Trixie

Don’t Worry About It, Buddy

This story is absolutely true. Except her name wasn’t Trixie (I think).

It was time for a new car. I had been divorced for about two years, rebound relationship lasted nine months [We were walking around a lake, and we simultaneously looked up at a blackbird—one blackbird—on a bare limb on top of a tree and as she said, “That’s you,” I simultaneously said, “That’s me.”]

I had a late 1980’s Honda Prelude, two sons getting bigger by the day and I’d ground the transmission to metal splinters.

So I go to a local Subaru dealer, and the manager, a very nice man, really tries to help me out, asks me this question and that, trying to find out what I need, asks about my family a little, what kind of trips do we take, we talk about how I don’t have a whole lot of money but more than enough, and how I try cars on for size first, because I’m six foot six. He brings out a Subaru Impreza, I sit in it, I fit, I ask if I can take a test drive, have my mechanic take a look and have it back in an hour or two. He says that’s fine and I come back from the inspection, meet in the lobby, and the manager asks how I liked the car, and I say, “I did, but there’s a small hole in the exhaust manifold, and that’s a problem because when cool air hits the catalytic converter plates, which are red hot, they are going to eventually shatter and cost me a lot of money.”

And the manager looks me calmly in the eyes, deadpan, and says, “There’s no hole in the exhaust manifold.”

I say, “My mechanic says there is.”

He says, “It’s a shame you have a mechanic who doesn’t know what he’s doing. We see that a lot. Subarus are remarkable cars. Built differently. You need specialized training to work with them. Our people would have caught it if there is a problem. I’ll check the inspection myself.” And he reaches over to a desk, pulls out a clipboard, turns half away from me and says, “Yep. Passed with flying colors. There’s no hole.”

He forgets I’m tall and he’s a little man, and I reach over his shoulder, tap a line on the report and say, “Line fourteen. Hole in the exhaust manifold. I’ll buy the car at the price you quoted if you fix it first.”

And he turns, sort of snarls and says, “Don’t worry about it, buddy. We’ll sell the car.” And I stare in his eyes, he stares back at me, he drops his eyes first, I don’t say another word. I walk out. Drive home.

So, it’s Saturday evening. My sons are having their two times a month visit with their mom, and I’m home alone, Saturday night! Miserable, eating oatmeal for dinner . . . (I wasn’t, but it sets a scene). And there’s a knock.

I look through the peephole and there is a young woman standing at my door. I figure she’s looking for another apartment, has the wrong number, so I open it to help her out, and she says, “Mr. Amdur?”

I say, “Yeah, that’s me.”

And she is lovely. She is morning dew on mountain flowers: soft luminous skin with a blush like a white-peach; thick blonde hair like the women in those shampoo commercials from the 1970’s, running through a pasture in the summer sun. It’s fall, she’s not wearing one of those cotton flowered summer dresses, she’s got a brown suede jacket, white cashmere sweater and bluejeans. I can’t remember her shoes, but I’m sure they were not Jimmy Choos.

And she says: “Mr. Amdur. I work at Selwyn Subaru. And I saw what happened to you today. I wanted to tell Mr. Selwyn about what my manager did, he would never stand for that, but I’m at student at Oakmont Community College, I’m studying nursing, I want to work with children, I’m paying my own way to school and I really need this job. I really can’t risk losing it. I feel so guilty about this, I wish I could tell Mr. Selwyn, that’s not his way of doing business at all! I got so mad at myself that I couldn’t help you, and I just want to let you know that we’re all not like that. So, I was able to check out a car overnight, one that I really think you will like. I checked the inspection myself; there are no problems like that other one.” And she puts one hand in her very tight jeans pocket, and arches her back to get the keys out —her sweater fit her very well— and she says, “Would you like to take a ride with me?”

I say sure. We ride around, she tells me a little more about her classes at school, but “let’s talk about you,” she says, she asks me questions, to which I tell her the truth, and she is so interested in me! She has me talking about myself, haven’t had such a nice conversation with a woman in ever so long, we could go on this ride for hours and hours, the connection is so good! And we get back to my place, and I thank her and say that I don’t really think I want a Subaru after all.

You see, as I was leaving the premises of Selwyn Subaru that afternoon, the manager, not liking whatsoever that I busted his game, snapped his fingers and one of his minions ran to the back of the dealership and out she came in a cloud of rose chypre and jasmine: “See that big guy getting into that blue Honda? Here’s his address. Thinks he’s some kind of macho guy. I don’t see any wedding ring. And he doesn’t dress like he pulls ‘em in. Here’s the keys to that other Impreza; the red one. You know what to do, Trixie.”

