Who wants to shop for car?

I want a new car. I don't need a new car. There's a big difference.

I still have my beloved Audi S5. And I still get goosebumps driving it. Especially in Sport Mode, where I can hear the 330 supercharged horsepower respond to the stomp of my right foot. If only everything else in life did the same?

"Girls, can you do your dishes?"

"Lawyers, can you just give me straightforward answer?"

"Representative...Representative...Representative..."

I have my eye on the new Mustang Crossover. Not only for its good looks and faux utilitarian purposes, but because it's all electric. Meaning on my now frequent visits to Palm Springs, I can fire up some jigawatts and slide into the far left lane with the other privileged traffic-avoiding drivers.

And so I sallied down to my local Ford dealership. I had been putting it off because frankly there's little I dread more than going toe-to-toe with a car salesman or saleswoman. 

Somehow Detroit, as well as the importers, have managed to suck dry what should be one of the most pleasant purchases and experiences and reduced it to a root canal without the benefit of any rich Corinthian novocaine.

Nevertheless, I've been seeing so many of these Mustangs on the road I needed to see if it fit my bill. Again, I don't need the car, I just want one. 

On the lot, I met a very pleasant Hispanic woman, let's call her Maria, because that's what her mother calls her. She showed me several trim levels. 

"Is this vinyl seating," I asked.

"Vegan leather," she responded.

OK, we're not off to a good start.

Then Maria took me on a very abbreviated test drive, where I was on the lookout for the regenerative braking phenomena my neighbor told me about. Minutes later, she offered to work up some numbers for me for my perusal.

While she was going to the printer, I thought this was unusually pleasant. She was very soft spoken. Didn't pressure me at all. In short she was what every car dealer should be. Perhaps that's why she was Airport Marina's Salesperson of the year, two years running. 

According to the cheap plastic plaques in her cubicle.

I submitted myself to a credit check (mistake) and reiterated to her that I was NOT making a deal today. I was simply looking. Putting my ass in the seat and seeing how it felt. When she returned with my credit rating (749) she also brought back a very tall, bald man who had spent considerable time in the gym. Or in Serbia. Both will toughen you up.

Maria stepped away and then this imposing 6' 4" bald man, Alexia or Vlad, started showing me what he could offer. I told him not to get too far out over his homemade skis and that I wasn't looking to sign a deal.

That was countered by a string of car dealer cliches that still has me laughing.

"What if I reduce the drive off fee to zero and bump the monthly payment up $60?"

In other words the drive off fee is just pure profit for you?

"Come on, you like the car, you like the way it drives. What's it gonna take to get you in this vehicle today?"

It's gonna take you getting some mouthwash and stop invading my personal space.

"I'm just trying to help you help me."

What makes you think I want to help you?

"This deal I'm offering may not be available to you tomorrow."

I'll take my chances.

With that, I got tired of his strong-arming and began walking out.

He made one last ploy.

"Ok, Zero down and less than $500 a month lease payment."

 I got in my car. Savored his desperation. And now know where to start negotiations with the next Ford dealer should the want for the Mustang becomes a need.