It was late in the day on a busy Saturday when the turn was offered to me. I knew that everyone was busy except for me, and that made me feel a little like a deer caught in the headlights. Jim, the salesmen in question, was new to our crew, still an unknown quantity to a certain extent, but during his short time at the dealership it was rumored that his turns were garbage.
I had just delivered a car, but there was still time left in the day to snag another buyer. So that made me more than hesitant when Jim approached me. But he looked desperate. He was up to his eyeballs in customers and needed help. I gave in.
Stupid me.
It was one of those watermark moments in my automotive career: the worst turn I’ve ever had. After talking with his customer for only a couple of minutes I realized I’d been had. I can’t remember the details; I appear to have blocked them out, except that they were truly horrendous. I was left confused. We Car Men can be a screwed up bunch no doubt, but when it comes to turning a customer we at least try to be honorable. We are all aware that we are screwing around with another guy’s living, so when you have to give up a customer there had better be at least a chance that the other guy can put a deal together.
Not so with Jim. It soon became apparent to all of us that Jim didn’t turn a deal because he thought there was a deal there. He turned the deal because he was certain there wasn’t a deal there! Pardon my French, but he didn’t give a fuck about you or the time you would spend spinning your wheels with someone who had no way to go. I have never met anyone before or since who was worse than Jim!
You want to hear the weird part? If Jim turned you a deal and by some miracle you made it—he was disappointed. In his mind he didn’t get a half deal, he lost a half deal!
Turning a deal, or a T.O. as it’s called, is a basic car business institution. There are many forms of it. The most common one is when a salesman has one too many customers at the same time and turns his customer to another salesman to work. They split the deal between them.
When I came up in the business you were in no way allowed to work two deals at the same time. To do so was to risk the wrath of a highly pissed-off sales manager who might very well take the second customer from you completely. So if you were with an appointment and a be-back came in, you had to find another salesman to work the second deal for you.
It’s a common courtesy to turn a deal to the guy who upped your customer, but that isn’t always practical. If the other salesman is dumber than a bag of hammers you have to do some serious soul searching before you give the deal up. A half a deal might turn into no deal! Most salesmen have at least one buddy on the crew with whom he can turn deals back and forth. It’s usually a guy who has a similar temperament so the customer doesn’t go into shock when that nice guy he came to see turned him to a prick!
Unlike my friend Jim, the turning salesman usually tries to make sure that the guy who takes your turn is not going to be jacked-off by a mooch. I’ve known plenty of guys who will turn the more promising deal if they can. But The Others are an unpredictable lot so when a guy takes a turn it’s with the knowledge that he’s taking a chance.
Here’s an oddity. I once worked at a place where the salesmen were allowed to work as many deals at one time as they wanted. I was shocked. In my humble opinion the sales manager was a complete idiot. I once watched in horror as a guy tried to work four customers at one time while I, who wasn’t doing anything at the time and likes to think is qualified to take a turn, was ignored. At least one of his customers left in disgust while the manager did nothing!
One good way to get abused when taking a turn is something called a “Hello T.O.”. In this scenario the offending salesman (the same guy who skated you last week) gets an up, spends five minutes qualifying him, and turns him to you like he’d been working the mooch for a week. Usually he turns the deal because he smells a mini, so he’d rather get half from you while he tries to find a big dummy with a way to go.
Experienced salesmen are always on the lookout for a Hello T.O. When taking a turn from a suspicious character, it’s best to ask the customer a few questions about how long his relationship has been with the offending salesman. As the saying goes, “Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me!”
Usually when a deal is turned, the two salesmen are “married”. At some dealerships both the deals have to be split to insure fairness, but that is the exception not the rule. Being married means that if I turn a deal to you, finish my first deal, and get a fresh deal while you’re still with the customer I turned you, I have to put you on that new deal. Sometimes on a busy weekend day you can end up being married to a guy for the whole day!
Many times a deal is turned while it’s at the desk. This usually happens when the salesman can’t get the deal done for some reason. He’s been with the customer for three hours, taken him down to the ten yard line, but can’t seem to get that final bump that will send him into the end zone. At this point it’s advantageous to turn the deal to another salesman because it’s an amazing how even just a change of face can breathe fresh life into a dying deal.
I have a bitch here. A deal should almost always be turned to another qualified salesman. Only as a last resort should a manager go in for the close. Why? First, a manager who regularly goes in to close a deal makes his salesmen weak and dependent on the manager. We Car Men can be a lazy bunch. Why should we bust his balls for that final bump when the sales manager will do it for free? Second, because they have the power to do anything they want, managers will sometimes give away the farm to make a deal. Third, many managers just aren’t not good closers. You wouldn’t send a salesman in cold to do the F&I man’s job, so what makes you think the F&I guy can close your deal?
Exception: In my opinion there is nothing more inspiring for a salesman than seeing a sales manger in a desperate situation get off his ass, grab the write-up and hammer a customer. IF USED SPARINGLY, it reminds the crew that the sales manager really could sell cars if he wanted to and is not afraid to get his hands dirty for the sake of his crew.
I remember standing outside the dealership that Saturday evening contemplating the significance of Jim’s shitty turn. I felt bad. I mean, if we can’t trust each other who can we trust? It’s good to remember that ultimately we are all in the same boat, and watching out for the other guy can pay for him and for you.
Always remember the rule: What goes around comes around.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. I used so many cliché expressions while writing this piece someone ought to confiscate my keyboard!
