One of the great benefits of working in car sales is the freedom. By that I mean, if I ever get tired of a place, or just want a change of scenery, all I have to do is clean out my desk and leave. (Most salespeople travel light.) With my experience, I know I can go anywhere in the United States and find a job at another dealership the same day, with no interruption in income. That’s a great feeling.
A few years ago I did just that. I had heard about a new dealership in another state, in a town I always wanted to live in, so I drove down there on my off day to check things out. It seemed like a perfect place to work. It was a brand new building in a great location, they were selling a product I believed in, and they were fully committed to success. This was proven by their numbers, which were more than double what my current dealership was doing. So I decided to quit my job and start over at Faustian Motors.
Unfortunately, things are not always as they appear. The first warning sign that something was wrong was when they asked me to go to a local lab and give them a pint of blood. I was used to doing urine tests, and even had a small patch of hair removed once for drug testing. But I had never been asked to give blood before — much less a pint — and I thought it was a bit odd. I asked my General Sales Manager, Jim Teufel, why they did it, and he said something to the effect that I was lucky, then added:
“When I first started working for Mr. Faust, they asked for my soul!”
And then he laughed maniacally. “This guy has a strange sense of humor,” I thought, but I was so excited by the prospect of a new job I quickly forgot his ominous words.
A few days later there was another red flag. When I interviewed, I asked what the dealership’s hours were. Mr. Teufel told me “Eight in the morning until 7:30 at night.” However, I soon realized that was not the case. This became apparent at the very first sales meeting I attended, when one of the managers tore into a salesman who had arrived a few minutes before eight, telling him “If you’re five minutes early, you’re late!” Only in car sales do you hear this kind of logic, where you’re late even if you’re early. I filed it away as typical car sales BS and told myself to be sure to get there the next day by 7:45.
A day or two later, the salesperson at the desk next to mine looked around the room, checking to see if any managers were around, then leaned over and whispered: “What time do you think we’ll get out of here tonight?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I had been told the dealership closed at 7:30, so I figured we’d get out of there around 7:30. The other salesperson laughed grimly when I said that.
“Last week we didn’t get out of here until 10 o’clock at night, every night.”
Before I could say anything else the other salesperson turned away abruptly and pretended to be making a sales call. I looked up and saw that the owner, Mr. Faust, was approaching. “Good evening, good evening, boys!” he said, smiling. He had a funny accent, kind of like Bela Lugosi, but he seemed nice enough so I didn’t give it any thought.
That night I found out that the salesperson next to me wasn’t joking. It had been a slow day and none of us had sold a car. I don’t think I even “upped,” or said hello to, a single person. When 7:30 came around I gathered my things and stood, ready to leave, but was quickly told we were supposed to wait until the manager on duty dismissed us. So I sat back down.
Fifteen minutes went by. Then another fifteen minutes. It was now eight o’clock. I asked my buddy, “Hey, do you think he knows it’s eight o’clock?” The other salesperson looked at me. “Oh, he knows. He knows all right.”
I couldn’t believe this was actually happening — an entire salesforce of grown men was being held hostage at work — but I was new on the job and figured I’d better keep my mouth shut. So I just sat there and waited for the word that we could all go home. Finally, around 8:40 or so, we were called into the “Sales Tower” and given a lecture. The dealership couldn’t afford another day like the one we had today, we were told. Tomorrow, we HAD to sell at least four cars or we’d be staying even later.
This was the pattern for the next two weeks. If we sold a few cars, the dealership closed its doors and everybody went home on time. But if we didn’t, we were punished by being forced to stay late, sometimes for hours after closing. And sometimes we were given additional punishments, like late-night “Lot Parties.” A Lot Party is when the salespeople key up all the cars and move them around the parking lot, so it looks like the inventory has changed. Normally, this is done in the morning. But not here.
As you might expect, people started to complain. One night around eight, a group of us were standing around outside, bitching and moaning about the hours. Somehow, word of this conversation got back to the managers, and the next morning we had another little meeting in the Sales Tower. We were told point blank that if we didn’t like the hours we were welcome to leave. Nothing was going to change. “If you don’t like staying late,” Mr. Teufel said, “Sell a car.” So this is it, I thought. We were “The Damned.” The ones who had to work late, and this was to be our fate for eternity.
The last straw came on a Saturday. I upped a couple shortly before seven o’clock. The woman wasn’t sure what kind of car she wanted so it took several test drives to finally “land her on a car” (select the right vehicle), and get them inside to work numbers. By now it was well after closing, and I noticed that the other salespeople were still there. Most of them were giving me dirty looks. Why? Because even though we had sold a few cars that day, they were being compelled to stay as long as there were customers in the building.
It took me until 10:30 to deliver these people. And the other salespeople had to stay with me, which I thought was unfair to them and their families. At that point I decided I’d had enough of Faustian Motors, and quit the following Monday.
A few months after I left, that dealership went out of business. A lot of people say it was because they couldn’t keep any salespeople. I don’t know. All I know is, the building sat empty for several years, and the property was gradually overrun with weeds. I’m told that if you drive by there late on a Saturday night, you can catch a glimpse of a group of shadowy figures standing inside the showroom, their noses pressed to the plate glass windows, their faces gaunt, staring out at the passing traffic with forlorn expressions. If you stop and get out the apparitions disappear. But if you listen close enough, you can almost hear their plaintive cries whirling in the wind, wondering . . .
“When can we go home???”
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