By Baker S. Field
To the outside world, every car salesman is a snake-oil peddler—the butt of endless jokes, the personification of all that is slick and sleazy. When you call a politician a “used-car salesman,” you’re not paying him a compliment. You’re saying he’s a crook. You’re saying that, if he’s selling it, it can’t be worth buying.
Most people get jumpy the minute they pull onto the lot and see a car marked “actual miles.” What does that say about the mileage listed on the other cars? And what’s so great about a car that’s had a “local owner”? Think about it the next time you watch as a car with Davidson County tags plows through a red light.
My name is Baker. I am a car salesman.
Or at least I was—at 12 different dealerships, from Hendersonville to Hickory Hollow, from Rivergate to Bellevue—even on Gallatin Road’s dealer-saturated “Miracle Mile,” where backyards echo with car-lot loudspeakers. You name it, I sold it: Oldsmobiles, Pontiacs, Nissans, Jeeps, Eagles, Isuzus, Volkswagens, Chryslers, Mitsubishis, Hyundais, Fords, Mazdas, Audis, Hondas, Chevrolets, and Suzukis. Not to mention countless used vehicles.
I sold cars for nearly three years. These days in the auto sales business, six months makes you a veteran.
I worked with plenty of dealerships that advertised themselves as being different from the rest, a place where customers are treated fairly and everybody is easy to deal with. Obviously, those dealerships’ ad agencies had never met their sales departments. The car dealership is a world unto itself—a world where the relationships between customer and salesperson, and salesperson and management, really are based on mutual antagonism, aggression, and distrust.
You see it in every facet of dealership culture. The law of the showroom is the law of the jungle. If you don’t tear off enough heads, sooner or later, you get thrown under the bus.
The car lot has its own language, lore, and legends. For example, the bane of the salesperson’s existence is the “be back,” the shopper who says he’ll think it over and be back. Statistics show that a be-back customer is most often a lost customer, a sign of the salesperson’s failure.
That’s why, from the minute you stroll into the demilitarized zone of the showroom, you are the focus of a careful battle plan. Somewhere, usually in the elevated area known as the “tower,” a sales manager is watching your every move. Outside, packs of well-groomed sales vultures are waiting to ambush. Their war cry is relentless: “Buy or die.”
Usually, the salespeople bunch together, waiting for the next “up”—the next prospective customer. There are different kinds of ups: There’s the “phone up” (a phone customer), the “floor up” (a customer who’s actually in the showroom), and the “lot up.” The best up is a “citizen,” a customer with an unblemished credit portfolio. All the stops are pulled out when it comes time to close on this one. If the stars align properly, though, every salesman occasionally gets the real dream customer, a “laydown”—a buyer who offers little or no resistance and pays full sticker price.
At the opposite extreme, a “bogue”—a prospect with a wretched credit rating—is absolute scum. According to one Gallatin Road dealer, a bogue’s chances of buying a car are virtually nil: “He’d have a better chance playing Pick-Up Sticks with his butt cheeks.” Salespeople have absolutely no compassion for bogues. But it’s hard to know if the next customer is a dud, reeking of “bogue-osity.”
So when the next up arrives, the swiftest or the most ambitious salesperson heads straight in for the kill, offering an enthusiastic greeting, complete with a firm handshake. If the salesperson fouls up after that, he might as well expect a “T.O.”—a turnover of the customer to another salesperson. Whenever I’d get T.O.’d, a nice young man—a salesperson like myself—would suddenly materialize at my side. He’d introduce himself as a manager, and then he’d roll up his sleeves. If you’re a salesman who’s been turned over, your duty is to trail along and keep your mouth shut.