The Golden Skate Award
On a bright morning in the summer of 1971, Mike Aahl was rooting around in the trunk of old Buick trade-in parked along the back fence of Hayward Ford. As his hands searched through piles of old newspapers, crumpled cigarette packages, and empty oilcans, hoping to discover any hidden treasures, his eyes brightened. There in front of him was quite a find. It was an old roller skate.
Mike withdrew his prize, his mind reeling with the possibilities. The skate itself was a scruffy, white leather affair, definitely something worn by a girl. It had old-fashioned steel wheels. Its metal frame was spotted with rust. As Mike inspected the skate, out fell an equally crusty skate key. All in all, it was perfect!
The plan for the skate’s resurrection started off simple enough, a quick clean up and a visit to the local hardware store for some gold spray paint. Within a couple of hours it was finished and set to dry along the warm western wall of the parts department. Beside it was the key, also sprayed gold, for it, too, was part of plan.
Someone suggested, “Let’s have it mounted on a nice slab of wood.” It was a great idea, no doubt, but by the time it hit the local trophy shop another even greater idea was hatched.
In a couple of days the skate was ready, and we gathered in Mike’s office to admire the results. There it was, a beautiful bright gold, looking like a bronzed baby shoe from hell. It had been mounted on an oak base befitting its importance. A small gold plaque read, “The Golden Skate Award.” It was ready to go.
Skating is a term used by car salesmen to signify stealing all or part of a car deal from another salesman. In the bad old days of the car business salesmen skated each other as if it were the national sport. This was particularly true in big dealerships where large crews of Car Men fought for survival each month.
There are different levels of skating. In it’s most common form, another salesman somehow manages to get his name on your deal after you have done all the work. Any Car Man who has been around for awhile can tell a story or two about going out to lunch only to return to discover that his appointment had shown up early. If intercepted by a shark, you could bet you lost half your deal. Even if the salesman was your friend the sales desk rarely allowed your customer to be held until you got back, so whoever was available to complete the sale got half a commission regardless of his previous involvement in the deal.
These situations managed to even themselves out over time. You could not be at the dealership to protect yourself 24/7, though management acted as if you should. Occasionally you lost a half deal, but occasionally you got a half deal back, and the order of the Car Man universe was once again restored. What goes around comes around.
Then there was the out-and-out, you-lost-a-deal skate. If it was done properly you might never know it happened. The customer you sold that Ford Mustang to sends in his buddy to see you. It is your day off; another salesman gets your referral, sells him a car and does not put your name on the deal. If you do manage to discover the evil deed the usual answer to your pissed-off inquiry is, “He didn’t ask for you.”
I have known salesman to tell customers that the guy they asked for did not work there anymore, or “David doesn’t sell used cars. I’ll have to be the one to help out with that.” Being the clever bastards we are, there were dozens of lies you could tell a customer to steal him away from the intended salesman.
Management never openly condones skating, but there is not a lot they could or would do about it. In their eyes a little skating toughens everyone up, and that is exactly the way they like it. They prefer to let the salesman work it out (or in some cases duke it out) among themselves.
Skating is one of those things that The Others could never understand. They live in a world of relative fairness in the work place where Car Men only have a marginal acquaintance. That is why the first rule of our business is the car business is not fair. It is something Car Men have to accept if they are to survive. It is not something your average schoolteacher or government worker could ever accept or understand.
I am not a saint, but I have never been one to skate people. You see, the second rule of the business, “what goes around, comes around” is a powerful force, and I learned early in my career to respect it. That and my Portuguese/Catholic upbringing always prevented me from being much of a skater, but I will admit I have been sorely tempted. Like former President Jimmy Carter, I have often lusted in my heart.
At Hayward Ford we had a kangaroo court. If the skate had been particularly egregious, you could ask for a hearing after a morning sales meeting. On average, this occurred a couple of times a month. These mini-trials were wildly popular if only for their entertainment value. Here you would have two impassioned opponents ready to hunt bear, but instead of bear it was each other.
After the sales meeting the managers cleared out. They rarely wanted anything to do with this, but agreed to honor the outcome. The salesmen would stay. We had a big crew so sometimes there would be twenty or more Car Men crowded into the meeting room, downing coffee, smoking cigarettes, and ready for a show.
Usually, three Car Men acted as judges. The accuser would point out the guilty party and state his case. Both sides would then tell their version of the events, most of the time wildly different from each other. If there were witnesses they would testify. Then the judges would deliberate. Keep in mind that the sales managers would only tolerate us being off the floor for fifteen or twenty minutes, so there was no Perry Mason oratory going on in there.
The judge’s decision was final. Sometimes you won; sometimes you lost. It was accepted that this was the end of the issue until, of course, the salesman who lost managed to get the other salesman back. Car Man justice!
It was out of this that The Golden Skate Award came into play. It was decided that Mike Aahl’s find should be given out monthly to the man who best exemplified not only skating, but also the spirit of skating. In some ways a Car Man who was a little out of control was admired. Sheer craziness was something grand to watch in a weird, sick way. Car Men are always into weird and sick.
The award would be given after a sales meeting at the beginning of the month. A few days before the event a panel of Car Men, headed by our salesman emeritus, Hank Medeiros would gather to choose the man they deemed worthy enough to be singled out for this honor.
The much-anticipated morning finally came. Everyone was in high spirits. Even the Grand Old Men of the dealership, many who had been with Hayward Ford since the late 1940’s when it was nothing more than a converted garage on the corner of Mission Blvd. and “A” Street, would came to watch the proceedings.
