Parking New Car as Tough as Buying It

The new car is two weeks old today. And I’m finally recovering from the trauma that accompanied its acquisition.

It’s not the staggering high price . . . although it does cost more than the house I grew up in.

And it’s not just the new car jitters, though I am weary from inspecting the kids every time they climb in--lest they sneak in with a wad of gum or mud-covered shoes--and cruising parking lots in search of empty, extra-wide spaces.

It’s the whole grueling process of getting this new car--a smarmy salesman, being herded around giant lots in the broiling sun, the nickel-and-diming of negotiations that seemed to drag on forever.

It’s taken awhile to put all that behind me, to stop hearing in my head the phrase “What would it take for us to make a deal?”

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I know it’s hopeless, silly even, to wish buying a car could be simpler, more straightforward . . . like buying a piece of furniture.

You walk into the car dealership, there’s a price tag on the automobile. You test drive it, like it, pay for it and take it home.

Instead, car buying is more like purchasing a house. You make an offer; they make a counteroffer. You say you want a sunroof; they steer you toward the leather seats. You dicker over price, then options, then terms, then warranties.

If you’re lucky and actually consummate a deal, you walk out in a daze, consigned to a string of payments that seems to stretch toward infinity. If it weren’t for that mesmerizing new-car smell, the whole process would be almost unbearable.

Some people, I suppose, do well under the system and consider haggling an art form. But I’m not one of them.

I tend to buy from the heart, and that’s often bad for the wallet.

I remember our last big car purchase, eight years ago. We spent more than we had planned--probably more than we had had to--because the saleswoman seemed so nice.

She was, she confided, on her way out. She hadn’t been much good at selling cars. Her numbers were bad, and she’d probably be fired if she didn’t make this sale. I think I saw tears.

We signed on the spot.

Three years later we went back, and there she was, still. I guess her numbers went up.

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This time around I took my friend Ray along to help me with the hardball negotiations.

He asked the questions about money factors and residual values, tire ratings and engine size. I picked the color and stereo system.

We visited four dealers in two days--two long, dawn-to-dusk days--and settled into a kind of good cop/bad cop routine that ended only when he was satisfied we’d made a good deal, and I was convinced I’d found the car of my dreams.

It’s not a car really . . . it’s a vehicle. A sport utility vehicle, with the emphasis on utility. Not a lot of bells and whistles, but a couple of luxuries that count--like a sturdy running board, which allows a middle-aged woman to climb into the vehicle with ease. And back-seat stereo controls that put an almost-teenage daughter in command of the tunes.

There’s just one thing wrong with the new car--a problem we didn’t discover until the night we drove it home. . . . And found it a tad too tall to fit into the garage.

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That, of course, led to another round with another set of salesmen--the guys who sell garage doors.

Turns out our old-fashioned garage--built before the days of monster sport-utes--had a door that hung down so far when it was raised, it left the opening too small to accommodate anything larger than a standard station wagon.

I say “had” because I now have a new door . . . one that cost the equivalent of about three payments on the new car.

I dealt with three salesmen in a week of comparison shopping, and ultimately went not with the cheapest, but with the company that kept it simplest--no different prices for different window styles, no pressure to add high-priced insulation, no financing options or installation plans.

Just a set of doors, installed two days after I ordered them. In exchange, a check, for the full price quoted the first time they came out.

How’s that for the bottom line?

* Sandy Banks’ column is published Mondays and Fridays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.