After more than a few weeks of graduate school, it became evident that my marriage was over. It was love on the rocks before I arrived in New Orleans, but I thought that a new place would somehow add a spark to the relationship. The only spark it added was a flamethrower, proving this was a new version of over. Remember the episode of Sex in The City, when Carrie said to Mr. Big, “Oh, we are so over, we need a new word for Over!” In 1995, it took more than a year for the divorce to become a reality. It was then I realized, wow, as a female, I am in a shitload of trouble. Dividing our utilities of finance even though we were as poor as church mice was a ridiculous notion but had to be done.
The first thing I realized was that I needed car insurance. Our insurer was yes, the green lizard. The lady on the other end of the phone said, “Even though I had been on the policy for the last ten or more years, I had no credit and therefore could not be underwritten.” Walking the mean streets of New Orleans, I was looking for car insurance. I went into a State Farm agency, and the lady asked me, “Why was I crying?” She listened carefully when I told her, I couldn’t get car insurance with my current company. Within days she not only helped me get car insurance, but she also became my apartment insurance carrier. Some thirty-five years later, I am still with State Farm.
When I divorced, I had to act like I’d never had credit before, even though I’d been a responsible business owner with an excellent credit history. He, however, could carry on with his financial life without a hiccup.
The ex got a job back in Philadelphia and took my car. It was on its last legs, so have at it. I danced out it the middle of my road as he drove away. I was in my second year of graduate school pursuing an MBA and was fortunate that people had to drive by my apartment to get to school and were kind enough to give me a ride. But on many days, I walked forty-five minutes to school or took the streetcar on St. Charles Avenue, also a forty-five-minute ride.
A friend of mine offered to take me car shopping. He was a Southerner, so I felt secure he could speak the language. When we were walking around in the parking lot looking at cars, a sales agent resembling an alligator is human clothing approached. “Hey, little lady, I understand you want to buy a car.” I shook my head with excitement and enthusiasm. The car salesperson addressed my male friend with questions I asked. After about ten minutes I said to my friend, “Let’s go.”
Several weeks ago, my niece lost her car. Some driver, supposedly, went through the neighborhood, drove through the back of her car, and pushed the car into a parked car in front of her parked car. As luck would have it, she was not in the car. Suffice to say, the insurance company totaled the car. With even more luck on her side, the car’s value was large enough that she could afford a down payment on another car. Although at age forty-something she had never bought her own car, I decided it was time she learned. If you are scratching your head as to why, this is a long and winding story that does not have a happy ending, so let’s put that on the side of the road for now.
Upon her request, our first stop was a Toyota dealership. She hadn’t yet received her paperwork nor the worth of the wrecked car, so our visit was short and sweet. The salesperson would not waste time, no blame here, unless she could get a car loan. But she learned how to speak with a car sales agent and the procedures in place.
A week later, our next stop was to see my trusted car sales agent, a gentleman and a scholar who has always treated me with respect. Once he understood my niece’s financial constraints, he found several vehicles for her to road test. At the end of that day, she had narrowed her choices down to three cars. Using her wisdom, she decided she wanted to think about which car was her best option. About a week later, she was ready to pull the trigger after walking, busing, and begging for rides to her job at the hospital, working ten-hour shifts as a certified surgical technologist.
Sadly, we found out that my trusted car salesperson was in Las Vegas at a Cadillac training summit. Since this was her only day off this week, she needed to buy a car. Within a short amount of time, the manager of the dealership arranged for a young and very affable and capable man to help us. Of the two cars she had narrowed her search down to, one was gone, but after a variety of pros and cons, she decided that the car that was left was in fact the winner. Time for the games to begin!
Negotiations, negotiations, negotiations. Picture this. Two women in a car agency! Let me give you some context. I am not dressed in business clothes, nor am I wearing any makeup. My skill set in negotiations has left a few people weeping. A guy from Harvard said that in a true negotiation each person should feel a bit hurt at the end of the bargain. Now the paperwork is coming back and forth. I know that my nieces’ credit is poor, and this is a problem. That’s why I was there, but she has cash for a down payment. After over two hours of this back and forth, they offer us 22% APR (annual percentage rate or how much the loan costs). I’m thinking you guys are out of your freaking tree. For a car loan, I mean WTF!
She and I are sitting there patiently waiting when “the guy,” the manager, comes over. He has in his hand some paperwork. He says to us, “I don’t know if you know how to read a credit report.”
Inside, I am thinking, are you f___king kidding me? I reply, “Um, I’ve done business all over the world.” Inside, I am also thinking of my niece, and I have been over her credit issues with a fine-tooth comb. She and I pull up our chairs closer, so we can see the paper. Now John, who is not at the bar, nor a friend of mine, reads off the paper. My niece and I explaining each patch on her heavily wounded credit report. Her car got repossessed for less than a day two years back, and it’s still showing up.
My mind wanders to a dark place. If I were a man, would he speak to me this way? Then I notice he is shaking. But I still can’t figure out what he is trying to prove. Except that the Apr. was rising rather than shrinking. We are now in our fourth hour of negotiation, and I am getting disgusted with this whole arrangement. Part of me wants to get up and walk, but I know my niece needs a car. Finally, he gets to the point. “If you would co-sign for the loan, this would lower her payments and the APR.”
In 2025, my credit is sterling. I have owned my own businesses, have business credit cards, along with a variety of other credit markers, even though I am married. Lol, sometimes my credit score is higher than my husband’s.
Another hour, and finally we get a box of roses. The deal is going to go through. But now, because I am co-signing for the loan, I must stay and sign all the paperwork with my niece. In case you’ve never been in this situation, this is when all the stupid stuff happens. The car sales associate tries to upsell you on all this bullshit you don’t need. First, because you have car insurance, it covers a bunch of that stuff, and your warranty by the car brand covers the other. But this is where the salesperson makes some bonus coin in his or her pocket.
They arrive with a lower APR, which is still 9%! But the car payment is where she feels comfortable. He tries once more to add the needless stuff to the car payment. I don’t want to tell she doesn’t need those things; I want her to learn. She reads the screen with care and says, no thank you. At five o’clock the world series has started, I can see them singing the national anthem on the television in the dealership, and I am just pulling out of the car agency, and I am pissed that at five eleven I am missing the first pitch. My niece gets to drive her new car home and is so happy — mission accomplished! Another woman now knows how to buy a car without a man! The World Series went into extra innings, and after eighteen innings, Freddie Freeman hit a walk-off home run. The Dodgers lead the World Series two to one.
