A Salesman Named Weasel
I love to buy stuff--gifts for my family, friends for me. I loathe being sold something. A friend told me you need to be an asshole to buy/lease a car these days. My DNA is not programmed for purposeful ass-hole-ness—I am terminally, exhaustingly polite.
I went for a test drive, and I said, “Let’s talk numbers,” the sales associate, now an owl, hooted and turned her head 360 degrees.I was the owl’s
prisoner. My car keys were taken right
away for trade-in evaluation, so I could not leave. Trapped, I sat, and she kept hopping off to
chat with the general manager. I started to rock and found my nearest exit (which
was behind me).
It
was like the time-share presentation in Cancun on my honeymoon:
“No. No. We
are on our honeymoon. No, thank you”
“I
have a better offer,” sales guy leaves. A new, well-rested, unbroken, aggressive fresh
horse trots in, determined to get our money, toss-tossing his mane.
“Here,” saleslady/owl
places a paper in front of me with the numbers for a lease. “This is our best deal,” she said, flatly.
“I want to know
what you will give me for my trade-in,”
I sputtered, cowed before her now pissed-off look. She again leaves to negotiate with her
general manager.
“We can take
your car off you tonight and give you a loaner until the car you want comes in.”
Never
since my ex suggested a throuple have I felt so, so pressured, so ick. She did not like my “Oh, No!” either.
“But what
are you giving me for my car?” I said.
Oh—that was bitchy, I thought, but in reality it still came out meekly like
a high-pitched yip.
Back she flew,
better offer laid in front of me and she squawked, “Let’s do business!”
The
last time I felt like THIS, I was being fat-shamed by a health club trainer
trying to sell me private coaching.
“I want my car keys,
please.”
“ Wait. You
seem upset.”
Hurriedly
walking out, the manager ran after me, pleading that I deal with him
instead. He handed me his business card--
and I am not making this up--and it said, “Jim Weasel.”
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