Sight Unseen I'd like to think I learn something new every day. It certainly seems like there is a lot out there I don't know yet. In fact, every time I think I've learned just about everything there is to learn, I find out just how much remains. Realistically, there are times when skipping a lesson or two would be a blessing. But the harsh reality of life suggests that learning isn't optional, with the lessons coming whether I want to learn that day or not. It's not that I have a problem with learning; I'd just like to have a little something to say about when these lessons are scheduled and what they're going to be all about every once in a while. Once upon a time it was easier. When I was younger and on the shop floor 10 or 12 hours a day, six days a week, the lessons were all about the technology of service, maintenance and repair and how best to approach the vehicle. The vehicle owner was someone else's responsibility. As I began to transition from the shop floor to the service counter and then finally to the office, I found that in addition to struggling with the ever-increasing burden of technology, most of the lessons related to the intricate tangle of interpersonal relationships that exist between the front office and everyone else, and they had a lot more to do with the psychology of automotive service than electronics, chemistry or physics.
The lessons I learned on the shop floor were incredibly challenging, and I'm proud to say I learned them well. They have proven invaluable over time and not just under the hood. But, they are nothing in comparison to those lessons I've had to learn across the service counter. Regardless of how complex the vehicle has become, how abstract the strategies and programming might seem or how difficult the diagnosis might be, they are all still grounded in the simple logic of: If this, then that. Whatever else interpersonal relationships might be, they are anything but logical. Take, for instance, people who buy stuff sight unseen. I know it's done all the time, all across America. That's why I'm drowning in the dozens of unsolicited catalogues that arrive at the shop or at home every week. I just can't bring myself to participate in that madness personally. I guess when all is said and done I'm just not that trusting, not that adventurous. The blind courage of those who feel comfortable taking that kind of a chance with a pair of slippers, a"T-shirt" or a bathrobe astounds me. Taking the next logical step and purchasing something of consequence is beyond the scope of my comprehension. How do you know what you're getting when you send away for something based solely on a copywriter's ability to make a lump of carbon look, sound and feel like a two-carat diamond? How do you know if whatever it is you just bought is going to look, fit or feel the way it was represented if you can't see it, touch it or try it on before you write a check or send off your credit card number? How do you know if it's going to achieve the desired result, solve the problem or meet the need for which it was intended? How do you know if it will do that which you purchased it to do?
And, most of the stuff you are asked to buy sight unseen is a staple: a commodity item like clothing, office supplies or specialty products. What about the folks who buy big stuff, like property, motorcycles, cars and trucks? And what do you do when one of your customers decides to embark upon a long- distance shopping odyssey through a catalogue or on the Internet and insists that you take that journey with them? We just went down that rabbit hole with one of our customers, someone who I'm sure considers himself a "loyal and lifetime" customer despite the many times they have fallen off the radar for a few years at a time. In spite of those unexplainable absences, they do spend money when they drop by, and I suppose the definition of "lifetime and loyal" is resilient enough to withstand a bit of a stretch now and again. They started with us 10 years ago after we resurrected a "bad" engine rebuild on a 1974 Formula 400 for them and have been coming in ever since with an assortment of import and domestic vehicles requiring everything from normal maintenance to critical care. The Firebird was the most problematical of all the vehicles they brought in. It required just about everything the customer had just paid for someplace else in order to stop a litany of frustrations and complaints including excessive oil consumption, bilious clouds of blue smoke at idle or under load, and a severe lack of power. This vehicle had found a special place in the vehicle owner's heart. To him it was much more than just a car and that meant special care to restore both the performance of the vehicle and the confidence of the owner -- both of which we managed easily enough just doing what we do. That started a decade-long relationship that included maintaining that vehicle in as close to like-new condition as the owner was willing and able to pay for. After 30 years of ownership, many trips to our shop and a bright, new, yellow paint job, our customer decided it was finally time to say goodbye to the Firebird. He posted it on the Internet and sold "his baby" to a young man from Canada who had always wanted a bright yellow, like-new, Pontiac Firebird Formula 400. All that remained was a prepurchase inspection to ensure the new owner that the vehicle was everything it was purported to be, something our customer insisted we would be happy to do for him. I don't know about you, but tangled relationships like these always make me a little queasy. Sure, we knew the vehicle as well or better than anyone else and our customer was probably right in suggesting there was no one better to inspect it. But who -- in effect -- is your customer in a case like this: the former owner or the prospective one? Does working for both individuals constitute a conflict of interest, or is it possible to remain dispassionately objective? And, if you are able to remain dispassionately objective, will it ultimately cost you a relationship if something you find turns out to be a "deal-breaker." I explained that we would be working for and accountable to whoever paid for the inspection and that it was our job to literally pick the vehicle apart when performing an inspection like the one we were about to perform. That meant itemizing everything-- from the smallest and most inconsequential service to the most serious repair -- and then prioritizing the work based on safety, the severity of the problems encountered and those things absolutely necessary to keep a 30-year-old vehicle moving and on the road.
It wasn't easy, but we made it happen. We went through the vehicle using the same process we instituted just about the same time the Firebird first came to us, a 367-point inspection that leaves very little room for failures or omissions when executed correctly. As you might imagine, we found a number of things that could use attention. We sent a series of high-resolution digital pictures back and forth to the prospective owner and e-mailed him a PDF copy of our estimates. He looked things over and e-mailed or called us back with a series of questions and finally, his authorization to repair, service or maintain those things necessary for the long drive to Canada. The original owner agreed to replace some fuel lines and the upper and lower radiator hoses in order to ensure the vehicle was roadworthy from his perspective, and the new owner authorized the rest. As a service provider "of record," I was relieved to discover there was nothing dangerous or severely wrong with the vehicle -- nothing that had deteriorated out of hand since we had last seen the vehicle. As the original owner, our customer was gratified to know that he had made the right choice when it came to taking care of his vehicles. As the new or prospective owner, the young man from Canada was probably just as relieved as I was to learn he had picked the "right" 1974 "classic," at least the right one for him. And, just about all of this was accomplished through a series of digital, long-distance connections and communications without the perspective owner having to open the hood, start the engine, kick the tires or take it for a spin around the block himself. All things taken into consideration, things went well. Certainly well enough to justify a second look at long-distance catalogue or Internet commerce for just about anyone else but me. Even having seen it work, I'm still not comfortable with the idea of spending serious money -- even some not so serious money -- on something I can't see, touch or feel myself. I guess I'm kind of a generational throwback of sorts when it comes to stuff like this. I can still remember my father giving me my first lesson in Latin: "Caveat Emptor -- Let The Buyer Beware!" I can still remember an age where it was the buyer's responsibility to make an effective purchasing decision: not the court's, not the seller's and not the state legislature's. Commerce is and has always been a contact sport, and buying anything should require due diligence and the active participation of the buyer. Anything less is risky, if not just plain foolish. Unless, of course, you are able to enlist someone you trust as much or more than you trust yourself to act as your agent or your advocate: Someone to see it, touch it and feel it for you, a professional able and willing to take some of the risk associated with buying something sight unseen out of the equation -- someone like me or you or us.
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