With The Legal Alien – Monthly Musings from an Englishman in LA
All of our vehicles have Flux Capacitors! said Chad, Randy or whatever equally cliché name this car salesman had.
I was standing in the lot of the 23rd car dealer I had visited that day, in my pursuit to eradicate hire car fees, and get myself independently mobile in Los Angeles. It was, however, not proving an easy task. No matter how definite my description of the features, budget, colour or model, it appeared that every single car was “just what I needed”.
My first stop of the day took me to a small dealer of classic Cadillacs on Sunset Boulevard. The owner whom I can describe in no better way than Del Boy and 50 Cent’s lovechild seemed not to take to me too well.
“This one’s outta your price range” he belted, before asking me what that might be.
“You’re gonna end up like one of those loony-freaks wearing a tutu on Hollywood Boulevard talking that mess.”
Interesting. Later that day, I found a dealer from England, who “understood my pain”. After a backslap or two, and four attempts to upsell warranties, fiddle the finance quote, and convince me that green really was my colour, I left empty handed. You can take the man out of Peckham…
I finally found the perfect car – the exact model, colour, price and condition I was looking for. I called to make an appointment, and the dealer asked me to meet him in the car park of a burger joint. I enquired about coming to the showroom, but he “assured me” that they don’t have one – they just park them there. Fishy, I thought, but intrigue got the better of me
I told him I’d meet him there in ten minutes. “Oh I’m busy elsewhere right now” he said “but you go ahead and look – the door’s open, and the keys are under the sun visor”.
Really? This was a slick, black Chrysler convertible in mint condition. I went down, and sure enough, it was parked at a drive-thru. I pulled the handle, and sure enough the door opened. I lifted the sun visor, and sure enough the keys were there. I pulled the roof down, played the stereo, popped the trunk, all on my own with no-one around. I called the dealer back and asked to meet him – the car was perfect. Was it stolen? Is it a trap? Was I gonna be on Punk’d?
I looked everywhere for the hidden cameras half-expecting the car to fill with foam or something as ridiculous. But all was ok, I did all the necessary checks, and it was kosher. After speaking to some other Angelenos, they thought that was fairly normal.
It seems that the moral here is that they trust until they have reason to mistrust, whereas the British attitude is vice versa. With my gleaming new car acquired, I then had to overcome one more obstacle – the driving test. It is law that if you buy and register a car in California, you have to get a Californian license. How hard can it be, I thought? I’d been driving for 11 years in England, and for the last 2 months here.
The written test was first, which was a breeze of multiple choice: If you see a red hexagonal sign with the words “STOP” in the middle, you must: A Come to a complete stop, and look around before you proceed, B Carry on driving absent-mindedly, being very careful not to spill the liquor you are consuming or C Immediately abort your vehicle, in order to instigate an impromptu protestation about KFC’s cruelty to chickens (and bread buns) on the sidewalk, whilst attempting to moonwalk.
Needless to say, I passed that. So I sat in my car, feeling quite surreal, staring up at the Hollywood sign in the distance, waiting my turn. Things didn’t begin well when my instructor,
a huge meaty lump of a man banged on my door to let him in. He was in a bad mood. 20 minor faults later, we parked up. But here’s the ridiculous thing: “You’re allowed fifteen faults.
You made twenty. You’ve failed,” he grunted at me. So I said thank you, and I drove off anyway, thanks to the British license in my pocket!
You’ll be pleased to know I passed my second test with flying colours, so the California highways now have the pleasure of another pasty white Brit driving around with the music
up and the hood down, making a complete tourist of himself.
You’ve gotta love us…
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