Dad has never been afraid to bargain. The day I bought my car, I saw a master at work

1 day ago 7

I was nine when Dad first gave me the advice that would be a golden thread, a parable of wisdom conveying all his hard-earned knowledge in a few words.

He had just finished a long week at the mixed business we owned in the city, and we were at Menai Marketplace in Sydney’s south for a very special purchase. I was desperate for a PlayStation 1. I pointed at the Big W price tag and asked: “Dad, is this expensive?”

He said that nothing was expensive for us, as long as I got good marks in my tests.

We went to the counter. The saleswoman was a blond middle-aged lady.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” he began. “Is this your best price?” I went outside to let Dad work the trade.

On the way home, PlayStation in tow, I asked him why he always did that.

He told me that I should never be afraid to bargain: “If you don’t ask, you don’t get!”

Dad has been putting this maxim to the test every day of his life. In theory, it might sound like some lofty invocation to be courageous, to tackle every challenge boldly. In practice, it’s the more banal reality of him asking the guy at the Aldi counter if there are any further reductions on liquorice bullets.

In 2022, more than 20 years after the release of the PlayStation 1, I follow Dad into a Volkswagen dealership. Now hunched with sciatica, he still has a purposeful confidence and a rugged but wearied charisma about him.

He wants me to feel satisfied with a purchase that will make me proud for a long time after I drive away. He also thinks I’m stupid with salespeople, liable to say and pay too much.

There is only one car we’re really interested in, and it’s not even a Volkswagen. Dad says European cars are too hard to maintain. I give the game away almost immediately, spotting the 2004 Kia Cerato, which Dad discovered after extensive digging online, parked outside with all the other pre-owned vehicles.

I tell him it looks like it’s in good shape.

Dad pulls me aside abruptly and tells me, in Arabic, not to let the dealers know I like the car.

Inside the dealership, Dad begins his predatory shark game. His face is grave: vague curiosity, little expression. He circles the gleaming, air-conditioned lot. With his walking stick, he hits a hub cap here and strikes a bonnet there. He is declaring his presence.

In his home city – El-Qantara el-Sharqîya, a small town on the Suez canal – fishermen would throw their lines into the canal and wait for hours for fish to take the bait. Today, Dad is also baiting his catch, deliberately provoking the sales staff – standard issue white guys in navy blue polyester suits. Who is the hungriest fish?

I follow him from afar, swallowing my frustration and preparing myself for a drawn out pursuit. After about 10 minutes, someone approaches. Dad asks the skinny salesman what he thinks of the Kia.

The salesman says it doesn’t matter what he thinks, what matters is what Dad thinks. With this, he opens the Cerato’s door and gestures for us to sit down.

Dad lumbers laboriously into the front seat. He examines the freshly detailed interior. The steering wheel, the rear-view mirror, the glove compartment. He glances at the logbook. Nothing escapes his gaze or his barrage of questions about the previous owners, registration dates and thoroughness of the last service.

Dad pulls the car on to the street. I’m in the passenger seat and the salesman is in the back.

The salesman reminds us of the 50km/h speed limit. Dad puts his loafer down hard on the accelerator.

“Acceleration a bit slow,” Dad says as he charges down a shopping strip, causing a small woman to jump back from the pedestrian crossing and knock over her fabric wheelie trolley. We arrive back at the dealership. The salesman’s composure is intact and Dad’s face is like a slate of old granite in the Valley of the Kings. I’m anxious about the possibility that I will not take this car home today, because Dad won’t like the price.

The salesman says the car is in great condition, and asks if we would like to drive home with it today.

Dad mumbles some protestations about the condition of the car. That’s when our salesman surprises me.

He tells us there are plenty of other buyers interested in the car, and that he won’t waste our time if we won’t waste his. He is made of firmer stuff than he looks.

We learn later that he’s from Donnybrook, about 200km from Perth, which, like Dad’s home town near Port Said, is the lesser town to a more famous city. My father and the salesman have some things in common. Both men are hungry, both appreciate the value of a dollar and both have nothing else on today.

Dad says we’re interested, we just need a fair deal.

He starts listing extenuating circumstances that might sway this austere salesman to our favour. They include me having a perfect driving record and being able to pay in cash today. I was suspended for speeding twice and the only thing in my wallet is an expired Medicare card.

The salesman looks unconvinced. That’s when Dad reveals his juiciest bait.

We also have a good car for trade-in, he announces and offers the salesman a key.

The salesman, eyebrows raised, takes the key and trudges outside to look at my sister’s 1999 Toyota Yaris, which I’ve been driving for five years.

A few minutes later, he returns with his manager. Dad leans over to me with a warning, that he’s going to say some bullshit about what’s wrong with the car. Sure enough, we’re told about a “thumping noise” emitted by the gearbox, scratches to the exterior and the age of the vehicle. They can only offer a deduction of $2,000 on the asking price.

Dad scoffs and says they must be joking.

The manager – a man of quieter gravity than his protege – speaks up. He tells Dad that he can see how serious we are about making a purchase, but that with all these liabilities in mind and the state of the market, he can’t go any lower without losing money for the dealership. My heart drops. I turn to my father, my eyes pleading. I’m on the verge of tears.

“I’m afraid $14,500 is the best I can do, Mr Nour,” the manager says.

Dad tells him that for $14,000, I will shake his hand today.

This is all too much. My head feels light and there’s a catch in my throat. I need a break. I go to make a cup of coffee at the courtesy De’Longhi espresso machine.

When I come back, I find the salesman grinning and Dad chuckling softly. Something has changed between these two men – game recognises game. The real arbitration, however, is between Dad and the manager.

The manager wearily says he can’t budge further. “It’s $14,200 or nothing.”

Dad turns to me seriously, with his eyes wide in a questioning stare. He has fixed the contest, but mine is the deciding vote. Will I accept the terms?

I reach forward to shake the manager’s hand.

After a half-hour session of contract-signing and payment transactions, Dad stops on the way out, looking to see if I will say anything else. I surprise myself and ask if they can throw anything else in to sweeten the deal. Dad laughs.

I drive off that day with a new car, two branded umbrellas and a feeling that I have just scored the freshest gaming console on the market and finished all my homework.