Hank was the MC. He was ideal for the job being a natural born ham. He had been at Hayward Ford for years. He loved to be in the limelight, tell a few jokes, and have a good time. He set the perfect tone for The Golden Skate Award ceremonies. I wish I could tell you the names of some of the winners, but the sad fact is that skaters, though entertaining in a strange way, never last long at a dealership. They are like the itinerant gamblers of the Old West, always drifting from one place to another to ply their trade before getting out of Dodge when the citizens got wind of their cheating.
Hank would tell his jokes then run down the list of the dirty deeds allegedly committed of the award’s winner. When the culprit was finally announced and presented his prize, it was met with howls of laughter and the red face of the thought-he-was-clever winner. Busted!
The second prize was then given out. The Golden Key Award went to the salesman who tried hard but came in second best. The glittering key was decked out with a fancy blue ribbon and presented with as much good-natured malice as the skate itself.
Prizewinners were required to keep their trophies in their offices and on prominent display throughout the month. There it could be seen by all, questioned by customers, and a little reminder that they were not as smart as they thought they were.
“The Golden Skate Award” is a cherished memory of my youth. These days, working mostly alone on a small used car lot, there is no one to skate me—though I have to keep an eye on my boss, another Hayward Ford veteran. But I am certain that the practice sill goes on because skating is part of our tradition, and for Car Men, traditions run deep.
Talk to you later,
David
Mike withdrew his prize, his mind reeling with the possibilities. The skate itself was a scruffy, white leather affair, definitely something worn by a girl. It had old-fashioned steel wheels. Its metal frame was spotted with rust. As Mike inspected the skate, out fell an equally crusty skate key. All in all, it was perfect!
The plan for the skate’s resurrection started off simple enough, a quick clean up and a visit to the local hardware store for some gold spray paint. Within a couple of hours it was finished and set to dry along the warm western wall of the parts department. Beside it was the key, also sprayed gold, for it, too, was part of plan.
Someone suggested, “Let’s have it mounted on a nice slab of wood.” It was a great idea, no doubt, but by the time it hit the local trophy shop another even greater idea was hatched.
In a couple of days the skate was ready, and we gathered in Mike’s office to admire the results. There it was, a beautiful bright gold, looking like a bronzed baby shoe from hell. It had been mounted on an oak base befitting its importance. A small gold plaque read, “The Golden Skate Award.” It was ready to go.
Skating is a term used by car salesmen to signify stealing all or part of a car deal from another salesman. In the bad old days of the car business salesmen skated each other as if it were the national sport. This was particularly true in big dealerships where large crews of Car Men fought for survival each month.
There are different levels of skating. In it’s most common form, another salesman somehow manages to get his name on your deal after you have done all the work. Any Car Man who has been around for awhile can tell a story or two about going out to lunch only to return to discover that his appointment had shown up early. If intercepted by a shark, you could bet you lost half your deal. Even if the salesman was your friend the sales desk rarely allowed your customer to be held until you got back, so whoever was available to complete the sale got half a commission regardless of his previous involvement in the deal.
These situations managed to even themselves out over time. You could not be at the dealership to protect yourself 24/7, though management acted as if you should. Occasionally you lost a half deal, but occasionally you got a half deal back, and the order of the Car Man universe was once again restored. What goes around comes around.
Then there was the out-and-out, you-lost-a-deal skate. If it was done properly you might never know it happened. The customer you sold that Ford Mustang to sends in his buddy to see you. It is your day off; another salesman gets your referral, sells him a car and does not put your name on the deal. If you do manage to discover the evil deed the usual answer to your pissed-off inquiry is, “He didn’t ask for you.”
I have known salesman to tell customers that the guy they asked for did not work there anymore, or “David doesn’t sell used cars. I’ll have to be the one to help out with that.” Being the clever bastards we are, there were dozens of lies you could tell a customer to steal him away from the intended salesman.
Management never openly condones skating, but there is not a lot they could or would do about it. In their eyes a little skating toughens everyone up, and that is exactly the way they like it. They prefer to let the salesman work it out (or in some cases duke it out) among themselves.
Skating is one of those things that The Others could never understand. They live in a world of relative fairness in the work place where Car Men only have a marginal acquaintance. That is why the first rule of our business is the car business is not fair. It is something Car Men have to accept if they are to survive. It is not something your average schoolteacher or government worker could ever accept or understand.
I am not a saint, but I have never been one to skate people. You see, the second rule of the business, “what goes around, comes around” is a powerful force, and I learned early in my career to respect it. That and my Portuguese/Catholic upbringing always prevented me from being much of a skater, but I will admit I have been sorely tempted. Like former President Jimmy Carter, I have often lusted in my heart.
At Hayward Ford we had a kangaroo court. If the skate had been particularly egregious, you could ask for a hearing after a morning sales meeting. On average, this occurred a couple of times a month. These mini-trials were wildly popular if only for their entertainment value. Here you would have two impassioned opponents ready to hunt bear, but instead of bear it was each other.
After the sales meeting the managers cleared out. They rarely wanted anything to do with this, but agreed to honor the outcome. The salesmen would stay. We had a big crew so sometimes there would be twenty or more Car Men crowded into the meeting room, downing coffee, smoking cigarettes, and ready for a show.
Usually, three Car Men acted as judges. The accuser would point out the guilty party and state his case. Both sides would then tell their version of the events, most of the time wildly different from each other. If there were witnesses they would testify. Then the judges would deliberate. Keep in mind that the sales managers would only tolerate us being off the floor for fifteen or twenty minutes, so there was no Perry Mason oratory going on in there.
The judge’s decision was final. Sometimes you won; sometimes you lost. It was accepted that this was the end of the issue until, of course, the salesman who lost managed to get the other salesman back. Car Man justice!
