We bought a minivan the other day. After two SUV’s, a pick up truck, two VWs, six Toyotas, and one pathetic Ford Granada, it’s time to experience life in a minivan. Why relegate ourselves to the practical American family’s vehicle of choice when we were already driving a perfectly good Honda Pilot SUV? Because it builds character. Plus we are a practical American family, who decided that if we were going to drive to Mexico next year we needed to own something Mexicans could fix.
With that in mind, last Wednesday LaPriel and I bundled up on the coldest day of the year⎯snow flying, winds whipping⎯and went shopping for a good old used American minivan. We figured freezing the salesman’s butt off would be a good negotiating tactic.
We had had unpleasant experiences with Ford and Chevy so we zeroed in on the Chrysler Town & Country. Unfortunately, we found the Chrysler minivan has one serious drawback. The back seats are as comfortable as church pews.
We then test drove the Toyota Avalon, deciding we could get by with a Japanese car in Mexico under the theory that if we bought something that wouldn’t break then we wouldn’t have to worry about whether Mexicans could fix it or not. LaPriel really liked the Avalon, but before deciding to buy, for comparison sake, I wanted her to test drive an Audi A6, one of my dream cars. I also wasn’t sure our three kids were capable of sharing a back seat for a several thousand mile journey to Oaxaca without killing each other. Part of me hoped the Audi would be more accommodating in this regard.
By the time we drove the Audi, the roads were snow covered. LaPriel took the wheel with the salesman at her side while Breanna and I sat in back. LaPriel loved the car, but the whole time she was putting the all wheel drive through its paces I stared at the sticker price in the back window and realized I could never justify buying a car that cost nearly as much as our first house.
On a whim we stopped at the Honda-Chevy dealership and spotted a Honda Odyssey minivan that looked promising. Low miles, pretty blue color, heated leather seats, comfortable benches in back, pleasant salesman. Everything seemed in order except for the price, but that minor detail could be resolved with some hard nose negotiations by yours truly. Granted, having spent the past decade rolling over new car leases, I hadn’t engaged in serious car negotiations since graduate school, when we traded in two Volkswagen Golfs⎯one of which was broken and abandoned miles from the dealership⎯for our first Toyota.
LaPriel gave me a discrete I-want-this-van-but-don’t-screw-up-the-negotiatons look before she and Breanna left to pick up my son Bret and have some dinner while I worked out the details with the dealership. Breanna on the other hand broke the first rule negotiating: Never let them know how badly you want what they’re selling.
She squealed, “Please, please buy this van Daddy.” The salesman knew he had me.
Inside, the negotiations got off to a rough start. The salesman walked me over to an open computer and pulled the Pilot’s trade in value off the Internet. Then he sat me down and handed me their opening bid. Sticker price less trade in on the SUV, for which they offered a figure so low it wasn’t even in the range we had just gotten from the Internet.
“I guess I won’t be buying a minivan today,” I said, shuffling my feet to leave. At which point, I realized my tactical error. I didn’t have a vehicle to leave in. LaPriel had the car.
“Just a minute, I’m sure we can do better,” said the salesman. He left to find his manager so I hurried over to the open computer and looked up the blue book value for the minivan.
The salesman returned with his manager and presented a slightly reduced offer. When I turned them down, they tried to get me to name what I was willing to pay. I refused. The second rule of negotiating is never tell the seller your price, and if you are forced to, name a price so low it discourages them.
The most absurd thing about the car buying process is the people who control the dealership’s purse strings are never at the negotiating table. They are always in a back room, probably smoking cigars and watching me sweat via closed circuit television. At one point during the negotiations, I asked the sales manager if his boss in the backroom was grumpy, because every time I would counteroffer, they would only lower their price by a hundred dollars. The manager called his boss on the phone to ask the question, and that was as close as I ever got to the money men calling the shots; a muffled voice over the phone.
I’m too impatient to be a good negotiator. I get bored. To whittle the price down to what I wanted to pay would have taken four hours, twenty-three counteroffers and a willingness to stay long after the dealership had closed. It would have required tantrums and cursing, storming out of the dealership in a huff, only to come back with renewed resolve to beat them down.
In the end we only went four rounds, and then I took one of their counteroffers. I was just too tired to continue, but at least I can say I am a proud owner of a minivan.
