I’m thinking maybe I’ll buy a new car. Not that there’s anything wrong with my current car, a stick-shift no-frills Dodge Neon that I’ve kept in pristine condition. I suppose purists would point out that it’s almost six years old, probably depreciated considerably, and hardly in the running anymore for Car of the Year. Maybe it never was.
But the purists don’t know me. I don’t see a car as a status symbol; it’s merely transportation. With that in mind, I have owned a Pacer, which hasn’t been manufactured in ages; then a cardboard Chevette, which may or may not have also disappeared; followed by a Volkswagen Golf that died on the Kennedy Expressway; and then — just before the Neon — a Saturn. All of these cars lived in my garage at least eight years apiece. So buying a new car when my Neon is only six years old suggests a new approach.
Today Earl and I visited a Toyota dealership where Blake met us on the blacktop as soon as we’d alighted from my Neon. It must have been his turn to greet customers. He didn’t know what he was in for. I’m not very good at negotiating deals, but I am the Woman of a Thousand Questions. I tested the first hundred or so on Blake this afternoon. He had the answers. Additionally, I have peculiar needs when it comes to cars. I want stick shift, I like certain colors for the exterior, I prefer a CD changer that only has one CD in it, I love sunroofs, I want good mileage . . . and — because I’m short — I have to see over the steering wheel. I guess this last criterion really should be first.
I don’t care about heated leather seats, the color of the interior, mudflaps, the spoiler on the rear, or the brand of tire as long as there’s at least four of them.
Blake, Earl, and I spent an informative hour together as I sat in various cars and asked my questions. What is the gas mileage? Does the car have front-wheel or four-wheel drive? Is it compatible with Sirius radio? Or my iPod? Do you negotiate?
When all was said and done, Blake didn’t have a stick-shift model on his lot; but he promised to get me one and call so I could do a test drive. So it remains to be seen if my trusty Neon will leave my garage before the eight-year parole. Given Blake’s attentiveness without pushiness, I’m betting it’s possible. More to come.
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