How to Buy a Used Car
At the used car lot, you gotta let your lizard brain off leash, forget your excellent consent skills. At the used car lot, it's eat or be eaten.
Last summer, my 19-year-old daughter worked her ass off to buy my old car.
She worked six days a week, picked up extra shifts, never called off. Fast forward three months, the car has catastrophic engine failure, no fault of hers. I intended to provide her a safe vehicle but I'd sold her a lemon.
I believe in the power of a do-over. It's within my means to give a refund and proffer my credit score as a co-signer on a different car.
Her diligence impresses me. Hours spent in research, blue book values, safety ratings. A three-day dive into subreddits.
A make and model prevails, and the hunt begins. She scours the internet. Makes countless calls to faceless owners, emails, even sends Facebook messages, which, for Gen Z, is akin to deliberating catching an STI.
Finally, in Tennessee, an hour from home, the right car appears. Friday afternoon finds us driving over the mountain discussing her haggling strategy: don't reveal her ideal budget or the loan rate she has already secured. Expect many rounds of back-and-forth sprinkled with bald-faced lying. She's done the math: she knows the amount she will pay per month and the number of months she will pay.
Butch, the silver-haired cigarette-smoking Vietnam Vet, meets us at the entrance of Johnson City Nissan. He copies her license, takes us out on the road, regales us with war stories.
Test drive complete, we head to an offsite mechanic. They pronounce it good, suggest a price.
Butch waits for our return in his cubicle; faux-wood wainscoting meeting faded bamboo motif wallpaper halfway up. When he shifts, his chair creaks like a mouse caught in a trap. We perch on tarnished metal chairs that were chrome in the 80s, their cloth an indeterminate maroon.
She knows they will present a sales sheet with inflated numbers. Butch does not disappoint. He non-ironically lays it down on top of the laminated sign that says they are a no-haggle dealer. The sign's twin hangs on the wall, reiterating the lie: they won't budge on the price. She snaps a picture of the sales sheet, since they always take them away, and we need evidence to track changes.
The first round, Butch refuses to discount. They are already selling this car below wholesale. The Doc fee is non-negotiable. Etc.
Next round: We lowball them. They barely drop the price.
We fall into a rhythm: Butch delivers the latest sheet. She snaps it. We ask for time alone in the cubicle to discuss. Really, we know our strategy, so we spend the time looking at our phones. Making them wait is important.
Round five, she disputes the $568 charge for "protective clear coat." He has already told us they apply this to every car they get in. It's invisible. He looks her right in the eye and explains again it is non-negotiable, a hint of anger in his voice.
She makes a new offer. Butch needs to speak with his manager.
Erik, the manager, puts the new sheet on the desk. The clear coat charge is gone. Did they remove the clear coat from the car? She tactically does not ask.
Once she gets a taste for the game, she plays to win. What else is negotiable?
Crossing out their number, she writes hers directly on the sheet. Her marks are bold black ink, leave deep impressions in the paper.
Butch returns. The man-tears begin anew. They are already losing money on this deal. They will get in trouble with their big boss. Clicks his pen, drums his fingers.
Erik comes. He has to make a call.
Round 9, she hits the actual end of what they will do. The fluff is gone. They've come down 20%. She is ready to sign.
Later, she tells me she heard a voice telling her this wasn't the right car, but she ignored it.
Five miles out of the lot, my cell rings. "There's something wrong with my car!" her voice is shaking. We pull over; the fog and the dark make it feel remote. I drive her car: it's unsafe. We abandon the car in a gas station and drive home defeated. Tennessee has no protection for car buyers, no cooling off period. Her bitter sobs fill the truck's cab.
I give her the advice my mother repeatedly gave me: things always look brighter in the morning.
8 AM, she is up and ready to go back to Tennessee. She says, "You were right; I feel better." She wears her confidence and fierceness through the return of the bad car and negotiates release from the loan.
But she still needs a car.
Over the next few days, she rethinks her priorities. A newer, more expensive car would be better. I agree.
We look at many cars. Finally, she finds one. Tyler, the 18-year-old salesman, seems easier to deal with than Butch. But Tyler takes more risks than a more seasoned salesperson.
He underestimates who she is as a negotiator.
Far too early in the process he says, "Well, I guess we can't help you," and reaches his hand across the desk. She shakes it. We walk out.
Halfway to my truck, here comes Tyler, running through the winter rain with no coat. "Wait, just wait. Let me get something for you," he pleads. We stand in the rain, unwilling to give up ground.
He returns, his manager in tow.
"Why are you leaving?" Manager Greg asks. My daughter looks him in the eye. "You are completely unwilling to negotiate." Greg looks surprised. Tyler hangs his head, flushing bright red.
"Come on back in, and I'll see what I can do," promises Greg.
She negotiates the price she wants with Greg. She gets him to throw in new floor mats and a warranty. She drives her new car off the lot.
Later, she tells me how powerful it felt to walk away, especially when Tyler came running after.
This, this is the lesson I wanted for her: you can walk away from anything, at any time.
You always have the power of two feet.
Did you enjoy this post? The best way to say thanks is to share it! I’ll love you forever.
Your child is a super bad-ass. I didn't develop used car buying skills until my mid 30's and my third vehicle. And even now I don't know I have *those* kind of chops.
Buying a car shouldn’t feel like this. But she’s got major life skills.