Come All Ye Hagglers Near and Far, A Warning Take from Me

Two or three years ago now, a pair of women who said they were visiting the area from out of state were browsing cookbooks and crafts. When the time came for check-out, one stepped forward with four books in her hand.

“I want these,” she said, indicating three of them, “but I don’t want to pay $6 for this one.” She held up a local cuisine cookbook in pristine condition. “That’s too high.”

Her manner being somewhat brusque, I swallowed my rising hackles and said, “Tell you what; I’ll look it up online and see if I can come down a bit.”

I looked it up. The cheapest price was $9.

Now, had I had a better cup of coffee that morning, been less annoyed by her assertion that I was trying to cheat her, or otherwise not found myself suddenly holding the upper hand, I might have just shown her the screen and said, “Do you want it for $6 now?”

Instead, I said, “Well, whadda ya know?! It was priced wrong!” Then I crossed out $6 and wrote in $9, smiled less sweetly than saccharine-like at the woman, and showed her the online price range.

“I am assuming you don’t want it any more?” My voice probably sounded like honey dripping off a razor blade.

Her friend laughed out loud. “Caught in your own trap!” she crowed, which I suspect did not make the poor embarrassed woman feel any better. She paid for her other books, her friend paid for hers (without haggling) and off they went.

Looking back on the moment, I suppose I should have been grateful she was buying inside a bookstore at all. But used bookstore owners, antique store owners, handmade craft sellers and other people who hear on an hourly basis that their prices are too high, that they’re dealing dishonestly–well, we have been known to snap. You want honesty? We can give you honesty….

So hagglers take warning: when you ask “Would you take less?” you might get more than you bargained for.

Booking Across the Road

Jack’s weekly guest blog is about his mistress – aka his little red sports car

For those who don’t know, I own a bright red 1962 MGB. Back in Scotland I was her second owner, and thanks to the largesse of a friend who was her third and wanted her to settle with me in our golden years, I am her fourth. And MidGe, as we call her, is now an American citizen.IMG_4181

I took MidGe to our friendly local–as in 3 minutes walk, and about the same time driving–repair shop for her annual safety inspection. This is always a laugh, as cars over 25 years old only have to conform to the regulations in place when they were new; the list of ‘things to be checked’ is more than twenty items,  but the process goes fairly quickly: emission control? She doesn’t have any.  Reverse lights? Nope. And so on.

Hovering around was a young guy in the classic garb of a car mechanic:  baseball cap and dungarees of a uniform dark blue-grey (pretty much the color of 20w/30 motor oil, in fact – funny that!) He watched as MidGe was put through her paces, then ambled over and said, “lemeesrtatarrgharaghafirya.”

I said “Sure!” but thought What?!

It turns out that one of my rear lights was out. Baseball cap lad was clearly happy about this, as he’d been stroking MidGe in an affectionate way and sending her approving glances. It was obvious he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

He and his associate began to wrestle with the lamp fitting, which was attached to the over-rider by two small nuts and bolts, which in turn was attached to the rear bumper by a ginormous nut and bolt. Getting the bulb required all these to be dismantled.

Baseball cap lad looked positively radiant.

By the time they reached MidGe’s innards, I’d been there an hour, and the bookstore was due to open in 5 minutes. I explained to the young man that I would need to come back for the car later.

“Dyaaalnidanyilchyinge?” he said.

I blinked, stupefied.

“An ayil chainge,” he repeated, with hand gestures.

“Oh – an oil change – great, yes please.”

I set off and had walked a few yards when a thought struck me, so I called back, “Change the plugs as well.”

“Whaayit”?

“The spaaaaaark plugs,” I enunciated.

“Oh, seur. Whadabawt waayirs?”

I could only stare.

“Whaayirs!” Exasperated, he gave up on hand gestures and put his fists on his hips.

Clueless, I responded, “Those too, yes, thanks.”

I got poor MidGe back six hours later, looking offended; I’m sure baseball cap lad was too familiar with her, alone in the workroom. She had new plugs, new oil, new air filters, new wires and a new lamp housing –re-attached back to front.

Bless his heart.