It was out of this that The Golden Skate Award came into play. It was decided that Mike Aahl’s find should be given out monthly to the man who best exemplified not only skating, but also the spirit of skating. In some ways a Car Man who was a little out of control was admired. Sheer craziness was something grand to watch in a weird, sick way. Car Men are always into weird and sick.
The award would be given after a sales meeting at the beginning of the month. A few days before the event a panel of Car Men, headed by our salesman emeritus, Hank Medeiros would gather to choose the man they deemed worthy enough to be singled out for this honor.
The much-anticipated morning finally came. Everyone was in high spirits. Even the Grand Old Men of the dealership, many who had been with Hayward Ford since the late 1940’s when it was nothing more than a converted garage on the corner of Mission Blvd. and “A” Street, would came to watch the proceedings.
Hank was the MC. He was ideal for the job being a natural born ham. He had been at Hayward Ford for years. He loved to be in the limelight, tell a few jokes, and have a good time. He set the perfect tone for The Golden Skate Award ceremonies. I wish I could tell you the names of some of the winners, but the sad fact is that skaters, though entertaining in a strange way, never last long at a dealership. They are like the itinerant gamblers of the Old West, always drifting from one place to another to ply their trade before getting out of Dodge when the citizens got wind of their cheating.
Hank would tell his jokes then run down the list of the dirty deeds allegedly committed of the award’s winner. When the culprit was finally announced and presented his prize, it was met with howls of laughter and the red face of the thought-he-was-clever winner. Busted!
The second prize was then given out. The Golden Key Award went to the salesman who tried hard but came in second best. The glittering key was decked out with a fancy blue ribbon and presented with as much good-natured malice as the skate itself.
Prizewinners were required to keep their trophies in their offices and on prominent display throughout the month. There it could be seen by all, questioned by customers, and a little reminder that they were not as smart as they thought they were.
“The Golden Skate Award” is a cherished memory of my youth. These days, working mostly alone on a small used car lot, there is no one to skate me—though I have to keep an eye on my boss, another Hayward Ford veteran. But I am certain that the practice sill goes on because skating is part of our tradition, and for Car Men, traditions run deep.
Talk to you later,
David
Trades
If I’ve ever heard a car salesman pray, its for his next up not to have a trade-in. Any Car Man with a lick of common sense would prefer that his next up not have a trade. Why? Because after bad credit, it’s the most common thing that can screw up your deal and your commission.
On the surface a trade-in should be a good thing. After all, car salesmen prefer selling used over new, so what would be a better source of used cars than trade-ins? This is true as long if it’s the other guy’s trade. Let him be the noble one that supplies the dealership with much-needed used cars. Why not you? BECAUSE JUST ABOUT EVERYONE IN THIS DAMN COUNTRY IS BURRIED UP TO THEIR EYEBALLS!
Now I must confess that we only have ourselves to blame. After all, we’re the ones who buried them in the first place. You’d think that The Others would have enough common sense to hang onto their iron until it makes sense to buy another one, but it appears that a large portion of the American population has no common sense whatsoever! They financed a SUV for 84 months and now they want to trade it in after in 24? Hello! Don’t any of you idiots understand basic math?
A Car Men tries to discover the truth about a trade before the desk even knows he has a potential write-up. He tries to kick a problem trade if he can, because deskmen are sometimes not too helpful in these situations. This one of those times where the best interests of the salesman do not run parallel with those of the house because if the trade is desirable, the desk will try to get it no matter what, and the next thing you know you have a mini. I suppose many managers out there will not appreciate me saying this, but that’s just the way it is.
I suppose it’s a mute point anyway. Many times its damn near impossible to kick the trade. Then there’s the goof wants $3000 for a $300 car. You can try your best to line your deal properly, but in the end there’s not much you can do about it except write the sucker up and hope for the best. My advice: write quickly.
With credit being so tight, our ability to unbury people like we used to have diminished significantly. The banks and credit unions just aren’t rocking like they used to. It used to be that they would try to help you make your deal, but these days they seem more determined to find new and creative ways of turning your deal down. And these freaking trades don’t make it any easier.
My best suggestion for you truly buried customer: A mysterious fire in his driveway.
THE EXCEPTION TO THE RULE: I like to refer to it as “The Perfect Storm” of car deals. The customer has a trade that’s worth a fair amount of money, and by God it’s clear! (It also helps if he’s “a big dummy with a way to go”.) The golden cords of a U/A* beckon to you like a siren’s song. It’s a pounder in the making, and what a grand and glorious thing it is. It’s one of those times when you are reminded why you got into this business in the first place.
Problem trade-ins are a part of our business. Not much you can do it. Now I’m not suggesting you sandbag the desk—well I suppose I am—but it’s up to you to do your own due diligence before you spend a lot of time with a guy who owes $31,000 on ‘05 Yukon. And remember the rule: The Car Business Isn’t Fair. So don’t expect it to be. But with a little bit of creativity and common sense you can level the playing field a little.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. For you managers out there here’s an idea from the old days at Hayward Ford. In those enlightened years before the advent of shoulder harnesses and 5 MPH impact bumpers the house had a policy that if you sold your own trade it within 30 days of bring it in, you’d get another 5% of the gross. I’ve always thought that was a great incentive for the guy who had to grind out the deal that produced that trade.
*U/A = Under Allowance
On the surface a trade-in should be a good thing. After all, car salesmen prefer selling used over new, so what would be a better source of used cars than trade-ins? This is true as long if it’s the other guy’s trade. Let him be the noble one that supplies the dealership with much-needed used cars. Why not you? BECAUSE JUST ABOUT EVERYONE IN THIS DAMN COUNTRY IS BURRIED UP TO THEIR EYEBALLS!
