds to them from my brokerage account.)
So finally, I drove to Philly yesterday. The final transaction was relatively painless; the most notable feature of my time there was a receptionist who didn’t know where the nearest petrol station was (3 blocks down the street, as it turned out) and a 300 lb salesman with enough oil in his hair to stir-fry an ostrich…and no front teeth. Oh, and the fact that I could have put it all on a card in the first place.
If my car-buying experience in the US has been a monument to stupidity, the ongoing car-selling saga in the UK has been an exercise in cupidity. The tale is short and, as of this writing, sadly unresolved. We purchased our Audi from the local dealer at the turn of the year and figured it would be a snip to sell it back to them at a modest loss. If only…
We started calling the dealer three weeks ago and were told we had to get in touch with “the buyer.” A message was duly left. With no response forthcoming, a second attempt was made, and a second message left. What followed was two solid weeks of calling the dealer (and its sister dealership a few miles further afield) every three days and leaving messages for a chap more difficult to locate than Lord Lucan or Osama bin Laden. We never did manage to track him down before I left the UK.
Finally, the wife has enough a writes an exceptionally stroppy letter to the president of Epsom Audi. Miraculously, a few days later she manages to get ahold of the elusive buyer. Now, when we bought the car we didn’t get a particularly great price, due largely in part to the absolute shortage of available cars in our desired spec (an A6 Avant with an engine bigger than the 2.0 liter TDI.)
So I wasn’t expecting to fare particularly well in the transaction. But even with those low expectations, I was flabbergasted when the wife rang up to say that the dealer’s bid was a full 30% below our purchase price a mere five months after we bought the car. It’s not even like we needed to wear the “new car” depreciation; it was a year old and had done 7000 miles when we bought it.
Now, I am not a particular expert on the depreciation dynamics of 2.7l Audi A6 estate cars, but I was born with an ounce of common sense, as was the missus. And a 30% hit on five months of ownership (with no damage whatsoever incurred to the car, which still has <10,000 miles on it!) is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
At least the strange absence of the buyer in previous weeks made sense now. Clearly, he was in Mexico stocking up on sombreros and bullet holders from the Pancho Villa Department Store. Naturally, we told him to get stuffed; given her success with the president of the dealership earlier, the missus is going to inquire of him to explain his buyer’s bid/ask spread.
In the meantime, potential customers of Epsom Audi, be warned: you had better be a big fan of Hotel California if you buy a car there. And if any UK-based readers are interested in a slightly used, high spec Audi A6 estate, by all means get in touch with the Impatriate.
So there you go: stupidity and cupidity, a tale of two countries. My expectations going in were pretty low, and yet for different reasons car dealers on both sides of the Atlantic managed to undershoot them. On the basis of my experience, I’ve got to say that the reputation of car salesman (and their portrayal in the movies) looks pretty accurate to me.