How to Buy a Car at a Chinese Restaurant

A decision had been made. The only thing left to do in order to simplify my budget was to downsize my car payment. It would be a challenge, so I searched out a local pot lot, the “buy here, pay here” sort of place specializing in cheap high-mileage well-worn vehicles.

My father worked for a car dealership for many years and brought home the trade-ins on a regular basis. If my curiosity got in his way, he would hand me a screwdriver to tighten any fastener I could see. That way the rattles he listened for next time he drove would be the ones that actually meant something. My curiosity also found itself at area pick-a-parts looking for a matching vehicle from which to pull an intact glove box or a working tail light. I learned a lot of things I now pretend not to know, as I would rather pay someone else to change oil and replace broken pieces, leaving my hands available for less greasy expressions of creativity. However, working part-time and driving much shorter distances everyday has justified admitting that I know how to coax a few more months or years out of some very tired transportation.

There were two such car lots that caught my eye, and I found myself looking for the office that paired with an assortment of eight low priced autos that were parked along a dusty chainlink fence. A phone call summoned the appearance of a comfortable man in a T-shirt and jeans, his long wavy hair tied back at his neck and his face rough from lack of a recent shave. My imagination wanted him backpacking in the wilderness or throwing pottery on a wheel in his studio, but our discussion focused mainly on the purpose of my visit. I settled on a 16 year old sedan with surprisingly low mileage. If he could make it work for me, he would be left with seven junky old beaters.

His office was a makeshift corner in the back room of the Gleeful Li Restaurant and Bar that shared the expansive chainlink fence with his tiny car lot. He was new at the business, but legitimate, with his dealer number and software and appropriate forms at hand. I sat on restaurant booth seating while he logged into his computer and organized his thoughts. The restaurant owner had come in the door with us, bringing his son from school. My little service dog had an instant companion, and the boy greeted me as many five-year-olds do.

“Hi! Can I pet your dog?” He was relaxed and happy, at home in this familiar room attached to his parent’s business. He brought me a small promotional first aid kit sealed in a plastic bag. “Here, you can fix your dog if he is broken. And I have this!”

I thanked him and told him that I also had a diminutive first aid book similar to what he held in his hands.

“But does yours have bones?” He asked, widening his eyes and displaying a page that detailed first aid procedures for victims of poisoning.

He was ushered out into the restaurant, but when he lost the direct attention of his mother he would wander back in, climbing up beside me and Monty to watch video game tutorials on his mother’s phone. She would be back to speak to him in Chinese, but in a reprimanding tone that I could translate easily. Then soon he would return, lounging beside me like we had always belonged in each other’s lives and amusing me with occasional conversation.

“I like your dog. I like his ears.” He said, gently touching Monty’s soft head. He tilted his face up at me. “I eat dead dogs.”

It was presented as a simple fact, but his eyes searched my face in earnest observation. Whether this was to analyze my reaction to a recent childhood discovery that some of his food was indeed sourced from deceased animals - or a test of parental admonition never to proclaim that he might view my culture’s beloved furry companions as a potential lunch entree - I could not ascertain. I blinked at him.

“Not alive ones.” He clarified. This seemed logical. My thoughts were drawn into his childish reasonings.

“I eat dead cows sometimes.” I admitted. His eyebrows jumped in admiration.

“Do you have a sword?” He asked in breathless wonder.

“No.” I disappointed him. “I must visit the grocery store to get my dead animals. But, do you have a sword?”

He shook his head slowly and looked distant, as if watching his mind contemplate the awe of holding his own magnificent blade. Then another thought distracted him.

“Not alive cows?” I was as likely to bite into a live bovine as I was to consume my pup or threaten either with a deadly weapon, but he was gone again. He had fallen victim either to his own transient attention span or to the intimidating parental eye of rebuke that had a way of sneaking up on him.

My attention moved back to the car. Conversation during the test drives had revealed my salesman to be laid back and somewhat transparent. He freely shared what he had discovered about each vehicle and what it needed. As he settled at his desk and we started our financial transaction, he looked at me.

“Our last advertised price on that one was $1425, does that sound right?” He asked.

I agreed that $1425 seemed like a reasonable price. A quick internet search on my phone in the midst of various interactions with my little friend had revealed that this machine’s siblings were selling at much higher prices at other lots in town.

“Well, we just recently reduced the sale price. And I think I can save you some money on registration, too.”

He picked up the phone to check with the DMV, giving his credentials and jotting down numbers on a sticky note. He had talked about a wife and four children, and thoughts of a possible lack of abundance in their pantry were beginning to concern me. But he was new at this and only needed practice, as evidenced by the signing of the loan documents. I had worked in mortgage lending for years and occasionally filled in for loan officers that were unavailable for signings, so I stepped up, explaining each document aloud for myself while autographing the bottom of each page. The last page broke it down to an initial payment and three remaining payments coinciding with my next three paydays, all adding up to what was really just a drawn out cash sale. Conspicuously missing from the detail were the dealer fees and 25% markup common to such agreements. Intending to buy a car for $2000 that would end up costing me $2700, then choosing one marked $1725 and agreeing to $1435, I was amazed to find that I had signed away a mere $1200 of my hard earned funds. I hoped for consistent employment for his wife.

The next evening my friend drove me over to pick up the car. I stepped inside briefly to get the keys. I was greeted by a five-year-old voice.

“You!” He slid away from where he sat at a table with his older brother. “I missed you! Where is Monty?”

I returned his smile.

“You forgot this.” There was reproach now, as he pushed the little first aid packet into my hand. I thanked him for saving it for me, but mostly I was grateful to him and his unlikely roommate for the most, or perhaps only, relaxing and entertaining car buying experience in my car buying history.