Now I must confess that we only have ourselves to blame. After all, we’re the ones who buried them in the first place. You’d think that The Others would have enough common sense to hang onto their iron until it makes sense to buy another one, but it appears that a large portion of the American population has no common sense whatsoever! They financed a SUV for 84 months and now they want to trade it in after in 24? Hello! Don’t any of you idiots understand basic math?
A Car Men tries to discover the truth about a trade before the desk even knows he has a potential write-up. He tries to kick a problem trade if he can, because deskmen are sometimes not too helpful in these situations. This one of those times where the best interests of the salesman do not run parallel with those of the house because if the trade is desirable, the desk will try to get it no matter what, and the next thing you know you have a mini. I suppose many managers out there will not appreciate me saying this, but that’s just the way it is.
I suppose it’s a mute point anyway. Many times its damn near impossible to kick the trade. Then there’s the goof wants $3000 for a $300 car. You can try your best to line your deal properly, but in the end there’s not much you can do about it except write the sucker up and hope for the best. My advice: write quickly.
With credit being so tight, our ability to unbury people like we used to have diminished significantly. The banks and credit unions just aren’t rocking like they used to. It used to be that they would try to help you make your deal, but these days they seem more determined to find new and creative ways of turning your deal down. And these freaking trades don’t make it any easier.
My best suggestion for you truly buried customer: A mysterious fire in his driveway.
THE EXCEPTION TO THE RULE: I like to refer to it as “The Perfect Storm” of car deals. The customer has a trade that’s worth a fair amount of money, and by God it’s clear! (It also helps if he’s “a big dummy with a way to go”.) The golden cords of a U/A* beckon to you like a siren’s song. It’s a pounder in the making, and what a grand and glorious thing it is. It’s one of those times when you are reminded why you got into this business in the first place.
Problem trade-ins are a part of our business. Not much you can do it. Now I’m not suggesting you sandbag the desk—well I suppose I am—but it’s up to you to do your own due diligence before you spend a lot of time with a guy who owes $31,000 on ‘05 Yukon. And remember the rule: The Car Business Isn’t Fair. So don’t expect it to be. But with a little bit of creativity and common sense you can level the playing field a little.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. For you managers out there here’s an idea from the old days at Hayward Ford. In those enlightened years before the advent of shoulder harnesses and 5 MPH impact bumpers the house had a policy that if you sold your own trade it within 30 days of bring it in, you’d get another 5% of the gross. I’ve always thought that was a great incentive for the guy who had to grind out the deal that produced that trade.
*U/A = Under Allowance
Spoons
A house deal is a venerable car business institution going back to the days when the first Ford dealer’s brother-in-law wanted to buy a new Model T, and the managers were too lazy to go out and land the guy on a car themselves. House deals are often called a “HD” for short. Many times a HD is turned over to a salesman to do the legwork. The amount of work he does on one of these “freebee” deals can vary greatly. Sometimes he only plays the minor role of finding the right car for the customer. Sometimes it is as much work as a regular car deal with the Car Man doing all the work including closing the deal. Sometimes it is as easy as the salesman being handed a report of sale to slap on the windshield of a car.
Which salesman gets the HD is an interesting process. Sometimes it is fairly given out to the Car Man who is next on the “up” list, or a salesman who just happens to be standing in the right place at the right time. It might be given out as a reward to someone who has done some extra work around the lot or helped a manager out with a special project. Sometimes a HD is given to a guy that is in a slump as a way of pumping him up.
A “spoon” is a derogatory term for a HD, usually applied to a salesman who seems to get more than his fair share of house deals, as in “Hey, they just gave that asshole David another spoon!” Getting a spoon implies you are being “spoon fed” like a baby being given pureed carrots.
HDs are often given to the manager’s favorite guy, usually the one who is most adept at kissing his ass. This is when a house deal officially becomes a spoon. A salesman who consistently gets a lot of spoons is a sore point among the other Car Men. It will get them grumbling and can cause the animosity level of the crew to rise precipitously. They really do not like the salesman who seems to get all the house deals. I am sort of an expert on this topic, because, you see, back in the day I was the one who used to get most of the spoons.
I worked for my brother, Danny, for twenty-three years, and let me tell you, it was not always easy being the younger brother of the sales manager and later the dealer. At the beginning of my career Danny gave me deals as a way of helping me survive the rigors of learning the business and for generally being a dumb shit. Later, it made sense for him to turn deals to me. People were referred to him because he was the owner, and they did not want to be pawned off to—God forbid—a salesman! But handing them off to his little brother, hell that was almost as good as dealing with the owner himself.
This type of logic did not help me with my fellow Car Men. I was getting two or three extra deals a month and it really pissed them off. I understood their point, but what was I supposed to do, turn the deals down? Hey, lets be realistic about this; I had a family to support! It got to the point where every time I had a car deal, my fellow salesmen would suggest it was a spoon. Their nasty comments began to get to me so being the devious bastard I can sometimes be I developed a plan.
When you brought a car deal to the sales office the first thing you did was write it on the sales board. There was a spot that asked for the source of the deal. After years of enduring my colleague’s bad vibes, I decided that every time I boarded a deal, whether it was given to me or not, I would draw a little spoon on that spot on that asked for the source. It made everyone nuts!
Sometimes revenge is sweet.
A spoon can be a great thing for a struggling Car Man desperate for a deal, but it also has a down side: It is the quickest way to a mini-commission. Let me tell you it was not a great feeling being called into the sales office on a Saturday when everyone was rockin’ and rollin’ out on the line to help my brother with some jerk-off banker who wanted a sweet deal on a new car. Sometimes these deals cost me more money then they made me, but what was I going to do?
