by Tammy Lenski
A
few weeks ago, my husband Rod bought a new car. I think it’s fair to
say he doesn’t much enjoy the prospect of negotiating the purchase
price and so he tends to drive a car for a very long time before he
feels ready to go through the process again. I, on the other hand,
relish a chance at negotiation, and so I’ve had to work hard to keep my
nose out of his planning, pondering and bargaining. We tend to buy our
own cars, solo, partly due to very different negotiating styles and
partly due to a chance for some independent decision making in the
midst of a lot of marital collaborating.
And I did stay out of it. Almost.
In
the end, Rod was torn between two cars of the same make and model, but
different trim lines. He was ready to make the purchase and finalize
the negotiation, and asked if I’d visit the dealer with him to give my
input as to which of the two vehicles I liked best. So, we drove over,
walked around and talked a bit, and my husband decided which car to
buy. I wandered out of earshot while he finalized the deal with the
salesman, or as his card indicated, the Purchase and Sales Consultant.
I wanted to linger close by but resisted temptation yet again.
I noticed the handshake and walked back over. Rod was just being
directed to the money guy’s office, where he’d finish the purchase
paperwork and hand over the check. He invited me along. The friendly
finance guy walked through the purchase form in detail, and as he got
to the bottom of the page, he reached a line that, instead of being
blank for him to fill in, was already pre-printed in bold red ink. I
can’t recall the line’s description clearly, but it was for something
vague like “Title and Registration Facilitation” and the amount was
around $125.
Now,
my husband, smart man that he is, had just finished negotiating a deal
where he required information up front about all the various fees so
that he could negotiate a deal based on complete information and
without the risk of a fee popping up later, unanticipated. And this is
one figure he hadn’t been told about. Pleasantly, he mentioned that
fact. Rod is unfailingly pleasant in moments like this—I envy his
ability to do that so consistently.
The money guy replied that
he was sorry this figure hadn’t been shared, but it’s a standard fee
and he was sure my husband would understand.
I kicked my husband
under the table, because alarm bells were going off. I couldn’t stop
myself. My ability to stay out of it had just come to an end. It was
the bold red ink that did it. If that fee really wasn’t negotiable, I
wondered, why bother to work so hard to convince me of that fact by
putting it in bold red?
What’s the fee for, exactly, Rod asked
nicely. The money guy gave a rather vague response, something about it
being standard (there was that word again) for them and other dealers
to charge a fee for facilitating the registration and title. Huh?
Oh, I said, there’s some service you’re providing in return for that fee?
Well, the money guy said, we will sometimes supply a runner to DMV in certain circumstances.
And
whatever those circumstances, they don’t apply here, right? I asked,
sweetly. I’m sure it wasn’t as sweetly as Rod would have asked, but I
was starting to feel both triumphant and annoyed at the same time. Bold
red ink, my foot. I said, This is really an optional fee then?
Yes, sighed the money guy, I suppose you could put it that way. It’s an optional fee.
I
turned to my husband. I don’t imagine you want that option, do you? Rod
turned to the money guy. No, I can’t see any reason I’d pay for that
particular optional service I don’t need.
And he didn’t. We made
a good tag-team that day and Rod didn’t mind the kick under the table,
as it turns out. He could have done it without me, but knew I couldn’t
stop myself. He’s enjoying his new car and I’m very glad the old
vehicle, which was practically duct-taped together, has gone to auto
heaven.
In every negotiation you’ve got to ask, maybe even ask again, to make sure that the “non-negotiable” items really aren’t.