deeplyshallow // wrangle wrangle

wrangle wrangle

I’ve long wanted to ditch my Expedition and replace it with a Jeep, so this weekend I finally gave this task my attention. I’m not much of a force when it comes to reckoning with salesmen, so I asked Dennis to come along as my wingman, run a little interference for me. We hit a few dealerships and took a few Wranglers for a spin. That one is not sitting in my driveway right now is just depressing.

I first test-drove the Wrangler X. We patiently rode along with the salesman to a gas station. He was incompetent with the manual transmission, jarring us all over the place. I hadn’t driven a stick in a few years, but after a short adjustment, I had the thing flying smoothly down the 101. And it was a beautiful ride, with only minor road and wind noise, and nowhere nearly as rough as I’d been warned by friends and family (none of whom drive Jeeps).

The salesguy turned to me and said, “You want to try it off of the road?” I said sure, why not, and he pointed me towards a narrow mountain road in Avila Beach. He turned to Dennis. “You know this area, right? So you know this place we’re going.” Dennis said, “Yeah, I know it.” I had no idea what they were talking about. I asked, and the salesguy shrugged and said, “It’s a nude beach.”

Of course, there are no nude beaches on small mountaintops, but that’s where nude beach parking lots are located. And this lot was a mess: gravel and dirt, giant ruts everywhere, etc. I slowed down behind a Dodge pickup that bounced and lurched through the lot, then gave it some gas and went around him. The Wrangler handled unlike anything I’ve ever driven, and I suddenly wanted to quit my job, sell everything I own, and spend the rest of my days off-roading. Dennis and the salesguy got a hell of a jolt from the quick trip, but I barely felt a thing. And of course was too busy with the wheel to notice whether or not there were any nudies about.

Speaking of nudies: I went to the gym on Saturday, and when I finished up and went into the locker room, I rounded the corner to see a bare-ass whale stretched out on a bench, talking on his cell phone to god knows who. Here’s what was worse: my locker was right at his fucking feet.

Okay, back to the topic at hand. Later we test-drove a loaded Rubicon, and I was sold. I would’ve given up a kid for that Jeep. The salesguy ran his mouth and talked a good game for a bit, and lost me when he said, “I gotta use the restroom. But hey, this is teamwork, right? You want a soda? Here’s some change, why don’t you get us both a couple of sodas. I like Squirt. Teamwork, man!” I was still sitting at his desk when he returned.

And later when he whistled appreciatively at my credit score, then shook his head sadly at my credit history, he cemented the deal. Based on my score, I qualified for Jeep’s going incentive — 4.9% financing. Then he pointed at an item on my credit report — the last car I’d had financed. Back in 2000, when I was still married and my ex-wife was managing our finances, she was late on three straight payments. Every payment that followed was on-time or early, but that doesn’t count. The salesguy said, “Lowest rate I can get you is 17% with this on your credit.” So I walked. And came home irritated and disappointed, and slept for four hours.

It is thoroughly crushing to recognize just how much the mistake of my first marriage still reverberates through my life. It has always been bad enough that I cannot stop the deluge of spam addressed to her long, long-dead DS mailbox. But now it’s equally impossible for me to satisfy a man’s basic right to buy a Jeep whenever the fuck he wants to. What the hell has this stupid-ass world come to.