The Customer Is Always an Ungrateful Little Snot
When I bought my new car, there was a small scratch on it. The salesman agreed to have it taken care of, as well he should. He also threw in a free oil change after falsely giving us the impression that he was going to lower the price by fifty bucks.
When I brought the car down for some misting inside the taillights, they buffed the scratch down as much as they could, but they didn't have the paint to finish the job. I said it'd be more convenient if I just had it taken care of when I came in for my first oil change, and the salesman said that was fine.
About three months after I bought my car, a lady called to schedule an appointment for my first oil change and to finish the scratch, and I said that I hadn't hit 3,000 miles yet, so I would schedule the oil change when it was time. Sure, she said.
WELL.
I schedule my oil change for today, when it is most convenient for me. I also want to have the rest of the scratch taken care of. And the salesman says that it's been six months, and the scratch had to be taken care of within ninety days. It would have been nice had anyone told me this. He does have a bottle of touch-up paint for me, though!
As I drive down, I have imaginary conversation after imaginary conversation bitching this guy out. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask him to paint a little scratch that was on the new car that he sold me. It's not as if it's been exacerbated since. I told him multiple times that I'd get it done along with my first oil change, and he never clarified that my first oil change better be within ninety days, or his promise was null and void.
I am sitting in the salesroom when the salesman notices me and says, "I've got something for you, buddy!" Buddy? Oh, he thinks I'm cool with this whole arrangement.
He hands me the bottle of touch-up paint, and I say, "So I just put this on myself now?" I am casual about it, not ultrasarcastic or anything.
"Well, yeah," he says. "It's been six months. Did you think you could bring it back a year from now?"
"No!" I say, upset at what he's implying. "At my first oil change!"
"No need to raise your voice," he says, and I take it down a notch.
"You said you would take care of it at my first oil change."
"Which is three months," he says.
"Which is 3,000 miles," I correct.
He says that the paperwork said everything must be taken care of within ninety days, he could bring it out and let me see it. I tell him that when I told the lady I would bring my car in when it hit the mileage, she said that would be fine. After about a minute of his making a case for ninety days and my making a case for not being told about it, I give up.
"All right," I say. "I'm going to be calling Mazda on Monday, just so you know."
"For what?!" he exclaims. He starts walking toward the service department. He motions to the five-dollar bottle of touch-up paint in my hand. "I paid for that myself, by the way," he sneers, the "you ungrateful little snot" being implied.
"I appreciate that," I say, but he's too busy going off on me to care.
"I'll see if I can have someone put that on for you," he says, as if I must be lazy and incompetent to want someone professional to paint over a scratch that was on the new car that was sold to me. "I can have just as much attitude as you!" he says. Attitude? He thought that was attitude? "Because you came at me real strong, and for nothing!"
Wow. None of my imaginary conversations ended like that. He was angry at me? I AM THE ONE GETTING FUCKED OVER HERE. My resolution never to come back here again is cemented.
I can't even concentrate for the next few minutes, I'm so shaken by his reaction. I'm afraid he's telling the service people to do some shit to my car in retaliation.
He comes back out and...he is a different person. He seems to have chilled out. He says that there are a number of new scratches, and he wants to clarify which one was there from the beginning. I tell him.
They bring out the car post-oil change and, I notice, post-car wash. Aaah, nice. I point out the scratch and remind him that they buffed some of it away but needed to do the paint. I give him the bottle of paint. He does not snap at me about anything. He says it'll be about ten minutes.
More than ten minutes later, he brings the car out, and I take a look at the scratch. They've done a pretty shitty job, honestly, painting a thick coat over the length of the scratch rather than covering the few little stretches of white. It almost seems more noticeable now, since they don't appear to have buffed it or anything. But at this point I just want to get out of there and I don't want to introduce any more conflict and risk pissing the salesman off again. He's made an effort to make nice, so I do the same.
"So are we good?" he asks. "No calls?"
Again, not wanting to reopen the old wound, I just say, "Yeah," and shake his hand. As I'm leaving, I realize I don't have the bottle of touch-up paint, and, hell, I might as well make sure I have it. I turn around and park. At first, I go to the service guy because I don't want to talk to the salesman again, but he doesn't know what they did with the bottle and suggests I go to the salesman. I ask the salesman whether he has the rest of the paint, and he says he put it in my glove compartment. Ah. "Please drive safely," he says politely.
I know I said no calls, but I still feel like I want to tell someone about my shitty experience with this guy. He finally did take care of the scratch as he promised, but he was a fucking dick about it. Is there some sort of loophole in my morals?
