By Jim Belshaw
Of the Journal
Eight years ago, I offered a theory to Liz, though on the whole, I'm not a practicing theoretician.
For instance, theoretically, the Chicago Cubs have a chance of winning the World Series every year.
But when you put the theory into practice ...
Anyway, here is the theory I offered to Liz eight years ago: If you buy the red convertible right in front of us as we speak, I guarantee that no matter how crummy a day you have at work, it will get better if you can you put the top down on the way home.
Liz said, "Will people think I'm having a mid-life crisis?"
I tell her the only people who would think such a thing are the ones who wish they were in the red convertible with the top down when she drives by.
Happy to say, the theory proved correct in practice, unlike so many of my other theories. (I've never complained about having to go to the airport two hours early because I always hold out the hope that if we get there early, maybe the plane will leave early. It's only a theory.)
Eight years and 100,000 convertible miles later, we thought it might be time for a new car.
I have no theories on buying a car. I admit up front that I don't understand how it works, except that it can make a root canal look like a week in Tahiti.
We had two cars in mind, the dealerships strung out along a few miles or so of the same street, as they tend to be now.
Let's call them Dealership Right and Dealership Wrong, admittedly subjective notions on my part, but I've already said I don't understand car sales.
At Dealership Right, we tell the salesman what we want. He has three and takes us to them. We talk about what a fine car it is and we drive it.
We spend about an hour with him and truth be told, I kind of hated to leave. I enjoyed talking cars with the salesman. He was relaxed, friendly and helpful. Not even close to a root canal.
But we had another car to look at.
At Dealership Wrong, we tell the salesman what we want to look at.
He does not take us to the car.
Instead, he leads us to the dreaded "cubicle," where he produces a form— name, address, phone, how much do you want to spend, finance or cash, trade in first-born child or just the one you don't like.
I like this salesman, too. I have a feeling all that form business in the dreaded cubicle is his boss' idea, not his, a kind of car sales rendition.
Eventually, we drive the car. With the test drive done, we tell the salesman we are very early in the process. We have just begun to look at cars and it will be a while before we make a decision.
The next day, my cell phone rings. It is a research firm from out of state working with Dealership Wrong. Something about a survey. I decline.
Nice woman says she'll take my name off the list.
The day after that, my cell phone rings. It's the research company again. I decline. Nice (different) woman says she'll take my name off the list.
An hour later, my cell phone rings. It's the salesman from Dealership Wrong. He wants to know if we've decided when we'll be buying the car.
I don't understand the car sales game.
Then there's this: Liz liked the car at Dealership Right— but she really liked the car at Dealership Wrong.
So we need to work ourselves off the horns of that dilemma.
But she still has her 8-year-old red convertible, and I have a theory about it.
No matter how crummy the day has been, it gets better if you can put the top down on the way home. Guaranteed.
Write to Jim Belshaw at The Albuquerque Journal, P.O. Drawer J, Albuquerque, NM 87103; telephone— 823-3930; e-mail— jbelshaw@abqjournal.com.
belshaw 
...go to bookmarks
E-mail Story
Print Friendly
Send E-mail
Reprint story
