Buying a Car (part two)

Part one left off after two fruitless visits to CarMax, two more to Honda dealerships, a Mazda outlet and four test drives.

In part two, the winding and serpentine search continues.

Through the wonder of technology, I am theoretically able to visit a remote dealership's inventory, peruse their offerings, indicate interest and schedule a test drive.

Not surprisingly, it doesn't go that smoothly.

I am first alerted to this fact when an agent e-mails me back saying no specific car had been indicated in my message. I again go to the car's page, click on 'Schedule a test drive' and supply the requested information.

After work I find another e-mail, this one expressing delight at my presumed visit later that day. Were I as intelligent as I like to think I am, I would see this as the precursor to disaster that it is. Instead, I naively blunder ahead, unaware of the train wreck that awaits me.

Once the details of my visit are confirmed, I check in the pre-dawn hours before work that the car is still listed. It is.

We set forth on a sunny Friday afternoon. In keeping with Illinois statutes that forbid the sale of blue and red Accord Sports within thirty miles of my home, this dealership is over sixty miles away.

Granted, it is an outrageous distance to travel to test drive a used car. But this is the low-mileage (22K), recently-reduced (17K), Certified Obsidian Blue Pearl Accord Sport of my dreams.

I wash the Nissan, clear-out all non-essential belongings and secret the title and spare keys in the console's storage space. I am confident my spouse and I will drive home in a new-to-us Accord Sport.

The second harbinger of ill-fortune arrives when we hit Google's drive time estimate of an hour and fifteen-minutes still thirty minutes away from our destination. Traffic is obnoxious. I feel like a blood cell in an artery begging for an angioplasty.

Weary and wrung-out, we arrive at the dealership in mid-afternoon.

After lingering near a used 2016 Civic for a moment, a young man bounds out of the showroom. “Hi folks! What can I help you with today?”

I tell him we have an appointment with Aldo (not his real name) to test drive a blue 2015 Accord Sport.

“OK. Give me your name and I'll let him know you're here.”

Several minutes later the young man returns. This time he is not bounding.

“Um, Aldo is busy with a client. But I'm afraid the blue Accord has been sold.”

In addition to the gut-wrenching drive, I did not sleep well the night before. A variety of emotions well-up inside my chest cavity. They are not pleasant ones.

I, too, have been the messenger. I, too, have borne the anger and frustration that were the byproducts of circumstances and events and policies over which I had little—if any—control. So I am reluctant to vent to this young man with a coward for a boss. I go to plan B.

Not having driven one before, I ask to test drive a used example of the redesigned Civic. The young man retrieves an EX-L sedan, lets the interior cool and gives us a rundown of its features. I feel a bit guilty as the kid is genuinely enthused and is doing a helluva job.

Then I recall the torturous drive and the lack of communication and my guilt subsides.

The car is appealing, and a model sans leather seats and the electronic goop that passes for driver enhancement would be tempting. As it is, there is more on this car than I want. Or need. The subsequent offer is resistible.

We excuse ourselves and head for 8433 S. Pulaski, the better to enjoy a pizza at Vito & Nick's. There, the futility of the day falls away in an orgiastic symphony of cheese, peppery sausage, tomato sauce and green peppers resting on a cracker-thin crust.

Why can't car-shopping taste this good?

The return trip is substantially less-congested. I ponder whether chasing a specific color on a used car is the best use of my time. There are low-mileage, Certified, black, white and grey Accord Sports to be had much closer to home.

I wake Saturday morning with the sour taste of non-communication still fresh in my mouth. Despite the excellent pizza, yesterday was a long slide for an out. I fire-off a rude e-mail to Aldo.

One Sport remains. We again set out for a far-flung dealership in hopes of finding The One.

In contrast to the previous dealer, this outfit not only has a functioning web site, but people who can discern my garbled, ESL-speak and understand not only what car I'm interested in but when I'd like to see it.

Plus it remains unsold.

This is a refreshing change.

The salesperson is middle-aged, direct and largely well-informed. (I don't have the heart to tell him this car does not use a double-wishbone suspension.) He directs my mate and I to the Basque Red Pearl sedan on the lot.

While there are a distressing number of scratches in the hollows behind the door handles, and a fair amount of scuffs elsewhere, the body is free of dents and pockmarks. The interior fares even better, and remarkably even bears a trace of new car smell.

We take a lengthy and thorough test drive. The car is again impressive. It feels responsive. Alive. The driving experience is sharpened, like graduating from a butter knife to a scalpel. I fight to maintain my poker face.

“So whaddaya think?”

“It's nice” I deadpan. We head back to his office.

There is impressive documentation about the car's inspection, subsequent maintenance and a CarFax report. With only ten-thousand miles on the odo, a hefty share on the original drivetrain warranty remains. Then there is the twelve-month, twelve-thousand mile Honda Certified warranty.

I feel a deal cookin'.

I hand over the keys to the Altima and wait for the trade-in valuation. I want at least two grand.

Check.

The car is now at a reasonable price. But there remains tax, title and licensing. And the nefarious, indistinct fees that get tacked-on like pork to congressional legislation.

We dicker. We haggle. Still no deal.

I am losing it.

The cool detachment I exhibit for the car at the outset of negotiations has turned into white-hot lust. To demonstrate my frustrated ardor, I climb atop a shiny, new Odyssey positioned outside the salesman's office.

I now have the undivided attention of everyone on the showroom floor.

“If anyone can show just cause why this man and this Accord should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace!” I thunder. “And by anyone I refer to you, Sir!”

I point to the salesman, glowering.

Peter Ustinov would be proud.

My anxious spouse attempts to coax me down. There is a concern in her eyes I have never seen before. A salesman rushes to her side and hands her a bottle of water. He, too, urges me towards terra firma.

It doesn't work. I want a deal.

The salesman holds up a piece of paper. On it is a figure. I reluctantly abandon my perch, having enjoyed my all-too-brief turn at public oration.

It is not a number that constitutes a steal. But getting out the door within a couple of hundred bucks of my target price is a decent value. I reason with myself: I got a good test drive. I got a fair trade-in. The salesman is working with me. It's a ridiculously low-mileage Certified Accord Sport in an actual color.

Not to mention that I am dying to plant my ass in the driver's seat.

I shut-up and shake hands. I sign my name many times. I now own a new-to-me used car I will love, honor and cherish all the rest of my days. We return Monday afternoon and hand over a check.

Once inside the car, I lovingly run my hand over the contours of the dash. I am smiling.

Is bigamy still illegal?