On Dealership Life and My Irrational Fear of Classic Rock

There comes a moment when you realize you’ve flown too close to the sun. When you’ve worked fervently to reach a goal, but got way too in over your head chasing an unrealistic dream. In these moments, you self-interrogate to discover your true motives; “Is this right for me? Do I want to be here? I shouldn’t give this up, or should I?” This is where my mind was last summer when I worked as a car salesman. I’ve lived several past lives at many dealerships, all in the name of earning this position, just to have my soul broken to the point where I quit a month in. Let’s rewind the clock to understand how I got here.

Five years ago, I was a chipper 17-year-old senior in high school. By then, I’d caught a whiff of adult independence and was eager to earn money. So when the school year started, the search for my first job began. When you’re that young your options of finding a gig that’s above minimum wage is very, very slim. I’m fortunate enough to have a well-connected mother, who knew someone that knew someone who worked at a BMW dealer out of town. They were looking for a new Genius– their version of a geek squad service for owners- and my ears perked up at the offer. The caveat was that I didn’t have my driver’s license yet, and the job required some driving experience. Nonetheless, I got all gussied up, watched countless YouTube advice videos, got soaked with rain while walking to the interview, and somehow landed a job as a sales receptionist, with a manager’s promise of becoming a Genius once I turned 18 and got my license. 

It didn’t take long to realize the huge money-making potential of the car sales business. I was around people who fed families with their paychecks, while I was spending my hourly wages on video games and late-night outings with friends. The countless conversations I’d have with salesmen made it seem like selling cars was easy. Some of them couldn’t tell you the difference between an X3 and an X7, all that mattered was having the charisma, personality, and social skills to win over the client and make a sale. They were raking in so much cash that it was unfathomable, and, of course, I wanted to join in on all the fun. With that in mind, I thought, “Hey, I’m a people person, I’m likable, and I know cars, so maybe I could give this salesman thing a shot.”

Though I was laid off from my first job due to the pandemic, the seeds were planted for my arduous climb up the corporate ladder. Shortly after moving to campus, I got a job as a lot attendant at Carmax. Then during that summer break, I was a delivery driver for a Maserati dealer back home in Pennsylvania. After that, I returned to BMW- now at a dealership near DC- as a service valet. My advancements were enough to get me a shot as a salesman at Lincoln, with the initial plan being to work throughout the summer, make enough money to cover rent, pay off some student loans, get the enthusiast car of my dreams, and then quit when classes started up again. 

You’re probably thinking that this seemed like a not-well-thought-out and idealistic way of doing things, and that’s because it was. Before I knew how commission pay actually worked, I was on Bring-a-Trailer scoping out suitable prospects to replace my boring Ford Focus. Being the only one in my working-class family who knows cars, I felt I missed out on the milestones that “normal” enthusiasts have already experienced, like driving a stick shift, going on mountain drives, showing off my car at meets, etc. My boyhood dreams and social media envy blinded me to the disastrous few weeks ahead.

I hated every single nanosecond I spent at that place. The workdays were bafflingly long. Our phones would be silent for hours, because if we’re being honest here, nobody buys Lincolns anymore. Beautiful sunny days were wasted waiting, waiting, and waiting inside this air-conditioned, tiled floored, floor-to-ceiling windowed cage. Waiting for the shift to end, waiting for a customer to walk in, waiting for a car to get delivered, waiting for a callback, waiting for something-anything to happen. My ever-so wonderful and annoyingly passive-aggressive manager wasn’t helping the time pass either, he’d make me feel like the donkey of the day because I didn’t know all the ins and outs of the business. My fault for trying to learn something new. I’d love to say that it wasn’t all bad, but one huge constant pushed me over the edge.

Eerily stalking me through the jobs I’ve had, is 80’s classic rock. As you’re reading now, I can bet my life a dealership somewhere is playing classic rock through its speakers. Don’t get me wrong, the genre is fine, and there are some songs I unironically enjoy listening to. But when you’re hearing the same goddamn songs every day, sometimes for hours on end, it could almost drive you into madness. I have listened to “Don’t Stop Believin’” against my will 57,000 times. I’ve heard “Bohemian Rhapsody” more than I’ve heard myself breathe. I cower in childlike fear when I hear the beginning guitar strings of “Hotel California.” If you held a loaded gun to my head and told me the only way I’d survive is if I sang “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” with zero mistakes, I’d have no dignity left but I’d live to tell the tale. 

For a long time, classic rock was a nagging reminder of my shortcomings, a testament to the long hours that I’d internally beg for an escape from my coffee-fueled hell, and a flashback for all the moments I’d missed out on because I was so deadlocked on living a fantasy. 

When I’d finally had enough and quit, I sped to the nearest beach I could find. I didn’t care that I was still wearing my button-up shirt and slacks. All I wanted was a nice, calming place to reflect and feel the warmth of the world again. A part of me wanted to be disappointed, and another wanted to go back and beg for my job. But after all those years of trying to make my life “better,” I began to appreciate it for what it is now. So what if I don’t have the money, new car, or whatever else I fantasized about. It’ll all come in due time. I’m grateful that I got this far, and I’m glad I figured out this wasn’t for me.

I don’t want you to walk away thinking the car sales business is all bad. It’s an extremely demanding job, and I have nothing but respect for those who can withstand it. I’ve met people I consider lifelong friends through working at these dealerships, and I wouldn’t trade the experiences and lessons learned for anything else. Like at Carmax, I drove a manual for the first time, and at the Maserati dealer, I drove a Lamborghini Huracan! Yeah, it was for only 15 seconds, but to this day I can’t believe I had the access to do that.

If you’re a young enthusiast reading this, I’d lightly recommend working at a dealership or becoming a salesman. It’s worth it if you want access to your dream cars. Just don’t let anyone try to sell you a dream. Yes, the money can potentially be life-changing, but be aware that a lot of time and energy goes into doing this. If you can handle that, more power to you. But make sure this is what you want to do. And please, try to make time for yourself and your loved ones. 

The next morning, I awoke to a familiar foe. My neighbors were having a cookout and through the chatter, I could hear, “Just a small town girl, Livin’ in a lonely world, She took the midnight train going anywhere…”

I shut my windows, put a pillow over my head, and lulled myself back to sleep.