I had never seen my sister so mad.

We were standing in the showroom of a Sacramento Volkswagen dealership.

My sister had started her first teaching job. And she wanted to get her dream car, a new 1982 VW Rabbit Cabriolet convertible. It had to be red with a white soft top. Since she hadn’t built a solid credit report yet, she asked our older brother Richard for help.

Richard was in a much better financial position than anyone in our family. The problem was at the time he loathed the idea of using credit. He paid for everything in cash. I had established solid credit. A deal was struck. Richard loaned her a $4,000 down payment and I would co-sign the car loan. That meant I had to accompany my sister to the dealership.

So there I was looking at my sister who had what one might describe as daggers in her eyes. She had told the salesman that they had the car she wanted and that I would be co-signing. From the moment Mary said that, the salesman turned his attention to me. I reminded three times that Mary was buying the car. Still he continued to focus 100 percent on me.

Long story short, the visit was over a minute later.

It took us close to a week to convince my sister to try Sacramento’s other VW dealership. She left driving the Cabriolet and the salesman earned a commission. It was my first encounter with a clueless salesman who operated on commission. I had incorrectly assumed that all salesmen had a sixth sense at sizing people up. Ironically, the second commissioned salesman to be completely clueless was also selling cars. It was his first week on the job and regardless of how hard he tried to mess up the transaction, he closed what would be his first-ever car sale.

I was driving a 740 Volvo sedan at the time. Strike that, it was the Swedish Mechanic Full Employment Act, and not a car. And to top it off, I was in an open end lease with 90,000 miles on the Volvo. The dealer had a new 240 Volvo that was a year old.

I entered the dealership and the young salesman walked up. Knowing full well what I was going to be dinged with at the end of the lease, I said I’d pay full price — not the substantially discounted price that appeared in the dealership’s ad. All the dealership had to do was pay off the lease. Those were the first words out of my mouth. It wasn’t me being crazy. I had tried to trade in my Volvo at dealerships in the Bay Area but no one would take it off my hands.

The salesman asked me if I wanted to drive the car. I said no. And it wasn’t because I was willing to buy a car without even sitting in it. At those other dealerships I had driven a 240 Volvo. I had even brought along my racing bicycle. I took off the front wheel and put the bicycle and wheel into the trunk to make sure it would fit. He asked again, I replied no and asked if we had a deal or not.

During the back room talking that goes on when the dealership decides whether a deal is a go, he asked me again whether I wanted to drive the car. I get it. Salesmen are told they need to get a potential buyer behind the wheel – to make sure buyers are smitten with new car lust.

I again, said no. Meanwhile, I was keeping my fingers crossed the power windows wouldn’t malfunction while their appraiser took the 740 Volvo for a spin.

A few minutes later the salesman returned and told me we had a deal, then took me to the finance officer’s cubicle. As were going through the credit application and such waiting for the bank’s approval, the salesman again asked me if I wanted to drive the car. Finally, I said yes.

We went out the front door where the wine colored 1989 Volvo 240 had been pulled up, He handed me the keys. We got in.

I should mention Winter Volvo was near a corner. He started giving the spiel that salesmen give. I turned right onto Florin Road, then at the corner turned right, drove about 100 feet, and made a U-turn. I then turned left back onto Florin Road and, after a short distance, turned back into the dealership. The look on the salesman’s face was priceless.

As we walked into the showroom, a group of salesmen were exchanging what I was later found out were $20 bills. They had taken bets that I would be back in less than 5 minutes, with the big winner predicting I’d take the exact route I did.

As I sat back in the cubicle, the young salesman still had a stunned look on his face. I still remember what I said as if it were yesterday: “I told you I didn’t want to drive the car.”

In all fairness, other commissioned salesmen can misread the room as well.

Cynthia and I decided about 14 months after were married to splurge on a new TV. I had lived in an apartment for 2.5 years without a TV. Cynthia had a small 18-inch screen TV. We agreed not to spend more than $500. That sounds like a lot, but it was back in 1994 before flat screens and sinking TV prices.

We had hit six different stores and were ready to return to the first place we looked — yes, that drove me crazy — to buy the first TV we looked at, when Cynthia noticed the Good Guys store.

So we went in to “make sure.” I was looking at a gigantic plasma screen TV out of curiosity as Cynthia went down the aisles. I remember thinking that it was ridiculous people would buy them given they tended to have a life of two years or so before biting the dust.

Cynthia caught up with me just about the time the salesman did. She looked at the price, and said maybe we could splurge. My reply: “That’s a comma, and not a period.” The words had barely left my mouth when the salesman stepped up and shared “we sell two of these babies every month.” Without missing a beat, I replied “I make it a policy not to spend more on a TV than my dad did on his first house.”

We didn’t buy a TV at the Good Guys in Modesto, but instead went back to the Target next door. The plasma TV was $7,500. The first house my dad bought back in 1952 was $7,500.

—  This column is the opinion of Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Courier or 209 Multimedia. He may be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com