Talk to me, damn it!

Here’s something I’ve realized: car salesmen don’t give a shit about you unless you’re looking to buy a car.

It’s a kind of social tunnel vision, and I’ve been wrestling with it recently in an effort to shake off my reporting rust and test the waters of freelance journalism. I want to write a first-person inquiry regarding the popularity of full-sized trucks (e.g. Ford Super Duties) in Orange Country. It stems from personal curiosity: why the fuck do suburbanites drive huge, jacked up, chromed out, extended cab trucks? It makes no sense, especially with California’s gas prices and insurance premiums. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a combination of conservative ideals, Americana, and machismo, but I want to see what the people who sell and buy them have to say.

The trouble is, no one’s talking to me.

Of course, I haven’t approached that many people. I’m shy, so I want to overcome my social reserve in careful steps; I want to take my time and go easy at first. It’s been a long time since I called or walked up to potential sources — complete strangers who would somehow contribute to the articles I wrote — on a regular basis. In this time of beginning anew, I prefer the comforts of a pre-arranged interview in a safe environment, as opposed to approaching someone out of the blue in the wild. Frankly, I feel better interviewing car salesmen at dealerships than I do talking to the type of guys who generally, though not always, drive mini monster trucks, especially in Huntington Beach. They’re stereotypical SoCal belligerents: aggressive, egoistic, and loud-mouthed; they have a linebacker build, an unquenchable thirst for energy drinks, and a penchant for TapouT apparel. These douchebags are pretty intimidating to me — a mild-mannered, 180-pound, long-distance runner. They’ve targeted me for their sadistic games in the past, so they’re not the kind of people I want to interview. Though car salesmen are disagreeable in their own way, I wanted to talk to them first to gain a little confidence and dust off my interviewing skills.

Early last month I called Huntington Beach Ford, which sells more used Super Duties than any other Ford dealership in the country, and asked if I could arrange an interview with a sales manager. It was the first kind of journalistic inquiry I’d made in almost seven years; after the receptionist put me on hold, I felt a great sense of relief and pride in overcoming my timidity. “This’ll be easy,” I thought, assuming someone would be happy to talk to me. However, the man I spoke with — a kind of upper manager of some kind — squashed all hopes that it would be a smooth and effortless ride.

“I can’t really take someone off the point because that wouldn’t be fair to them,” he said. “If they were talking to you they wouldn’t be out on the lot making sales. In a half hour they could lose a lot of money.”

He said he would ask around to see if anyone would talk to me, but he didn’t call back.

On Super Bowl Sunday I went to the dealership, thinking it would be dead and I could talk to someone. But business was brisk. Douchebags were walking the rows of jacked up F-250s shadowed by salesmen. I asked around for someone to interview, and was introduced to the man I talked to over the phone. He apologized for not calling back — “someone took” the piece of paper with my number on it — then repeated what he said over the phone.

“You’ll have to arrange something with one of these guys,” he said, motioning to the pack of salesmen standing just outside the front door.

I went to the receptionist to ask if I could leave my name and number for the owner, thinking he might be interested in talking to me. The receptionist was wearing casual street clothes, talking on the phone to a friend, and had a kid playing at her desk. Real professional. As I wrote my contact information on a card, a salesman approached me and asked, “You’re doing a story about why guys buy big trucks?”

He seemed interested, so I asked if I could talk to him. Not then, he said, but he or someone else would “spill their guts” if I came in during a weekday when business was slow. It was a difficult proposition since I work full-time, so I resolved to return on my next day off, which I planned to take the last Friday of the month (my monthly “Save California from Bankruptcy Day Off”).

I walked across the street to the Chevy dealership, where there was a noticeable lack of customers. (The Government Motors taint is hurting them badly in OC, as many people here love America and democracy but hate government. Figure that one out.) I approached a salesman in the showroom who was surfing the internet. He agreed to talk to me, and we sat down in a little cubical office. I thought, “Finally! Today will actually be productive.” But the moment I put my micro recorder on the table (my note taking skills are rusty too, so I wanted back-up), he said, “Before we start, can you tell me why you’re doing this?”

I explained my personal curiosity and idea of turning it into a story. While I talked, he kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the lot for newly arrived customers. He gave me a few of his opinions off the record, then said he didn’t have time to go into detail right then because he was working. He told me I should talk to another salesman, a guy who wasn’t there (I still haven’t called him, yet).

After that I called it a day, a little discouraged but not deterred. I just decided to shift my strategy and play the game. I’m a bad reporter in the sense that I hate badgering potential sources; I assume people will be reluctant to speak with someone who is annoying and confrontational. So I put my efforts on hold until last Thursday, the day before my voluntary furlough. I called the salesman who spoke to me at HB Ford, repeating what he said about coming in during a weekday. I wanted to know we could schedule a time to talk the next day.

“We actually consider Friday a weekend,” he said. That’s when all the sales start and people start coming in, so it’s not a good day.”

Another wolfish excuse. They were starting to annoy me, and I wondered if these guys just didn’t want to talk to me.

I asked, “Could I call sometime next week, not on the weekend, and do an interview over the phone?”

“Sure. We could do that. Make sure to call early, though.”

This Tuesday I called early — a little after 9 am, when the sales staff start working — and asked for him. The receptionist told me he was “on the other side of the lot,” and said he would return my call if I left my name and number, which I did. He hasn’t called back.

Though they’re complete wolves, I understand car salesmen need to make a living; their first duty is to ensure the wellbeing of themselves and their families, not indulge a freelance writer and his curiosities. But still, they should fucking talk to me. They should at least have the common courtesy to call me back.

I’m not really sure what their deal is, but I know these encounters have bolstered my sour opinion of car salesmen with another unsavory characteristic of theirs. As a prospective buyer, they become your best friend, but when the sale is made, or when they know you’re not interested, they don’t give a shit about you. They embody the worst principles of capitalism.

Sometimes I wonder, “Why should I even deal with these guys? I hate them, anyway.” But I’m going to keep trying because I have to. A story like this demands it.