T.O.’s are legitimate. On the other hand, stealing another person’s customer, or “skating,” is anathema. If a customer asks for you, he’s your customer, even if you’re not available. If time is of the essence, another salesperson may be permitted to step into the breach. If he makes a sale to your customer, the two of you split the commission. Skating may be frowned upon, but it still happens, thanks to an unwritten dictum: “When you’re not selling, all the rules apply; when you are selling, none of the rules apply.” In other words, management likes salespeople who make money. If an aggressive, high-grossing backstabber steps on a non-earner, management may be willing to look the other way.
Salespersons are an odd breed. A lot of them don’t even own their own cars, and some car salesmen don’t even have driver’s licenses.
Some dealerships like to flood the lot with “greenpeas,” energetic, highly expendable youngsters. After an intensive training period—usually two weeks—these foot soldiers are asked to compile a list of their high school chums, teachers, and neighbors—anybody who might buy a car from them. If, after a few weeks, a greenpea has only sold one car—probably to his mother—he’s history. Another fuzz-face in Rockports takes his place.
The joke about a local Ford dealership is that its sales staff is in constant turmoil: “Ten are selling, 10 are being fired, and 10 are being hired.” Predictably, the high pressure takes its toll. Car salesmen are notoriously heavy drinkers, and drug abuse is not uncommon. Management isn’t concerned. “If you’re not a little wild,” insists one former manager, “there’s something wrong with you.”
High sellers see themselves as outlaws, drunk on machismo. They consider the lot a man’s world. The women who make it in car sales are formidable indeed. They have to be, given the fact that they exist in a milieu where salesmen boast of “nailing” female customers.
I still remember the first really important thing I was told as a novice car salesman: A battle-hardened vet told me, “If a person has $500 down, and he wants to pay no more than $250 a month—and if he can do it—never let him have what he wants.”
No good salesman wants his job to look easy. He wants the customer to feel that the salesman has battled with management and come back with the best possible deal. The truth of the matter is, car dealers usually have some room to negotiate. The salesman’s job is to convince the customer that it’s the customer who’s gotten the good deal.
“Profit is not a dirty word,” sales managers proclaim in their daily pep talks. “Sears won’t knock $2 off the price of a shirt. Why should we?”
Some dealers post their own add-on stickers next to the manufacturer’s suggested retail price (MSRP). Glued to the side window, the add-on sticker looks official, what with its talk about “3M Protection,” “Undercoating,” and a “Protection Package.” But the cost of the add-on, a figure in the neighborhood of $600 to $1,200, is all profit. The new total typed in at the bottom of the addendum is known as a “Mop ’n’ Glow.” Just check out the other decals in the car window. A “3M/Scotchgard Protected” label will give you an idea of what your “extra protection” really means.
There are other ways to inch up the profit. A dealer might add a “pack” of, say, $300 to the cost of a used car. The pack may include $50 charges for cleanup and gasoline—even a donation to the Community Chest. “Doc fees”—charges for processing paperwork—are an even lamer excuse for bilking the customer. The dealer has to fill out the papers anyway, whether or not the customer pays the fees. Doc fees are illegal in many states—but not in Tennessee.
Even if the customer rejects the additional costs, he still gets taken. The price gets written up all the same. The sales manager simply rejects the customer’s rejection.
Don’t bother trying to outsmart a dealer by asking for the bottom line or the “cash price.” The dealer gets paid in cash for every sale; the money comes from the banks that finance the deals. If you ask, “What’s the bottom price?” salespeople simply assume you’re looking for a price you can shop around.
Each dealership has its own legend of the beet-faced guy in overalls, ignored by the entire sales force until he lucks upon a salesperson who’s willing to take the $20,000 stuffed inside his bib pocket. For the most part, though, selling cars is hard work, and it’s even harder to sell cars and come home with more than chump change.
Car salesmen figure that anyone who drives onto the lot is a buyer—except if the potential customer is a Eurasian. “I won’t walk away from [a Eurasian],” says one salesman, “but I don’t like to work them. They drive a hard bargain. Haggling is part of their culture.” Otherwise, car dealers try not to prejudge their customers on the evidence of appearance. Any sales manager will tell you: A lot full of bogues is always preferable to a lot with no browsers at all.
