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Published on 08/11/1999 All articles from this issue

Giving birth to a bouncing baby car

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By Kerri Havnen Gordon

My husband's faithful 15-year-old Subaru has been on its last legs for about four years now. The old beast is a testament to the fact that we absolutely despise buying new cars. The process has often reminded me of childbirth; you dread the labor, but after great trauma, you end up with a welcome new addition to the family.

With one exception, each of our car purchases has been fraught with endless discomfort. We have haggled. We have endured slippery, lying salesmen. We have languished in dreary little rooms where, long after we thought we had agreed on a price, the salesman tried to stick us with that last $100.

Four years ago, we glumly realized it was time to brave the dealers and buy some reliable wheels. I had my heart set on the new Honda Odyssey, a small minivan with four real doors and a nifty fold-away rear set. Perfect for my family of four.

I fantasized about the pristine, spacious interior. I could practically inhale that lovely new-car smell. All that stood between me and my dream car was a trip to the dealer.

Then the fantasy took a nightmarish turn. Where one minute I was imagining multiple drink holders, the next I was being relentlessly attacked by vicious vultures cleverly disguised as salesmen. Suddenly I felt like Tippi Hedren in "The Birds."

It was a grim but brave drive to the local Honda lot. We braced ourselves. I may have even worn a hat.

Then we met Thomas. Never once did he exude that hungry desperation we had long associated with car salesmen. He casually pointed out the car's features, exerted no pressure, and when we expressed concern that the car might be lacking in guts, he suggested we drive it up in the hills. "Take as much time as you need." We were stunned. He didn't even tag along on the test drive.

Afterward, Thomas did not lure us into a claustrophobic chamber designed to squeeze us out of our children's college fund. Instead, right there on the lot, he casually offered us a very reasonable price.

A few days and a dozen quotes later, we returned. Under a bright blue sky, Thomas immediately matched our lowest quote. And that was it. A brand new car and no haggling, no little rooms, no labor pains, no Hitchcock. We were thrilled.

Last weekend we ventured to a Subaru dealer to see the new Forester, an ideal car for my husband's mountain bike and windsurfing gear. When we asked to take a test drive, the salesmen demanded, twice, "Are you going to buy a car today?"

After he begrudgingly got the keys for the test drive, he squeezed into the back seat with our kids and assumed an attitude that we were not worth his time. "Turn right here," he grunted, and "Get off at the next exit," even though in heavy traffic that meant never reaching freeway speed.

Once back at the lot, we asked for a quote. He glared at us and said, "Come with me." Terrified, I blurted out, "We aren't going into any little rooms!" After making us wait 15 minutes, he came back with a price, but it didn't matter how low it was, we couldn't wait to get out of there.

Soon we will have to replace the old Subaru. We dread that long, plank walk onto any lot other than Thomas', so my husband is researching alternatives. We want to buy a car, not endure pseudo-childbirth. It doesn't seem too much to expect.

Kerri Havnen Gordon, a Mountain View resident, writes The Living Experiment monthly for the Town Crier.