Between the upcoming arrival of Brown Brown and the slow and painful death of Adam’s car, it was finally time to break down and buy a new vehicle. Adam was stressing this much more than me, mainly because his car doesn’t have air conditioning, and his summer job requires a commute of over an hour and he needs to wear a suit (the car also doesn’t have heat anymore, but that’s not a concern at this point). I let Adam do all the research, because, frankly, I didn’t care that much. Let me say straight up that this is not a gender thing. It's just that I see a car as a way of getting from Point A to Point B. They just don't matter to me. They matter to Adam. We knew we wanted a wagon and we knew we wanted it used and I want every safety feature on it known to mankind. I’ll be taking the new car and Adam will inherit the Pimpmobile, the Toyota Camry hand-me-down that I drive (named for its gold trim and wheels and tinted windows).
So off to the car dealership we went. On the way there, just to prove that I had been paying attention during the school year when he babbled on about his classes, I asked Adam with confidence, “So what’s our BAFTA?” “You mean BATNA, honey,” he said. Hmmm, guess I wasn’t paying as close attention as I thought I had been. (
BAFTA being the British Academy of Film and Television Arts and BATNA being the best alternative to negotiated agreement.) “Don’t make the common mistake,” he said, “of confusing BATNA with the highest price we’re willing to pay.” Oh. Oops. Okay, so our BATNA is we don’t get a car at this dealership. Who says you can’t teach an old CWIT new tricks?
Once we get there, we take a look around and then the fun starts: working with a car salesman. Ours happened to be fairly nice, but he was still a car salesman. “I’d like an automatic,” I said. “I think it’ll be easier when there’s a fussy baby in back.” “People say that all the time,” he says. “A manual is just as easy with a baby. You’ll be in gear and can do what you need to do. Whether you have an automatic or a manual, you’ll still need to pull over to do most things.” Okay, true. But I want an automatic, so stop trying to push one of the three stick shifts you have on me. If you only have one automatic and it’s not the one we want, we’ll go elsewhere, and that’s fine.
I’d see things written on the car and I’d ask about them. “So what’s the difference between the turbo and the V-6?” Our salesman would launch into an explanation and within five seconds, my mind is off wondering if I’ll be able to get baby spit out of cloth seats or how good I’d look in the convertible on the back of the lot. Adam would listen carefully, nod along, and then ask appropriate follow-up questions. I’d try to listen, but it was all just, well, so boring! But I’d still feel compelled to ask other questions, and again, not pay any attention to the answer. The only thing I did ask and pay attention to was at every car, I’d say, “Does this have
LATCH?” (LATCH being the new anchoring system for car seats required in all cars built after 2002.) And at every car the salesman would say, “Yes, it has LATCH. All our cars since ’00 have LATCH.” Adam accused me of being LATCH fixated, but it was the only thing I understood.
We test drive a few cars and finally one clicks with us. Now the negotiations begin. “So would you pay this amount for the car?” Adam asks me. Sure, I reply. Naming another thousand higher, “How about this amount?” Sure, I reply. “What amount
wouldn’t you pay at this point?” “You’re the MBA,” I say. “You tell me.” Adam goes back and forth with the salesman. I’m just hanging back and letting Adam do the work. Occasionally, when the salesman would go out to confer with his manager, Adam would say, “Well, what do you think?” and I’d say, “I think I didn’t take a class in negotiations, and you did.” He wasn’t crazy about having all the responsibility, but the fact is, the only two cars I've ever owned have been family hand-me-downs, so I've never been through this process before, and I find that for all my tough talk, it's painful and intimidating. At last, a price is settled on and we make arrangements to pick up the car on Wednesday. Adam is thrilled. He loves our new car. He’s jealous that I get to drive it. In fact, when he goes home, he does
twice as much research as he did beforehand to see what the factory specs of the car are. “It has an air filter!” he exclaims happily. “You and Brown Brown will breathe clean air!” Oh joy. I still think I’d look better behind the wheel of a convertible. Preferably
this one.
