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In the corner was a large glassed-in office with a high
counter in front of a raised platform. The salesmen in this room looked older,
better dressed and had an air of power and authority. They sat behind computers
and also seemed to be eyeing the salesmen out on the lot.
Looking down at the application, it blurred in front of my eyes. Could I really
do this? Could I really become a — a car salesman? Me, a law abiding middle-aged
American. A — gasp — college graduate (well, barely). A writer. As I saw it, I would sit in the
comfort of an office and, from this lofty perch, dispense advice on how to buy
and sell cars. I would work at two dealerships. The first would be a high-volume, high-pressure
store. Then I could quit and go to a no-haggle dealership. I could tell them
I didn't like the pressure at the first place and I'd probably get a job on
the spot."
I would live
the life of a car salesman for three months. That would give me an insight and
perspective that couldn't be gained by reading books or articles or interviewing
former car salesmen.
A friend of mine used to have an office surrounded by car lots. He would eat
lunch with car salesmen and listen to them brag about the tricks they used to
move cars. Occasionally, another man would join them, a guy they called
"Speedometer Shorty." He would go from one car lot to another winding the
odometers back to show fewer miles.
That weekend I went to the store and bought three new white shirts and a pair of
black shoes with soft soles. I figured I'd be on my feet a lot. Monday morning I
put together a resume. How should I present myself? Why would someone hire me to
sell cars? I thought back to what my editor said, "Just tell them you want to
make a lot of money." Good advice. But I needed more than that. There would be
questions about who I was. Where I had worked. Requests for references maybe.
I decided that I would look over my recent past and select those things that
could be viewed as being sales related. In other words, I wanted to avoid lying.
For the previous three years I'd written video proposals for training films. A
proposal is a form of selling — right? Maybe that would work. I called my friend
and asked him to back me up in case the dealership called him. No problem, he
said. I had also sold sporting goods at one time. And I had written proposals
for grants for another company. I was beginning to see a biography that might
work.
Monday morning rolled around and I realized that the time had arrived. It was
time to get a job as a car salesman. I drove to an auto mall near my house.
Acres of shining cars stretched out in front of me. One dealership had a large
banner reading, "We're growing! Now hiring! Apply within."
That was when I pulled in and got the application.
"I understand you want to sell cars." The voice brought me back to the present.
I looked up from the application. A man stood there smiling at me. He had
carefully cut black hair. He wore a white shirt and a silk tie. As he extended
his hand to shake, light flashed off a gold Rolex.
"I'm Dave. When you're done filling that out have me paged and we'll talk."
He smiled again, evaluating me. Then he disappeared.
Nice guy, I thought. Maybe this won't be so bad. I was about to begin work on
the application when I looked around. I glanced toward the glassed-in office in
the corner of the building. The one with the raised platform and the senior
sales guys watching over the car lot. Dave was in there speaking to several of
the older men in white shirts and ties. They all turned and looked at me.
It was too late to turn back now. I bent over the application and began writing.
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