Oh, oh, clearly I meant no calls within ninety days.
When I brought the car down for some misting inside the taillights, they buffed the scratch down as much as they could, but they didn't have the paint to finish the job. I said it'd be more convenient if I just had it taken care of when I came in for my first oil change, and the salesman said that was fine.
About three months after I bought my car, a lady called to schedule an appointment for my first oil change and to finish the scratch, and I said that I hadn't hit 3,000 miles yet, so I would schedule the oil change when it was time. Sure, she said.
WELL.
I schedule my oil change for today, when it is most convenient for me. I also want to have the rest of the scratch taken care of. And the salesman says that it's been six months, and the scratch had to be taken care of within ninety days. It would have been nice had anyone told me this. He does have a bottle of touch-up paint for me, though!
As I drive down, I have imaginary conversation after imaginary conversation bitching this guy out. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask him to paint a little scratch that was on the new car that he sold me. It's not as if it's been exacerbated since. I told him multiple times that I'd get it done along with my first oil change, and he never clarified that my first oil change better be within ninety days, or his promise was null and void.
I am sitting in the salesroom when the salesman notices me and says, "I've got something for you, buddy!" Buddy? Oh, he thinks I'm cool with this whole arrangement.
He hands me the bottle of touch-up paint, and I say, "So I just put this on myself now?" I am casual about it, not ultrasarcastic or anything.
"Well, yeah," he says. "It's been six months. Did you think you could bring it back a year from now?"
"No!" I say, upset at what he's implying. "At my first oil change!"
"No need to raise your voice," he says, and I take it down a notch.
"You said you would take care of it at my first oil change."
"Which is three months," he says.
"Which is 3,000 miles," I correct.
He says that the paperwork said everything must be taken care of within ninety days, he could bring it out and let me see it. I tell him that when I told the lady I would bring my car in when it hit the mileage, she said that would be fine. After about a minute of his making a case for ninety days and my making a case for not being told about it, I give up.
"All right," I say. "I'm going to be calling Mazda on Monday, just so you know."
"For what?!" he exclaims. He starts walking toward the service department. He motions to the five-dollar bottle of touch-up paint in my hand. "I paid for that myself, by the way," he sneers, the "you ungrateful little snot" being implied.
"I appreciate that," I say, but he's too busy going off on me to care.
"I'll see if I can have someone put that on for you," he says, as if I must be lazy and incompetent to want someone professional to paint over a scratch that was on the new car that was sold to me. "I can have just as much attitude as you!" he says. Attitude? He thought that was attitude? "Because you came at me real strong, and for nothing!"
Wow. None of my imaginary conversations ended like that. He was angry at me? I AM THE ONE GETTING FUCKED OVER HERE. My resolution never to come back here again is cemented.
I can't even concentrate for the next few minutes, I'm so shaken by his reaction. I'm afraid he's telling the service people to do some shit to my car in retaliation.
He comes back out and...he is a different person. He seems to have chilled out. He says that there are a number of new scratches, and he wants to clarify which one was there from the beginning. I tell him.
They bring out the car post-oil change and, I notice, post-car wash. Aaah, nice. I point out the scratch and remind him that they buffed some of it away but needed to do the paint. I give him the bottle of paint. He does not snap at me about anything. He says it'll be about ten minutes.
More than ten minutes later, he brings the car out, and I take a look at the scratch. They've done a pretty shitty job, honestly, painting a thick coat over the length of the scratch rather than covering the few little stretches of white. It almost seems more noticeable now, since they don't appear to have buffed it or anything. But at this point I just want to get out of there and I don't want to introduce any more conflict and risk pissing the salesman off again. He's made an effort to make nice, so I do the same.
"So are we good?" he asks. "No calls?"
Again, not wanting to reopen the old wound, I just say, "Yeah," and shake his hand. As I'm leaving, I realize I don't have the bottle of touch-up paint, and, hell, I might as well make sure I have it. I turn around and park. At first, I go to the service guy because I don't want to talk to the salesman again, but he doesn't know what they did with the bottle and suggests I go to the salesman. I ask the salesman whether he has the rest of the paint, and he says he put it in my glove compartment. Ah. "Please drive safely," he says politely.
I know I said no calls, but I still feel like I want to tell someone about my shitty experience with this guy. He finally did take care of the scratch as he promised, but he was a fucking dick about it. Is there some sort of loophole in my morals?
Oh, oh, clearly I meant no calls within ninety days.