Classic Cars

One of the fun things about selling Fords, Chryslers or Chevy’s is the goofballs who own “classic” cars. Typically you’ll encounter them on a weekend morning. Maybe it’s a lovingly restored ’56 Chevy, perhaps an old Barracuda, or a ’66 Mustang. They pull on the lot and park their automotive obsessions in the most conspicuous spot they can find, maybe even taking up two parking spaces so no one will ding the door of their baby.

As a lad I used to enjoy these old cars. They were a welcome break in a busy day. But over the years I began to notice something. I never sold a new car or truck to a guy driving a classic. As a matter of fact it dawned on me that they only spent a cursory amount of time checking out my inventory. They mostly seemed interested in me checking out their inventory!

Guys who sell Toyotas probably don’t get a lot of this. I mean, there’s no one out there restoring old Cressidas. At least I hope not. But even Toyota salesmen are not immune to a guy in a Buick Roadmaster if he’s desperate enough for attention.

The truth is most Car Men don’t give a crap about cars. Don’t get me wrong, we can all appreciate a 50’s chrome beauty, but for us an automobile is just iron, plastic and paint. Most gear heads don’t make good car salesman. They get too wrapped up in the excitement of it all and forget about hammering out a gross.

But these poor bastards who spend all their free time restoring old cars; they constantly need attention. Car shows don’t come around that often. You can only go on so many caravan rides with you buddies. Sometimes they wake up on a Saturday needing a quick approval fix. They need someone to validate all their hard work. So they take the old Camaro down to their local car dealership, hoping that someone there will “ooh and aah” over their pride and joy.

Here’s something fun for you to do when you encounter one of these middle-aged, gray-haired gear geeks: Ignore the freaking car!

I pretend like I don’t even see the damn thing. “Can I help you, sir?” I ask in my friendliest voice, my eyes ignoring his ride. Thus begins an awkward fifteen minutes. He pretends he's interested in buying something. I pretend he's going to buy something. He lingers close to his little beauty to insure I see it. I pretend he drove in in a '97 Neon. I try to draw him out, suggesting we go out back to look for one of those new trucks he mentioned. He rarely wants to go. You can see the frustration and disappointment building. It’s great!

Now here’s a perfect example of why I’m not qualified to train anyone. Because as anyone who purports to know the art of selling cars would tell you, I’m not handling this properly. After all he might really be interested in buying something. You should go ahead and massage his ego a little. Do you what you can to get the job done, son! Be a company man for Christ’s sake!

But that’s not how I roll.

There was a lady who used to come into Shellworth Chevrolet about once a month. She had this beautiful ’53 Chevy. It was eggshell blue and white. Even my jaded eyes widened the first time I saw it. It was just like the one my grandmother had, the one with a blown reverse gear. The lady wore a Chevy jacket and Chevy earrings. I suspected she had a Chevy tattoo hidden somewhere on her body. She was proud of her car and desperately wanted me to acknowledge it. I, of course, being an obstinate asshole, refused to do it. I clearly pissed her off.

No matter whatever else happens in my life, I’ll always have fond memories of that…


Talk to you later,


David