And that evening’s when I came up with the concept of the “sectored sociopath.” You see, a sociopath is a person who may have great empathy (they can track other people - usually for leverage), but no sympathy. And that’s pervasive. They are that way all the time—with everyone. The closest they come to caring is a sentimental attachment to something they own: “My moms? Nobody fucks with my moms. You say one word about my moms and I’ll tear you up.” And that evening, he opens her purse and steals the grocery money, and if you confront him on it, he’ll turn on a dime and say, “What do you expect me to do to get my money? Wait for the old bitch to die?”

But the sectored sociopath is a 9-5 predator. They may love their family, their friends, they coach youth soccer and organize bake sales for Campfire USA, but when they go to work, they are looking for prey. Which is a very interesting concept: to be a person with a capacity for love and compassion who can turn it off whenever they arrive at the waterhole. Or better yet, use what they know about friendship, neighborliness and decency to get some poor slob to buy a Subaru with a hole in the exhaust manifold.

And I realized that the folks at Selwyn Subaru offered me a wonderful training opportunity. Every three or four months thereafter, I’d take a bus or a taxi to a car dealership—never the same one—I’d dress differently each time, I’d make up a name, I’d walk around the lot, looking a little lost. And I had a little story. It went like this:

“Hey, my man. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking to buy a car.”

“You came to the right place for that. What’s your name, my friend?”

“James.”

“Is that a first name or last?”

“Last.”

“What’s your first name? I’m Anthony. Anthony Hayek. But my friends call me Tony.

“Dwayne.”

“Glad to meet you, Dwayne. Hey, you got a firm handshake. You work out? You do? Maybe you can give me some tips after we make a deal, Dwayne. I need to get back in shape. You look good, my man. So what are you looking for today, Dwayne?”

“Well, Tony, the truth is, I’ve never really had much money. Hell, my car just broke down, that’s why I’m here, I drive ‘em ‘til they drop. Had to take a bus to get here. But here’s the thing. My great aunt just died . . . “

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dwayne. My condolences.”

“Thank you. I hardly knew her, really. But the thing is, she had money. And she left each of us cousins, like, $45,000 dollars apiece. And for the first time in my life, I’d like to get a decent car. I got the cash. What do you think would be good for me?”

And from that point on, I’d answer every question honestly. Not names and addresses. But the kind of work I did (I usually worked three different types of jobs at the same time, so I’d pick and choose - that way, I got to see how different answers evoked different tactics), my family, etc. And I would observe how the salesman or saleswoman interviewed me. What leverage points they saw. Sometimes they tried to sell me something good, but at a price way to high, of course; other times they tried to burn me. One guy pulled out an orange Suzuki Samurai, which was infamous for tipping over on curves above forty miles an hour, and told me how my sons would be blown away, how they’d really respect me if I came home with that instead of some boring car—”they’d see the old man’s still got it!”

Some gave me an absolutely firm price, then said they had to check with the manager who would regretfully up the price a couple hundred and then he would have to call the owner who’d regretfully tell me that he’d lose money at that price, but I could make it up on my trade-in, and how many months loan did I want, and would I be taking the extended warranty that was void upon entry into hospice care, or would I prefer the one that was passed down to the seven generation?

I was interested how they could get me talking about myself, revealing more about who I was, sometimes even when I was trying to hide something. Sometimes, they’d miss the target entirely. (The Trixies of the world are not my Achilles heel, because they may be nice to take a ride with, but they are not ride and die). But sometimes they were so dead on that all of a sudden I’d really want to buy the car they showed me, would start thinking about trading mine in, or I’d start to feel guilty that I wasn’t going to buy a car that day, because they really liked and respected me and cared about my well-being, and how could I be wasting their time! [I actually did feel a little guilty about that—I was taking time out of their day when they could be making a buck—but I didn’t drag things out too long, and anyway, every time, I found myself as prey, and any lamb who thinks the wolf will like them if they just ingratiate themselves enough, deserves to be eaten.]

I learned to be aware of grooming strategies, manipulative interviewing, double teaming (where all of a sudden we were working together, because we already decided—together—that I was going to buy a car that day), subtle intimidation, time pressure, common interests. You know what the killer was? They’d somehow figure out the kind of person you wished liked them in high school, they’d be that person and this time around, “they’d” like you!

And thereby, what I learned from them helped me save a number of children as well as a number of women from hellish situations whose abuser(s) had, otherwise, conned everyone else.

So Trixie, where ever you are, thank you for the ride.