Nevertheless, all those in their little huddled groups of salespeople do make snap judgments:
“Oh, no, a Volvo. They’ll think it’s worth a mint.”
“Who wants the Yugo?”
“I’ve talked to this guy before. He’s hooked.”
And salespeople have one hard-and-fast rule about all customers: Customers always lie.
“Customers don’t know what they want,” says one longtime salesman. “How else can you explain someone telling me they want a two-door sports car for $250 a month, when I end up selling them a customized van at $425 a month?”
The selling process is designed to wear down the customer. If the salesperson is particularly skillful, the customer will never notice that all his objections have been ignored. The salesperson’s powers of persuasion usually prevail. After all, the customer is not a customer every day. The salesperson, on the other hand, sells cars all the time.
For the good salesman, control is everything. For instance, it’s the salesman—not the customer—who always drives the car off the lot for the test spin. That way, he gets to tell the customers to adjust their seats and fasten their seat belts. Whenever possible—especially if the car is a convertible with the top down—the salesperson makes sure to let the customer park in front of the showroom’s huge plate-glass window. From the beginning, it’s the salesman who’s giving the orders.
The salesman’s early objective is to learn as much about the buyer as possible. Where he works. How much he makes. Whether he’s looking for a second vehicle. (If he already owns one car, he might have a heavy debt load.) It’s all just more ammo in the salesman’s arsenal.
Once the customer is seated in the salesperson’s office, it’s a good time to make the offer of a soft drink. Getting the customer to say yes to anything is an important part of making the sale. Getting easy nods now will help the salesman get the tough nods later.
The salesman’s control of the situation must never ease up. Especially when the exit door is so near. If the customer discovers he’s left his checkbook at home, or if he offers a trade-in that is not on the premises, the salesperson must never let him get out of his sight. Nothing can be left to chance.
And successful dealerships never, never page customers; they don’t even take messages. It is possible that the call could be a family emergency, but it could also be another dealer calling to offer better terms. Why take the risk? If the house is on fire, it can wait until after all the necessary papers have been signed.
Even then, however, the salesperson is not home free. It’s a little-known legal technicality that, even after the papers are signed, the customer does not actually take ownership of the vehicle until he “crosses the curb”—that is, until he actually drives his new car off the lot.
“It ain’t a done deal,” the saying goes, “until it’s bustin’ bugs and burnin’ gas.”
When it comes time for the “write-up,” the buyer’s order and credit application go to the dealership’s sales desk, along with all his “tangibles,” such as credit cards, keys, driver license, and, under the best circumstances, some earnest money. Everything goes to the sales desk for a “first pencil,” and the tangibles help keep the customer from leaving if the dealing gets hot. At one dealership, legend has it, a customer’s wooden leg even made it to the sales desk.
If the customer’s paperwork is in order, the sales manager makes his offer quickly. He wants to give the illusion that he arrived at his figure almost without thinking. He writes his offer in large letters and numerals, and he uses a black felt marker. “Red can send the wrong signal,” one manager advised me. “Green might remind them of money. Black is the way to go.”
Now that the buyer’s order is marked, a smart salesperson displays nothing but pumped-up confidence. If the customer balks, and if the salesman hesitates, a T.O. can be in the making.
In my car-selling days, I made it a practice to put my offer in writing and place it on the desk in front of the customer. I’d say, “Look what I’ve got!” Then I’d sit back and wait. No matter how long it took—and it usually didn’t take long—I would placidly stare a hole through the customer’s soul. Finally, the customer would speak—loudly. “First pencils” have that kind of effect on people.
On a sheet of paper, I would write: “I will purchase this vehicle now for $9,000 difference.” Then I would convince the customer to initial this statement, as a show of good faith. With a solid offer to take to the sales office, I would head out the door, but not before making a Columbo-like back step and adding, “I’m going to work for you. We’re going to do business now for the figure you just agreed upon. Right?”
