by Doug DeMuro
To this day, months later, nothing more has come of this. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Here’s how I envision it: They call me up one evening and berate me for several minutes, screaming at me for harming the car; for destroying their poor Peugeot; for wrecking the only convertible in their rental fleet. They yell at me for the flat spare tire and for using the costly roadside assistance. They berate me for damaging the rocker panel and for the bubble in the rear tire. And I listen intently to all this yelling, and screaming, and anger, and scolding. And then, when they’re finally finished with the stern lecture, I reply: “Yes, I admit it. That’s all true. But you’ll notice there isn’t a scratch on the mirrors!”
My Experience with Aston Martin Corporate
As you can imagine, I get asked a lot of the same questions multiple times. On Jalopnik, people want to know how I became an automotive journalist. On Twitter, people ask me to post more pictures of my cars doing weird things. And on YouTube, people ask: Why the f*** r u so dumb u motherf***ass loser? So it’s a mixed bag, and really I love all of my readers and viewers.
One of the questions I get most frequently is: Do you have a relationship with Aston Martin corporate? Do they know who you are? Do they like you? Do they hate you? The answer to the first two questions is that I certainly have “a relationship” with Aston Martin corporate, just like two celebrities getting a divorce have a relationship, in the sense that they speak to each other as little as humanly possible, but they don’t want to seem like bitter assholes, so they say nice things about each other in press releases. The answer to the second two questions is that our relationship isn’t especially rosy. And now I’m going to explain why.
For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, allow me to educate you: during the year 2016, I owned an Aston Martin with a one-year bumper-to-bumper certified pre-owned warranty, and I wrote about doing various things with it, which occasionally involved having it towed away whenever it failed. This may be obvious to you, in 2016, but I’m providing this background because people might be buying this book in 2017, or 2018, or it might be like the Bible and people in Year 5479 are reading it after going for a walk with their robotic dog, who is also their stockbroker, and they might teach classes on Doug, Chapter 2, Verse 58, wherein The Doug states “and thenith my Range Roverith broke downith.”
So here’s what happened. Only a couple weeks after I got my Aston Martin, I had it towed to the local dealership because a rock got stuck in the brake caliper and it was making this insane screeching noise that sounded like an alien was trapped inside my alloy wheel and he was desperate to get out so he could travel back to his home country. So we towed to the car to the dealer. When we got there, the check engine light was on, and the dealer realized that the engine timing had somehow gotten messed up, and we’d have to perform some major repair to make it right again.
Now, during this whole escapade, I had posted several images of my Aston Martin sitting on a flatbed, and getting loaded on to a flatbed, and riding on a flatbed, and I may have mentioned something about how my Aston Martin was “as durable as tissue paper.” So it’s possible that the Aston Martin people were not really happy with the way my ownership was beginning.
With that said, my dealership—FC Kerbeck Aston Martin in Palmyra, New Jersey—treated me fantastically, even before they knew that I was someone who takes pride in writing about automobiles while simultaneously not wearing pants. My service advisor is a guy named Eric, and I truly believe he thinks I am clinically insane, but he is very nice, and really respectful, and whenever I’m leaving the dealership he always asks me if I want to keep the little paper mat they put in the driver’s footwell to make sure it doesn’t get dirty. Of course, I always decline this offer, because I have about as much use for that thing as I have for an adult antelope, unless of course he is also a robotic stockbroker. But it’s the thought that counts.
So when Eric called me about a week later to let me know the major repair had been completed, we chatted on the phone for a minute, and then I did what I always do: I asked him what the total cost would be.
“Oh,” Eric said, “don’t worry. You have a warranty. It’s free for you.”
“Oh, yeah, I understand,” I told Eric. “But, you know, I want to know what it would cost.”
“There’s no cost,” said Eric, a little more firmly. “It’s covered under warranty.”
I began to get a little suspicious. Was Eric trying to avoid telling me what this repair would cost? Was Eric trying to hide the amount of money I would’ve spent to repair my vehicle if it weren’t for my now-famous Aston Martin bumper-to-bumper warranty?
“Yeah, I know,” I said, pressing the issue. “But I need to know the total cost, so I can write about it.”
Eric hesitated slightly. Then he responded: “Look, I’ve been told I can’t share that information with you.”
Yes, that’s right: someone in the Aston Martin chain of command had gotten wind of my little V8 Vantage ownership experience and told my local Aston Martin dealer to stop telling me what my repairs would’ve cost if I didn’t have my warranty.
Immediately, I told Eric that was OK, and I got off the phone. I realized I had put Eric in the difficult position of managing his relationship with his customer and with Aston Martin, and I didn’t want him to lose his job. To solve this problem, I was going to have to go directly to Aston Martin corporate, where I would explain precisely two things: Number one, if you don’t tell me what it costs to fix the car, I’m going to find out anyway, because I’m going to call a friend at another dealership. And number two, if you don’t tell me what it costs to fix the car, I’m going to have to tell people that you wouldn’t tell me.