To this day I am sure a lot of guys I worked with in the old days still think most of my deals came from Danny. That was not true—not by a long shot, but if we ever meet again at a Car Man’s reunion and they ask me about it, I will tell them, “I never got a deal on my own in my life!”Talk to you later,
David
Which salesman gets the HD is an interesting process. Sometimes it is fairly given out to the Car Man who is next on the “up” list, or a salesman who just happens to be standing in the right place at the right time. It might be given out as a reward to someone who has done some extra work around the lot or helped a manager out with a special project. Sometimes a HD is given to a guy that is in a slump as a way of pumping him up.
A “spoon” is a derogatory term for a HD, usually applied to a salesman who seems to get more than his fair share of house deals, as in “Hey, they just gave that asshole David another spoon!” Getting a spoon implies you are being “spoon fed” like a baby being given pureed carrots.
HDs are often given to the manager’s favorite guy, usually the one who is most adept at kissing his ass. This is when a house deal officially becomes a spoon. A salesman who consistently gets a lot of spoons is a sore point among the other Car Men. It will get them grumbling and can cause the animosity level of the crew to rise precipitously. They really do not like the salesman who seems to get all the house deals. I am sort of an expert on this topic, because, you see, back in the day I was the one who used to get most of the spoons.
I worked for my brother, Danny, for twenty-three years, and let me tell you, it was not always easy being the younger brother of the sales manager and later the dealer. At the beginning of my career Danny gave me deals as a way of helping me survive the rigors of learning the business and for generally being a dumb shit. Later, it made sense for him to turn deals to me. People were referred to him because he was the owner, and they did not want to be pawned off to—God forbid—a salesman! But handing them off to his little brother, hell that was almost as good as dealing with the owner himself.
This type of logic did not help me with my fellow Car Men. I was getting two or three extra deals a month and it really pissed them off. I understood their point, but what was I supposed to do, turn the deals down? Hey, lets be realistic about this; I had a family to support! It got to the point where every time I had a car deal, my fellow salesmen would suggest it was a spoon. Their nasty comments began to get to me so being the devious bastard I can sometimes be I developed a plan.
When you brought a car deal to the sales office the first thing you did was write it on the sales board. There was a spot that asked for the source of the deal. After years of enduring my colleague’s bad vibes, I decided that every time I boarded a deal, whether it was given to me or not, I would draw a little spoon on that spot on that asked for the source. It made everyone nuts!
Sometimes revenge is sweet.
A spoon can be a great thing for a struggling Car Man desperate for a deal, but it also has a down side: It is the quickest way to a mini-commission. Let me tell you it was not a great feeling being called into the sales office on a Saturday when everyone was rockin’ and rollin’ out on the line to help my brother with some jerk-off banker who wanted a sweet deal on a new car. Sometimes these deals cost me more money then they made me, but what was I going to do?
To this day I am sure a lot of guys I worked with in the old days still think most of my deals came from Danny. That was not true—not by a long shot, but if we ever meet again at a Car Man’s reunion and they ask me about it, I will tell them, “I never got a deal on my own in my life!”Talk to you later,
David
Photograph
It’s a funny thing growing older. The other day I found a recent photograph of my ex-wife on the net. I was taken aback. My memory of her was how she looked when we split up back in 1978. She was about 24 and still under warranty. But I couldn’t help but think who is this old broad?
This was a stupid response, of course, and my apologies to my ex-wife if she ever stumbles across this blog. Hell, if anyone looks old, it’s me. I can’t bear to look at a photograph of myself. That’s why the photo on my profile is my granddaughter, Brooke. Maybe I was thinking you’d see me through her or some sort of liberal bullshit like that.
Growing older is as natural as a 20-year-old trade-in. It happens to everyone eventually. But I am genuinely shocked at how old I’ve become. I remember my first day at Hayward Ford like it was yesterday. They used to call me, “summer help”. Now all of a sudden I’m 11 months shy of 60! Something has gone seriously wrong!
I’m not one of those types of people who will say yeah, I’m 59, but inside I’m still 20. I’m 59 all right. I’ve got the aches and pains and high blood pressure to prove it. But I think I’m still pretty alert and conscious of the world around me. I haven’t yet retreated to a gated retirement community, a Buick LeSabre and the comfort of being a member of the AARP. At least give me credit for that.
But it bothers me that I have told young salesmen about my blog, written down the address on my business card and asked them to check it out. None of them ever has. That makes me wonder about how I am perceived by them. It makes me question my relevancy. Would they even understand the blog if they did read it? Is everyone reading this blog like me, an old fart? (I’m not talking about you, Cathy in Canada.)
I’d like to have a photo of myself for the blog. I asked my daughter to take a couple the other day. I didn’t like the results. Graying hair and a nearly white beard. I wasn’t that good looking on my best day and now—forget about it!
I think I need someone to take a photo of me with my Giants cap on. That would give me a kind of weird old guy I don’t give a crap look. Back in the day when I was writing fiction, I used to joke with a friend about having a photo of me in my author pose. You know, tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, glasses off but poised artfully to the side of my face. That serious look that says, “I know more than you do”.
I should have had that picture taken when my hair and beard were a little darker and the bags below my Portuguese eyes were not so prominent. It would come in handy now. It would give gravitas to the blog and make people wonder at my wit and wisdom.