“Yes, and not $9,001, either.”
The customer was putty in my hands.
In the sales office, the sales manager would always explode. “What? Have they got any money down?” He would start shuffling through his yellow, black, and blue weekly trade books, checking out the going rate for the customer’s trade-in. Then he would test-drive the trade. During test drives, I’ve seen used-car managers jiggle the steering wheel or feign trouble shifting the gears. Sometimes I’ve seen them simply pat the fender and give an inscrutable, “Hmmm.” Maybe the manager would make a phone call to a wholesaler or dealer who specialized in vehicles like the trade-in. All the while, the strategy was to keep the customer from getting any idea of just how much profit was being engendered.
“Here!” the sales manager would say, scrawling a figure across a piece of paper, “take this back in there and get check or cash. Don’t come back without it.” This time the offer would read: “WE REALLY DO WANT YOUR BUSINESS! WITH $500 DOWN $12,750 DIFF.!” There would be a line for the customer’s signature. Forget about the $9,000 promise.
“Oh!” the manager would add as a last-minute instruction, “ask him what that noise is in the transmission when you back up!”
As a salesman, my next job was to go back to the customer and plant seeds of doubt about the trade-in’s actual worth. To make matters worse, I was expected to keep the customer excited about the new purchase. Salesmen know that emotions can always override economics.
Heading blindly back toward my office, I would find a husband and wife who had had ample time to grow firm in their convictions. I always knew that it was best to direct a great deal of attention toward the woman. Her husband might be doing all the talking, but she had probably voiced her opinions during my absence, and she was probably the one who would have the final say.
“Hey! I got the job done,” I would say as I breezed in. “Look at this!”
I could always be sure that they weren’t going to be impressed. Still, I’d let them mull over the offer. The selling game is a waiting game. The first to talk is the first to lose.
“That’s it?” the husband would ask calmly after a while. “That’s the best you could do?”
“It’s close to what you asked for. Do you want to write me a check?”
“Are you kidding? Our Honda’s in good shape. We don’t have to get rid of it. It’s paid for too.”
“We had our used-car manager take another look at it, and he put some more money in it. What’s that noise in the transmission when you put it in reverse?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing serious. Look, just bring us our keys and my driver’s license, and we’ll head on home. We still haven’t had supper.”
At moments like this, it was clearly time to “reaffirm.”
“You love the van! Right?”I would remind them. “What can I put on the table? Give me one more shot at my manager. He wants you to have the vehicle; I want you to own it. But we have bills to pay. We have to keep the lights on. It does us no good to see you drive away in your old Honda.”
Suddenly, we would be in collusion: “I’m extending my bounds here,” I would confide, “but will you split the difference with me? Maybe I can get the sales manager down to $11,125; $9000 is unreasonable—it’s no money out of your pocket. How about $11,125?”
“Nope. $10,500, and that’s it. Like I said, we haven’t had supper yet.”
“Initial that for me here. Sit tight and I’ll make a pitch for you.”
Flying away again, I could know that I’d done about all I could possibly do. I’d raised the customer’s first offer by $1,500. And it hadn’t been easy to do. Especially not with the hooting and hoo-rahing I’d been hearing through my office’s paper-thin walls. “I took his head right off,” some nimrod would be shouting in the next room, easily within the customer’s earshot.
The $10,500 offer would come as no surprise to the sales manager. One of his assistants had probably already been out there, lurking in the periphery and eavesdropping. “Good job,” he would say, looking up from the buyer’s order and eyeing me directly. Then he would turn to the floor manager stationed at his side. “Go in and raise them,” he would order. Then he would turn back to me: “Field,” he would direct, “go watch him and see how he does it.”
At least I could be content that the sales manager appreciated my effort. At least he was sending one of his assistants—not another salesman. At least I wouldn’t have to split the sale.