So I e-mailed Aston Martin’s director of communications, and I wrote this breathless message about how I love the car, and I think I was having some early hiccups, but I suspect everything will be better now that I’m driving it a little more, and I really have a lot of great stuff planned for it, and oh yeah, you need to tell me what it costs to fix this thing, or else I’m going to find out anyway, and I’m going to have to tell people that you wouldn’t tell me.
I mean, this e-mail was a real whopper: incredibly long and perfectly edited and obsessively written to get my point across, which is that I wasn’t a bad guy, and I wasn’t out to hurt Aston Martin, but if you hide the repair costs from me then everyone on the Internet will be talking about how Aston Martin wanted to prevent some idiot blogger from revealing how expensive their vehicles really are to own.
Now, Aston Martin’s director of communications is this British guy who I had never met, and so I had no idea how he would treat me. Would he reply with disdain? Scorn? Would he flatly ignore me? Would he laugh in my face? Would he ask: Why the f*** r u so dumb u motherf***ass loser?
As it turned out, he handled it in a very British way. He responded to my e-mail, which was probably something like eight hundred total words, with one simple sentence:
“Doug,
Let me look into it and see what I can come up with.”
No pleasantries. No exchange of greetings. Just a nice, short message that would’ve gotten the same point across just as well if he had ended his sentence with “... you asshole.” Which, let’s be honest, he probably wanted to do.
The very next morning, I got a call from Eric, who apparently had an epiphany overnight and promptly informed me of the cost to fix my car: $4,409. At this point, I had owned the car for all of two months, and the warranty—which cost about $3,600 extra when I initially bought the car—had already managed to pay for itself. Eric apologized for not sharing the cost with me earlier, and added that his relationship was with me, and not Aston Martin, and he wouldn’t be withholding information like that in the future.
A few hours later, I got an e-mail from Aston Martin’s director of communications, which said only:
“Doug,
Did that number find its way over to you?”
Asto
n Martin and I haven’t spoken since.
The Land Cruiser and CarMax
Back when I owned my Nissan Skyline GT-R, I wrote a column about bringing it to CarMax for an appraisal. I write these columns for every single weird car I buy. What happens is, I bring the weird car to CarMax, I take it to the appraisal people, and the appraisal people stand around looking confused, as if I’ve just asked them to appraise a potato chip. Then I write about it. It’s great.
What happens next is, dozens of people comment that I’ve “wasted the appraisal peoples’ time,” even though a) they spent approximately fourteen total minutes with me on a Tuesday morning, and b) the ensuing column about my appraisal experience receives something like 750,000 views, which is roughly forty-six times the impact of an average CarMax advertisement. I often attempt to explain this to the “you wasted their time” crowd, but they’re usually too busy using the phrase would of to care.
So all of this happened when I brought my Skyline in to CarMax: the appraisal people, the potato chip, the time-wasting comments, the 750,000 views. If you haven’t read the column, I can sum it up for you:
1. I took my Nissan Skyline GT-R to CarMax for an appraisal.
2. CarMax thought it was weird.
3. CarMax refused to appraise it.
4. I wrote that I thought this was surprising, because CarMax will appraise anything, “even if it’s 30 percent car and 70 percent duct tape.”
But the most interesting story of my Skyline appraisal had nothing to do with the actual appraisal. It was all about the guy I met in the parking lot.
Let me explain what happened. As I mentioned, I always go into CarMax for these stories on Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning or some other time when the appraisal staff is usually sitting around arguing about whose CarMax Polo shirt is bluer. So on this particular day, I wasn’t surprised that there was only one other car parked in the appraisal parking lot. I was surprised, however, that it was a mid-1990s Toyota Land Cruiser.
Now, anyone who knows me also knows that I am obsessed with the Toyota Land Cruiser in the same way that ants are obsessed with randomly zig-zagging around your driveway.
In fact, I think all Range Rover owners are obsessed with Land Cruisers, because they represent two things we don’t have: reliability and subtlety. Think about it: Range Rover owners spend $85,000 for an unreliable, problem-filled car that broadcasts a “Look how rich I am” message to everyone they pass, while Land Cruiser owners spend the exact same amount of money to get perfect reliability and tool around completely under the radar. Don’t these people know how uncool they are, Range Rover owners sneer from the side of the road, their engine having overheated after some crazy maneuver such as opening the glove box, while Land Cruiser owners cruise by on their way to explore Botswana.
And the mid-1990s ones are the best. They never die. They’re like the killer in a horror movie who’s been shot, and stabbed, and lit on fire, and attacked with a poisonous hunting spear, and he still gets back up and fights off three muscular police officers.
So I am obsessed. And I’m not the only one. In fact, mid-1990s Land Cruisers have a bit of a reputation in the automotive world: everyone wants them. Old people want them because they have good visibility and a commanding ride height. Off-roaders want them because they can be modified to go anywhere. Parents want them for their kids because they’re sturdy and safe. Businesses want them because they don’t need much maintenance. And young families want them because they have a ton of room and won’t lose value. So when a mid-1990s Land Cruiser is listed on Craigslist, it’s like when a tenant dies in a rent-controlled apartment in New York City. People are walking in with measuring tape during the wake.
