I Prefer to Call it Auto Fatigue

Helping youngest son search for a car to purchase has taken me back a number of years when I discovered why people finance their new cars on a five-year loan--it takes that long to recover from the battle fatigue, or as I call it auto fatigue.

It was in March of 1991. I was in the market for a truck but couldn't find what I wanted locally. I called an out-of-town dealership (about 40 miles away) and explicitly told the salesman what I had in mind, the monthly payments I could afford, and how much money I could scrape up for a down payment.

"Oh yeah," the man assured me, "we've got a truck here that just fits the bill. Its price is right in the ballpark, and it's even the color you prefer. Come on down and we'll work out a swee-eet deal!" (I've since learned that at sales school the instructors make the students repeat those expressions convincingly 100 times each morning or they get thumb screws clamped on until they do.)

I called ex-wife at her work with the urgency of a man pleading for his life to let her know she needed to get home as soon as possible so we could get to the dealership and buy our new truck before they closed.

As we rushed through the main doors of the dealership, a plump, balding middle-aged man, rubbing his sweaty palms together and smacking his lips, was eagerly awaiting our arrival.

"How do?" he welcomed us as he extended a hand.

"Nice to meet you, " I responded. "Say those are a couple of nasty looking thumbs you've got that there."

Well, the salesman I chatted with on the phone was right. The truck he had waiting for us was exactly what we were looking for. . .and a little more.

The truck handled beautifully. But something curious happened between the time we took it for a test drive and returned to the dealership; the price of the truck shot up $2,000.00! I didn't know inflation worked that fast.

Luring us into the interrogation room with the aroma of freshly baked doughnuts and hot chocolate, the salesman and a cohort locked the door behind them. When we refused to accept their inflated price of the truck, they began the process of trying to break the iron will of their prey.

They started with the "dark room and the bright light in the captives' eyes" routine. Ha! Who did they think they were dealing with anyway?

When that failed, they tried the "nice cop-mean cop" act. We didn't succumb to that either.

Next, came the gig of holding the customers' children hostage. Five minutes of that and they were trying to pay us to take them back.

As a last resort, the two salesmen used reverse psychology. Trying to make us think we'd broken their spirits, they asked, "What would it take to send you home in that new truck?"

"Sell it to us at the price you originally quoted us," was our response. Boy, did that fall on deaf ears.

When we'd finally had enough, I said the one thing all car salesmen dread. I mean, it's like having a stake driven through their hearts. They'd rather be boiled alive in hot oil, for they know it's the death nail of a sale to hear, "Well, we'll have to go home and recheck our budget to see if we can possibly squeeze out the higher payments."

As it turned out, after three hours of intense interrogation, we finally convinced our captors they'd have an easier time breaking down Mount Everest with a sledge hammer than getting us to sign on the dotted line without first going over our finances again.

For a long while after this experience I suffered from battle fatigue. Every time a salesman came near me I'd get an erratic heartbeat, I'd begin to stammer when speaking, and I'd foam at the mouth.

After years of intense therapy, though, I made a full recovery. So, while on this quest with youngest son to find a vehicle for him, when the flashbacks and symptoms of post traumatic syndrome rear their ugly heads, I only hope he'll visit me regularly after I'm put in one of those funny jackets and hauled away by the nice men dressed in white.