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Here’s what Reed learned: everything done and said by a car salesman—the test drive, the patter about city mileage versus country, the talk about air bags and safety—is simply an effort to get the buyer into the room where my father went back and forth at Foley Cadillac. Everything said before the room is like the forgettable small talk around the keg at the frat party—upstairs, in the room, with the lights out, that’s where the true artist, otherwise known as the closer, is revealed.

The room is bugged—know that. A manager in back is eating a sandwich as he listens to every word you say. When a salesman excuses himself to use the bathroom, he is really going to talk to this manager: get orders, execute a plan. At the beginning of the process, the salesman takes out a piece of paper divided into boxes. This is called a four-square. He writes a number in each box: the price of the car, what you will get for your trade-in, the amount you will put down, the amount you’ll pay each month if financing, which you probably are. “[The manager] stressed the price of the car should be written in large clear numbers to give it a feeling of authority,” writes Reed. “He added we should always write ‘+ fees’ next to the price of the car…. Good penmanship is essential,” he said. “This makes it harder for them to negotiate.”

I am a sucker for any story that has a long highway in it. This is a marvelously written view of the intertwining of the automobile and the second half of our nation's history.

If one is concerned about peak oil or some other factor driving down the pretty much unlimited ability to travel, this suggests a major change in a large number of the aspects of our daily life and culture.