Someday I will post a photograph. Some loved one will catch me at a moment when I don’t look too bad. Someday my ex-wife will be cruising the net and find it. Her head will jerk back from the monitor and she will say to herself, how did that jerk I made the mistake of marrying get so old? And that, my friends, will be a very appropriate question.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. Still working on that trade-in piece. It’s putting up a fight, but I’ll wrestle it to the ground eventually.
This was a stupid response, of course, and my apologies to my ex-wife if she ever stumbles across this blog. Hell, if anyone looks old, it’s me. I can’t bear to look at a photograph of myself. That’s why the photo on my profile is my granddaughter, Brooke. Maybe I was thinking you’d see me through her or some sort of liberal bullshit like that.
Growing older is as natural as a 20-year-old trade-in. It happens to everyone eventually. But I am genuinely shocked at how old I’ve become. I remember my first day at Hayward Ford like it was yesterday. They used to call me, “summer help”. Now all of a sudden I’m 11 months shy of 60! Something has gone seriously wrong!
I’m not one of those types of people who will say yeah, I’m 59, but inside I’m still 20. I’m 59 all right. I’ve got the aches and pains and high blood pressure to prove it. But I think I’m still pretty alert and conscious of the world around me. I haven’t yet retreated to a gated retirement community, a Buick LeSabre and the comfort of being a member of the AARP. At least give me credit for that.
But it bothers me that I have told young salesmen about my blog, written down the address on my business card and asked them to check it out. None of them ever has. That makes me wonder about how I am perceived by them. It makes me question my relevancy. Would they even understand the blog if they did read it? Is everyone reading this blog like me, an old fart? (I’m not talking about you, Cathy in Canada.)
I’d like to have a photo of myself for the blog. I asked my daughter to take a couple the other day. I didn’t like the results. Graying hair and a nearly white beard. I wasn’t that good looking on my best day and now—forget about it!
I think I need someone to take a photo of me with my Giants cap on. That would give me a kind of weird old guy I don’t give a crap look. Back in the day when I was writing fiction, I used to joke with a friend about having a photo of me in my author pose. You know, tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, glasses off but poised artfully to the side of my face. That serious look that says, “I know more than you do”.
I should have had that picture taken when my hair and beard were a little darker and the bags below my Portuguese eyes were not so prominent. It would come in handy now. It would give gravitas to the blog and make people wonder at my wit and wisdom.
Someday I will post a photograph. Some loved one will catch me at a moment when I don’t look too bad. Someday my ex-wife will be cruising the net and find it. Her head will jerk back from the monitor and she will say to herself, how did that jerk I made the mistake of marrying get so old? And that, my friends, will be a very appropriate question.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. Still working on that trade-in piece. It’s putting up a fight, but I’ll wrestle it to the ground eventually.
Gran Torino
Saw the movie, “Gran Torino” starring Clint Eastwood the other night. Great movie! Completely politically incorrect, a state of being a lot of you know I hold dear to my heart.
What got me about the movie was the reference to the car, a green ‘72 Gran Torino fastback. It was very weird for me to being looking at a car when is being held in such reverence as a “classic” when I sold them brand new! It gave me great insight into how old I am and how long I’ve been doing this shit.
I used to say that you know you’ve been selling cars a long time when the cars you sold new were worth $100. Now I’m in a position that some of the cars I sold brand new are now considered classics. And a Gran Torino? Who would have guessed?
When I first went to work at Hayward Ford in late 1970, I recall a half dozen unsold Torinos going to seed along the side fence. These were high-performance models, 429 Cobra Jets with those hoods with a hole on the top for greater air intake. As I recall they were very hard to sell. One of them was a year old, and my brother declared it was either sell ‘em or give them a birthday party.
A few months ago, I got a phone call from a guy in New York. Apparently he had one of these cars and was looking for some information about its history. Through a series of calls he found me. Now my mind works in a weird way. I suffer from short-term CRS or as it is sometimes called Can’t Remember Shit. But as readers to this blog can attest, I can remember things that happened forty years ago like it was yesterday.
When the guy mentioned his car, it brought back of picture of them sitting side by side like ships in a mothball fleet. Trust me on this; Torinos were not part of Ford Mother Company’s golden age. As I recall their batteries were always deal and their spark plugs fouled. A royal pain in the ass.
Ironically when I asked the guy what the car was now worth, he told me 100K! Damn, I should have bought one of those suckers!
So you never know. Today’s iron is tomorrow’s classic, although I doubt seriously that a Toyota Corolla will be worth a lot of money forty years from now.
But then, you never know.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. Note to the young people out there. My best guess for a car that will be worth big bucks forty years from now is one of the Chevy SSR trucks. I’d be tempted to buy one, but let’s face it; I won’t be around in forty years.
What got me about the movie was the reference to the car, a green ‘72 Gran Torino fastback. It was very weird for me to being looking at a car when is being held in such reverence as a “classic” when I sold them brand new! It gave me great insight into how old I am and how long I’ve been doing this shit.
I used to say that you know you’ve been selling cars a long time when the cars you sold new were worth $100. Now I’m in a position that some of the cars I sold brand new are now considered classics. And a Gran Torino? Who would have guessed?
When I first went to work at Hayward Ford in late 1970, I recall a half dozen unsold Torinos going to seed along the side fence. These were high-performance models, 429 Cobra Jets with those hoods with a hole on the top for greater air intake. As I recall they were very hard to sell. One of them was a year old, and my brother declared it was either sell ‘em or give them a birthday party.
A few months ago, I got a phone call from a guy in New York. Apparently he had one of these cars and was looking for some information about its history. Through a series of calls he found me. Now my mind works in a weird way. I suffer from short-term CRS or as it is sometimes called Can’t Remember Shit. But as readers to this blog can attest, I can remember things that happened forty years ago like it was yesterday.
