Guy Walks Into a Car Dealership...

I love FIATs.  I've owned three of them in my life.  They were all built in the '70s.  FIAT stopped selling in this country in 1982 or 1983.  It was a supremely fun car to drive.  I had an old Ferrari at one time, but the FIAT was more fun.

Well, FIAT is back.  I see them increasingly on the roads, and they bring back very fond memories.  The "new" model is called the 500, which was the name of a model from the '50s or '60s.  It was a minuscule car then, but bigger now.  Every time I see one of the new ones, and every time I pass the dealership on Biscayne at Ixora (about 128th Street), I think about dropping in, just to look.  Maybe even to cop a feel, or, as they say in the car dealership business, take a test drive.  But since I'm not in the market for a gas car, I never bother to go.  Until a couple of Saturdays ago.

A collusion of extra time and imperfect will power caused a right turn where I should have gone straight.  Well, what's a peek, right?  Guillermo descended on me as soon as I got out of my car.  An intrusive presence with an assaultive smile, he was all car salesman chatter, non-stop and single-minded.  I explained clearly that I don't buy gas cars, and I'm not buying a FIAT.  I just wanted to look, and maybe...ride?  A test drive, Guillermo anticipated?  No problem!

I got about one block on Biscayne, felt what I wanted to feel, and was satisfied.  Guillermo practically pleaded with me not to go back yet.  I wasn't buying, but he sure was selling.  It's a good thing there's a password to get to my bank account, or he would have gone in there and taken out the price of the car.

We got back, and he started introducing me to people.  A co-worker, and his "manager."  (I'd love to see what managing Guillermo looks like.)  I was expecting an invitation to dinner.  Thanks, Guillermo, but I just wanted to know how the new FIAT drives, I like it, I'm not in the market for one, and I have to go.

A word to the wise: never say anything nice about a car when you're at a car dealership.

Take it home for a few days, Guillermo implored.  Or was it an order?  That's very generous, but I really don't need to.  Besides, it's too inconvenient.  I have my car here.

Leave your car.  Park it right next to mine.  (The large, white Mercedes.)  Bring the FIAT back on Monday.

If you're going to tell me I need to be more assertive, I know.  So sue me.  I had the car for the weekend.  It's a nice car, especially for the money.  It drives nicely, in that European small car, not overpowered kind of way, and it's full-featured.  Dozens of air bags, radio/CD, good AC.  But it's not the old FIAT, where you're low to the ground, you feel every pebble, and the turning radius is about the size of your bathroom.  The steering, the brakes, and the clutch were too easy.  And besides, it wasn't electric.  Which I told Guillermo at the outset.  (Aha, Guillermo.)  I'll call about an electric FIAT, Guillermo counter-moved.  They don't make one, I said.  Check, mate.

Guillermo met me as soon as I came in Monday morning.  It was no act: he was genuinely disappointed when I was as resolved on Monday not to buy a car as I had been on Saturday.  He really thought a couple days of my bonding with the FIAT would get him his commission.  I struggled not to feel sorry for him.   (OK, OK, I'll get assertiveness training.)  They have the electric FIAT, but they're only selling it in California, Guillermo said, cornering me, and very clearly not at all willing to give this up.  They do?  (Gulp.)  Well, here's what I need to know: how much, what's the range, and what kind of charger do they use?  I did my best to throw the ball far away, so it would take the dog a really long time to go find it, by which time I would be gone.

By now, Guillermo had gotten reinforcements, in the person of Mauricio, Guillermo's "other manager."  Mauricio was much more unintrusive, but he had the website in front of him, and he was already finding the specs on the electric FIAT.  Oh, see, it's the 220 charger, I pointed out from the picture.  My circuit is set up for two 110s (as if it wasn't easy to change).  But what's the range?  I bet they only give you 40-50 miles, I desperately suggested.  I need 100, minimum.

Well, the dogs were rooting around, looking for the ball.  Guillermo had already taken my phone number (I stupidly gave him my real number), and he would call me.  So I made a quick get-away, with a true story about having an appointment in a little while.

So the moral of the story is this.  If you want a small, modest, very satisfying car, with a back seat in which no one can sit, because there isn't any leg room, get the FIAT.  But be sure you really want it before you go to the dealership.  Because you won't leave without one.