Chevroladies

We're buying a new car.  I find no joy in it.  I'm not an auto huffer in desperate need of freshly manufactured inorganic volatile compounds, nor do my buns quiver when they slide over virgin, margarine-soft leatherette.  Well, they might quiver---but from age, not excitement.  It's too serious a decision to get all that thrilled about, and once all the research is done one must dumb down and step into the automotive circus sideshow of fluttering flags, leaping 'air dancers' and ginormous gorillas.  Because giant gorillas inspire consumer confidence nightmares.

My first encounter with a car salesman was at the tender age of eight.  I recall the baleful green glare of florescent lights, a candy machine that I was allowed to visit but once, but in the end nothing happened because my father never made a quick decision.  Well, not exactly nothing: As we crossed the lot back to our yet dependable car, the manager came running out of the building, jumped onto one foot to pull off his shoe and then waved the supposedly desirable yet sweaty object in the air.

I'd sell you my shoe but it's not for sale!

We scurried away to the safe confines of our Sahara Beige Plymouth Duster.   Mother, more gregarious than the rest of us, chuckled first.  His shoe?  What does that mean? In modern parlance, it was truly a WTF moment.  Needless to say we bought our next car elsewhere.

Flash forward some thirty-five years to a moment of casual car cruising.  We had arrived at an adjacent restaurant early, so we decided to kill some time looking at a new model.  Within seconds a salesman appeared---and I must clarify he was a man of color in a city of no color, because it's pertinent to the story.  Trailing him was a little candy blonde saleslady, apparently just learning the ropes.  He started his spiel; I explained we were just looking.  He pitched again.  I retorted a little less politely, pointing out we were meeting our niece next door in ten minutes.  Again he started, and I heard myself go shrill.  He retreated, but not without a loud aside to the blonde:

They're just racists.

I was too nonplussed to bitch slap him.  Well, okay, I really don't have that in me---and besides, he was too far away---but really?  You want to talk prejudice?  My husband and I will gladly compare notes with you.  I just don't want to buy a damn car today.

The candy blonde did not seem perturbed by his claim, only calculating.  Can I sell a car to a racist?  She then set a rather determined look on her face and glided forward with all the allure she could muster.  Why yes, I can sell a car to a racist.

We ran, just short of screaming.

I vowed then and there I'd never buy another new car, but ten years and 350,000 miles later, it's time.  To be honest, I've bought a number of new and used cars from dealers---and the experience has always been sort of like watching The Wizard of Oz, but less entertaining.   As the deal closes, I'm always muttering there's no place like home.  There's got to be a better way---and now there is:  It's called Chevroladies.


Really.

Vroom, vroom

Did you know that women account for 65% of all new car purchases and 53% of used car purchases in America and yet only 4.2% of Sale Associates are women?

Chevroladies aims to take the fear out of car shopping especially for women. We offer a no hassle, no pressure approach by appointment where you can work with a knowledgeable female Sales Professional in a comfortable, friendly environment. No games, just the information you need at the price you want. Simple and easy.

Swell!  Except the last time I checked I'm no lady ...

"Maybe we could go in drag," I mused to my husband.  "Or maybe we can be terribly modern and say we identify as Chevroladies."

Or maybe we can just call on madame herself---the sole Lady of the Lot---and perhaps get Chevrolady Service by inference.

But no, we're dealing with a car dealership, so it wasn't that easy.  Because we're men, I guess.

We called for Jane at the front desk, and she did appear---albeit in surprisingly unprofessional attire.

"It's my day off," she explained  "but Joe here can help you," she added, waving to an older gentleman hovering behind her.

"Oh, we're in no hurry,"  I smiled.  "Perhaps you can give us your card and we'll make an appointment."

Jane seemed a bit mystified by my formality.  "Joe's an excellent salesman."

Now was the time to gush about wanting to be a Chevrolady---or babble about really wanting to work with her.  I babbled.

"We really want to be your Chevrolet dealer," Jane replied automatically.  "I don't get a commission anyway."

Wannabe Chevrolady

I could feel my eyes roll back into my head.  It's not about you, honey.  At least not anymore.  I turned away and let my husband talk to Joe.  I simply don't understand why she didn't take my cue, hand me her card and chirp that sounds great, call me!  It's really that easy to make a potential customer happy.  Screw the protocol and hierarchy and the obvious wanting to be my Chevrolet dealer.  I'm not stupid.

Joe's a good guy.  He's their Senior Salesman.  No, that does not mean he's been there the longest, it means Hey, Joe!  Two old farts are fondling the subcompacts!  Get out there!  

That would be us.

Joe sat down at his computer and pulled up a page that looked suspiciously like the one I had been studying at home ever since it appeared online.  Perhaps he has access to some magic links, but no---I could have answered all my questions myself in my usual self-defeating manner.

No, only the black pit of death interior is available with that color. 

Have you noticed how the auto industry now abhors color?  Their lots and our streets are a sea of white, foaming with silver and shaded by black.  Throw in a few colors that even a two year old leaves in the Crayola box.  Gastric green, anyone?  Why has every subcompact made in the last five years been available in Gastric Green?  Can I order a car in primer and have it painted Mary Kay Pink?

No.

So we made concessions.  The black pit of death interior is okay, even if it climbs to 110 here in the summer.  That color is too dark, but at least its not a primary color.  It became as simple as wanting a fully equipped 2LT in that color with a manual transmission.

The Kalamata Kiss of Death

You want a 2LT with a manual transmission in that color?!

Um, yes. Is that a problem?

Well, dealers don't like 2LTs with manual transmissions---they don't move off the lot fast enough, so very few are delivered.  Our color of choice was not alluded to directly, but it was obviously the kiss of death:  It's the only color suggestive of a Chevrolady, and Chevroladies don't shift. 

So we had to Special Order, and the only person that does special orders is---Jane.

I could not refrain from smiling like a Cheshire cat as we sat at Jane's desk, but apparently she saw no irony in the situation.  It was just business, quickly done.  Sadly, any sense of progress ended when we asked for an estimated time of arrival.

You see, the Special Order is magically sent to Never-Never Land, where---in due time---it's made by oompa loompas and then transported over a vast ocean on a giant lily pad propelled solely by Mr. Toad. 

And that takes...?

"Two to four months," Jane replied.  "But don't worry, once your car arrives in Fremont, it'll get here in no time.  Our transport driver does his best for me because I give him bottles of wine."

Meanwhile, she could have the decency to supply me with a case or two....