Now that I have lived here a year, I think maybe it’s time to get a car.
I’ve been driving a borrowed car since I moved here from New York City. My thinking was that someone else’s vehicle could suffer the casualties as I familiarized myself with driving again and committed such heinous errors as driving for half an hour before realizing I still had the parking brake on. Now that I have progressed in my driving skills to the point that I can get from home to the grocery store without inciting a mob riot, I think I am ready for my own set of wheels.
I was looking forward to haggling with a car salesman. I had this vision of his cowering under the intensity of my intimidating New Yorker ways. Maybe I would even make him cry a little bit. And then he would sell me a car at slightly below cost – not so much that I would feel like I was taking unfair advantage – and I would swagger on home, keys in hand. It would be hard to swagger while driving, but I would manage it.
What happened was a little different. Despite my five-year-old-like insistence that I can DO IT MYSELF, I finally recognized that it would be wise to bring my boyfriend along to assist in negotiations. Not only did he insist that he knows a lot more about this than I do, but he pointed out that buying a car is the highlight of the male existence and to deprive him of this opportunity would be akin to shooting his dog and stringing it from the tree in the front yard.
An interesting thing happened to both of us as we climbed out of the car and our feet hit the pavement of the car lot. I suddenly felt about six inches shorter and completely out of my element. I was afraid if a car salesman tried to sell me a car without an engine, by way of explaining the lower gas mileage, I would just nod my head vigorously. Whereas Tom, in a birdlike movement reminiscent of a male peacock, actually puffed out his chest and, I believe, although I cannot be certain, growled a little as the salesman approached.
At that point buying the car became less interesting than watching the Testosterone Negotiation Dance that ensued. The men circled each other, bucking their heads forward and back, squinting their eyes, and showing their teeth in an attempt to put their prey at ease. It is rare, in the wild – perhaps nonexistent except on a car lot – for two species each to consider himself the hunter rather than the hunted. They performed ritualistic gestures such as kicking tires, slamming hoods, and emitting hearty, low-pitched chuckles to falsely portray a sense of total ease in an effort to throw the other one off his scent.
Occasionally one would make a sudden, head-butt-like move in the form of a no-nonsense phrase like, “Look, I know State Rapid Redux Exhaust Ejector Tax is complete horseshit.” Then an exchange of rapid-fire pleasantries accompanied with more intense chuckling and bearing of the teeth to show no ill-will meant. “Har har har, well, we put that on there because we have to but har har har of course we can wipe that off the ticket for you har har har. By the way, if you want a steering wheel that will be extra! Har har har.”
As the haggling continued, and both men started to turn red and snarl audibly, I realized that they were enjoying themselves, the way they might enjoy lifting weights heavy enough to crush a house or their own windpipe. It makes sense that, as much as I’d like to be completely independent and take care of everything myself, as a woman I do not naturally adapt to this type of transaction. It is a slow painful torture for me with no reward; whereas for men it is an opportunity to demonstrate wit and prowess by calling each other’s bluff and showing they can withstand the torture longer than their opponent.
But they both recognized that I was the key decision maker where it counted, without my having to say a word. For instance, they swiveled their heads a little anxiously in my direction and there was a tense pause in negotiations until I declared, in the tone of voice of a woman who knows she’s got the right answer on this one and nobody could convince her otherwise, that I wanted the car to be silver.
We all strutted home that day, because we all thought we got the better deal. Who knows what really happened, but now I’ve got a brand new car with which to torture the Huntsville driving population. So you better watch out for me in my... um… well, I can’t remember what kind of car it is, but it’s silver.