And so, I was surprised to see one in the CarMax parking lot. Doesn’t this guy know he can just throw this thing on Craigslist and sell it in two hours?
As I approached the Land Cruiser, the answer to that question became obvious: he doesn’t know. The Land Cruiser had very old license plates, indicating it was probably owned by one person its whole life. It had markings from a dealer on Philadelphia’s Main Line, one of the wealthiest suburban areas in the United States. And it was fitted with ski racks and adorned with a bumper sticker from Bowdoin College, an elite private university in Maine. This wasn’t some kid selling it to get cash. This was a rich old guy who just wants to unload a vehicle he doesn’t need anymore. And he probably doesn’t care what he gets for it.
Now, at this point, I have to walk in to CarMax and begin the appraisal process for my Skyline, but the only thing I’m really thinking is: I’ve got to find the guy who owns this Land Cruiser.
So I sign in at the CarMax front desk, and I put down my name (“Doug D.”) and my vehicle (“Nissan Maxima”), and I begin to carry out one of the most time-honored, long-term traditions at any automobile dealership across this planet: profiling the customers. This guy is going to be sixty-five years old, he’s going to be white, and he’s going to look like he just stepped off the Martha’s Vineyard Ferry.
And by God, I have to get to him before CarMax does.
Young family with newborn baby in the corner? Nope. Young Hispanic woman getting coffee? Nope. Punk rock-looking dude wearing jean shorts with a tattoo of … what is that … a lawnmower? Nope. Where is he? Where is he? OH GOD WHAT IF HE’S IN THE OFFICE SIGNING THE PAPERS RIGHT NOW?! At this point, I started doing laps around the showroom, looking at everyone, trying to remember to occasionally glance at a 2012 Corolla they had parked inside so I didn’t seem like some creep who spends his Monday mornings down at the local CarMax, staring at people.
Then it happened: they called my name. It was time for my test drive with the appraiser.
Now, at this point, I had to really focus, because I was going to be writing a column about all of this later, and I needed to get the details right. The things the appraiser said, his feelings about piloting a right-hand drive vehicle with a manual transmission, his assessment of the condition and equipment of the car, and his general thoughts about the kind of idiot who brings an imported Nissan Skyline to CarMax. I’m a journalist, after all, and I have an obligation to the people, and I—I want to buy this freaking Land Cruiser.
So while we were out driving the car around, I was making small talk with the appraiser, and asking him what he thought of the car, but what I was really thinking was: Listen, buddy. Drive us back to the showroom as quickly as possible and introduce me to the owner of this freaking Land Cruiser, whose name is probably Hoyt, or maybe Thane.
Eventually, we did make it back to the dealership, and the Land Cruiser was still sitting in the parking lot. It wasn’t over yet.
Now, at this point in the process, what happens is the appraiser goes inside and talks to his manager and they look at wholesale car auction results and after about ten minutes they reappear and tell you what they’re willing to pay for your car. Usually, I pass this process by sitting nervously in the waiting area, afraid they’re going to come out and tell me that they know who I am and that I need to get the hell out of the showroom, because they’re sick of me bothering them, and oh by the way, before I go, could I help them settle a debate about whose CarMax Polo shirt is bluer?
This time, though, I did something a little different: I stayed outside, I walked over to the Land Cruiser, and I ran a Carfax report on it from the license plate number.
Here’s what I discovered. Yes, it was one owner. It was also religiously maintained at a local Toyota dealer since day one. And while the miles were high—around 195,000, I think—these things are easily known to go 400,000 miles before you even have to think about replacing major components like the engine and transmission. I started to get excited. This is such a cool car! An old Land Cruiser! A one-owner! And nobody else is going to have the chance to buy it! Just ME!!!!
It was about this time when I realized there might be an ethical dilemma involved here.
Consider it: if I’m going to poach random CarMax customers in CarMax’s own parking lot
, what stops a group of people from just lining up outside their local CarMax and walking up to people after their appraisals, offering $50 or $100 more than CarMax was willing to pay? What stops people from erecting signs outside CarMax to steal all their business? And beyond the ethical questions, is this even legal? Can I approach random CarMax customers on CarMax property and offer them money for the used cars they were trying to sell to CarMax? Especially considering that I write about CarMax on a fairly frequent basis, in the sense that I mention them every time my Range Rover suffers a mechanical failure such as the rear windshield wiper turns on full blast whenever the vehicle enters the Central Time Zone?
I decided at this point to call up my friend Joe for his opinion on these questions. I called Joe not because he was a lawyer, or a law student, or even a car dealership employee who might have been able to provide some actual insight into my inquires, but for a more important reason: because he also owned a mid-1990s Land Cruiser, and I figured he would tell me to forget about all that crap and buy the thing.