In the car business, it’s a truism that “sometimes all it takes to make the sale is a new face.” The floor manager could simply repeat my offer, and the customers would perk up, as if some magic, revelatory light had just been beamed their way. Congratulations would be exchanged, and there would be handshakes on all sides. The floor manager would have raised the customers by a mere $300.
After the floor manager returned to the business office to finish up the paperwork, the customers and I would settle down for a talk. The topic could be anything—baseball, politics, even religion. But never the deal. Once the deal is closed, it stays closed.
When the floor manager caught me in the hall, he would gloat, “See how I did that?”
Already, I knew how he did it. He knew what the dealership could sell the van for, and I didn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised, later, to learn that the van came with a $1,500 manufacturer-to-dealer rebate. In the final wash, it would come out as a flat deal—flat for me, not the dealer. Managers don’t mind shafting their salespeople, even though they’ve been salespeople themselves.
You never know who might actually buy a car. I once sold a used car in the $7,000 price range—$2,000 of it profit—to an 18-year-old girl with no job, no money down, and no credit history. She said she baby-sat a little at the apartment complex where she lived but could not substantiate the claim, and she didn’t pay taxes on her earnings. Her grandmother had raised her. When asked for a previous address, she listed her grandmother’s house.
“Could your grandmother co-sign for you, if necessary?” I asked carefully, knowing a co-signer would be necessary. I ended up calling the grandmother, and she offered to come in.
I took the paperwork to my sales manager in the tower. Surprisingly enough, he seemed interested.
“Let’s do it,” he said, his eyes taking on a maniacal gleam. “Redo the application. Use the grandmother’s address as her address. Extend her length of residence there, and use her address as her business address. Make up a daycare-service name and give her a salary. We’ll get some money down from the grandmother and use her to co-sign. We’ll get insurance through the grandmother.”
That’s just the way we did it. And when we sent it in, there was just one hitch. A copy of the driver’s license would have to be submitted, or any bank would balk. She didn’t have one. Had never had one. Worse, she couldn’t drive a stick shift, and that’s what she was buying. Still, we ended up delivering the car. The next day, I gave her a lesson in driving a stick. She failed her driver’s test that day—the day her deal was approved, pending a copy of her driver’s license. She wasted no time taking it again. This time, she passed. It was a done deal. Even the normally callous tower crew was impressed.
One of my favorite true-to-life car lot stories comes from a master salesman, one of the few who’ve made a lot of money working at just one dealership. He grossed nearly $50,000 in his first nine months, with no previous selling experience. This is how he made his fame:
“I sold one of my first cars to my brother, the only person I knew in Nashville,” the veteran salesman told me. “I knew the type of car he wanted, a used 1989 Pontiac Grand Prix. The trouble was, he knew how to read that red sticker on the front windshield.” The sticker presents the asking price for the car, albeit in code. On this particular car, the sticker read “8106009,” which translated to a 1989 model with an asking price of $10,600. Before his brother arrived, the salesman changed the number to 8116009.
“Hey, he was happy to get the $1,000 discount I gave him,” the salesman explained in self defense. “Besides, if you can’t make money off your friends and relatives, who can you make it from?”
Sales Manual — Off road rules from the car lot
Every successful salesperson is familiar with the venerable 10 Steps of auto sales. Nobody is sure just where they came from, but it’s certain that they’ve been around for decades. Even though they circulate in versions that vary slightly in terms of emphasis and order, they are respected at virtually every car dealership.
In their most basic form, here are the 10 steps any smart salesperson will use in order to close the deal:
1. Meet and greet. (Includes a test drive of the trade-in.)
2. Sell yourself and dealership.
3. Ask the questions that let you know whether the customer can actually qualify to buy a car.
4. Demo the car.
5. Convince the customer to commit to buy. Get the commitment in writing if possible.
6. Write up the deal.
7. Get a re-commitment from the customer.
8. Negotiate.
9. Close the deal.
10. Get referrals.
10. Get referrals.