When the guy mentioned his car, it brought back of picture of them sitting side by side like ships in a mothball fleet. Trust me on this; Torinos were not part of Ford Mother Company’s golden age. As I recall their batteries were always deal and their spark plugs fouled. A royal pain in the ass.
Ironically when I asked the guy what the car was now worth, he told me 100K! Damn, I should have bought one of those suckers!
So you never know. Today’s iron is tomorrow’s classic, although I doubt seriously that a Toyota Corolla will be worth a lot of money forty years from now.
But then, you never know.
Talk to you later,
David
P.S. Note to the young people out there. My best guess for a car that will be worth big bucks forty years from now is one of the Chevy SSR trucks. I’d be tempted to buy one, but let’s face it; I won’t be around in forty years.
Writing Gone Awry
Writing this blog can be one of my life’s most enjoyable experiences or hell on earth. Let me give you an example. On Sunday I wrote two blog entries in the space of an hour. I’ve already posted “Dwight’s Dilemma” and a second piece, “Gran Tornio” will be posted in a few days.
Then there’s the matter of a piece I’ve been working on called “Trade-ins”. When it came into my brain one morning a couple of weeks ago, I was filled with excitement. Damn I had a lot to say on the subject of trades! It might even be enough for a two-parter. But writing the thing has turned out to be a nightmare.
Sometimes writing can get out of control. When I was writing fiction I noticed that after a certain point a story seemed to take on a life of its own. This was especially true on longer pieces. There came a point when it wasn’t yours anymore. Some other force seemed to take over, and it felt like you were only there for the ride.
But in the case of “Trade-ins” the writing force went completely out of control. It turned into a veritable rant about The Others, corrupt managers and the pressures of selling cars. I completely lost myself in the thing like a bad acid trip. There came a point when I had to force myself to stop and shut the writing program down! My little exercise in writing had turned from an amusing way to wile away a Sunday morning into a wild beast with very sharp teeth.
This got me thinking about the crazier ideas that have come to me while brain storming in the shower. I wrote a complete entry about going on dealer trades when I was a kid. Now God has blessed me with the ability to recognize when the writing has gone wrong, and after I wrote the thing I realized that no one would find it interesting but me!
Then there was the case of the mythical heavy metal Car Man band called “OA/UA” (A take off on the band AC/DC.) For those of The Others who are reading this, OA stands for over allowance and UA stands for under allowance. I won’t go into an explanation about what that means because to tell you the truth it’s none of your business. The point is that I spent the better part of an afternoon spinning a mythical tale about this band. What the hell was I thinking about?
One of the things that bothers me a little is the blog entries that I could write but wouldn’t dare. It’s not like the police would be called, it’s kind of like that commercial that says “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”. Got to be careful about what goes out there on the web. If President Obama ever wants to appoint me to a cabinet post, I don’t want an entry about how a lady customer met me at her door naked screwing up my chances for glory. So, siree!
Getting back to “Trade-ins”, I’ll resurrect it soon enough. I’ve got to wait until I have a day off, wire myself up with coffee, and tackle it to the ground like a cowboy roping a cow. I’m sure I can make it an intelligent statement about how trade-ins and how they affect the lives of Car Men.
But then again, I might just leave it as a rant.
Talk to you later,
David
Then there’s the matter of a piece I’ve been working on called “Trade-ins”. When it came into my brain one morning a couple of weeks ago, I was filled with excitement. Damn I had a lot to say on the subject of trades! It might even be enough for a two-parter. But writing the thing has turned out to be a nightmare.
Sometimes writing can get out of control. When I was writing fiction I noticed that after a certain point a story seemed to take on a life of its own. This was especially true on longer pieces. There came a point when it wasn’t yours anymore. Some other force seemed to take over, and it felt like you were only there for the ride.
But in the case of “Trade-ins” the writing force went completely out of control. It turned into a veritable rant about The Others, corrupt managers and the pressures of selling cars. I completely lost myself in the thing like a bad acid trip. There came a point when I had to force myself to stop and shut the writing program down! My little exercise in writing had turned from an amusing way to wile away a Sunday morning into a wild beast with very sharp teeth.
This got me thinking about the crazier ideas that have come to me while brain storming in the shower. I wrote a complete entry about going on dealer trades when I was a kid. Now God has blessed me with the ability to recognize when the writing has gone wrong, and after I wrote the thing I realized that no one would find it interesting but me!
Then there was the case of the mythical heavy metal Car Man band called “OA/UA” (A take off on the band AC/DC.) For those of The Others who are reading this, OA stands for over allowance and UA stands for under allowance. I won’t go into an explanation about what that means because to tell you the truth it’s none of your business. The point is that I spent the better part of an afternoon spinning a mythical tale about this band. What the hell was I thinking about?
One of the things that bothers me a little is the blog entries that I could write but wouldn’t dare. It’s not like the police would be called, it’s kind of like that commercial that says “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”. Got to be careful about what goes out there on the web. If President Obama ever wants to appoint me to a cabinet post, I don’t want an entry about how a lady customer met me at her door naked screwing up my chances for glory. So, siree!
Getting back to “Trade-ins”, I’ll resurrect it soon enough. I’ve got to wait until I have a day off, wire myself up with coffee, and tackle it to the ground like a cowboy roping a cow. I’m sure I can make it an intelligent statement about how trade-ins and how they affect the lives of Car Men.
But then again, I might just leave it as a rant.
Talk to you later,
David
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)