"A Little Town with a Big Heart."
Integrating My Story, the Great Migration, and the American Story. Part III.
Van Nuys, California. 1987.
After graduating from Village Christian High School in Sun Valley, California, in 1983, I attended Baylor University in Waco, Texas. After a few years I left in some disrepute with nothing to show for my efforts save a modest student loan debt. Back in the San Fernando Valley, adrift, I landed a job selling cars on Van Nuys Boulevard. Through the grace of God, and with a lot of help from my friends, I learned invaluable lessons on the sales floor at Miller Mitsubishi during this providential hiatus in my formal education.
Along with the old hands one expects to meet selling cars, I found a coterie of fresh-faced guys in their early twenties naively enthusiastic about life. While most of us had some college under our belt, we had not earned even one degree between us. We all got along and formed our own little brat pack. There was Mike Balao, Joe Sidiropoulos, Greg Pavlidis, August Tampoya, later Lenny Dee, Perry Wang, Jay Tschudy, and Dan Stanton—and David Rozar. I did not know Dave until we met at the dealership, but we eventually discovered we played football for crosstown rival private Christian schools. We were both Southern Baptists. His dad pastored a small African American congregation in Lake View Terrace. Dave was taller, faster, spent more time at the gym, and was a more disciplined Christian than I was—but, still, we shared much in common, and we developed a trust for one another on and off the sales floor.
We all worked full time, but Dave attended college classes two evenings a week. I read a paper he wrote once and complimented him on one especially salient point. Dave smiled, hesitated, pausing momentarily to see if I was performing some deadpan comedy bit, and, then, finally, still with good humor, “thank you, but that is actually a C. S. Lewis idea.” Perhaps the first time I realized the C.S. Lewis oeuvre encompassed more than mere children’s books. We were young and all of us had so much to learn.
I once told him a joke that had been repeated within my family all my life about a Southern Black preacher who was trying to impress his new congregation. Dave laughed politely (maybe even genuinely) and then said: “Pretty good joke. I just have one question. Why did that preacher have to be Black?” It was a good question and important to my development. We were young and had a lot to learn. That was the last time I ever told that joke.
One busy Saturday afternoon I took a turn from Dave. That is, Dave handed off a customer of his to me with the intention I bring the transaction to fruition and we split the deal.
There are two primary reasons you turn a customer.
One. You believe you might have a deal but for some reason you cannot close. This would sometimes happen during the negotiation phase when a client committed to buying a car but was stuck on an offer that was less than profitable for the company. You needed a “bump” (persuade the buyer to raise their offer to the threshold of profitability). Conceivably, you might have reached a point of diminishing returns with that particular customer. Management would introduce someone new into the equation to see if a “change of face” might loosen up the purse strings. Sometimes nothing. But sometimes you got the bump. When this happens the two salesmen split the deal. Win-win.
Half a loaf is better than no loaf. It all comes out in the wash.
Often management would turn a deal to Dave. He had earned a reputation as a solid closer. We would hear over the loudspeaker: “David Rozar to the sales office. David Rozar to the sales office.” And, in a few seconds, we would see Dave striding determinedly across the showroom floor into the nerve center of the dealership where deals are coordinated. By the time I left the dealership, Dave and I got most of those kinds of turns. Dave more than I. But I got my share. And, of course, if one of us needed a turn, which could happen, the sales manager would most likely call one of us to go in behind the other.
But that was NOT the kind of turn I was getting from Dave.
You also turn your customer to a fellow sales associate when you have two customers on the lot simultaneously. On this Saturday afternoon, in this moment, Dave had a customer returning (the elusive “be back"), and he was working a fresh “up” that looked promising.
“This is a deal. They are already on a car, and they are here with their uncle to finalize.” Sounds good. Got it.
Dave introduced me to two attractive and professional African American women in their mid-to-late-twenties, maybe early thirties. “This is Ashley Cruseturner. I’ve told him how important you are to me, and he will make sure you get everything you need. I will check back later to make sure everything is going well.” Not necessarily untrue and delivered with charm—but fast. We were swamped. Dave headed back to his other customer, and I knew right away these two young women were not satisfied with this exchange.
All sales are built on relationships. In essence, a good salesman plays the role of a wise friend. If done well, a sales person becomes your guide and advocate who reinforces your sense that this item is a good fit, will enhance your life at a price you can afford, and then makes the daunting process of a major purchase seem easy. Your sales associate, whom you met five minutes ago, needs to serve as your trusted advisor, content expert, and facilitator.
Handsome young men make good car salesmen because they can charm customers of all genders, ages, and backgrounds. Because life is not fair and all things are never equal, beautiful women sales associates face more limits. First, they are not always charming to other women. Sometimes they even have the opposite effect. And, although male clients find attractive female sales associates super appealing, men are easily distracted, sometimes creepy even, and almost always too flirty when confronted with a smiling beautiful woman who shows interest in them. It becomes a complicated dance, and the battle to police the line between business and attraction sometimes gets ugly. On the other hand, in general, women buyers have a better head for conducting business with professionalism while enjoying the attention of an attractive sales associate.
I knew right away these young ladies came back for Dave. Sure, they were serious about buying a car. But a midsize import from the sixth largest car company in Japan was not so compelling that they could not have made a deal down the street on a Nissan or Honda. And I knew almost immediately I was in trouble. With all humility, it was not exactly that I was unattractive to women in 1987. But, again, this was about “relationship.” They came back for Dave. Dave chose someone else over them and handed them off to me, and they were not happy.
As we moved through the process, they were cold and not warming up. Simple things were hard. Suddenly they were no longer sure about the vehicle. I started to feel some dread. It was not about the money. This sale was always going to be a thin deal, and with the split, even thinner. No. I was starting to feel desperate because Dave entrusted these customers to me believing they were a deal. I did not want to explain to him, my friend and colleague, how this “sure deal” was now not a deal.
Persevering, we sat down to write an offer and fill out a credit application, standard procedure before you brought a proposal to the desk. And it was one of the details in which I took great pride. Every offer I brought into the sales office had all the earmarks of a deal, including a visually appealing credit application, which usually lured the sales manager into more personal investment in my transaction.
An Aside. Credit Qualification.
I am no authority on the mechanics of redlining over time in banking or real estate or insurance. From my vantage point, during the late 1980s in Southern California, I never witnessed or even heard a whisper of an African American applicant denied credit based on an address or zip code or some other secret telltale racial clue encrypted into their identity. We never sent pictures to lenders. And, in my experience, if a customer looked good on paper, regardless of race, creed, or gender, lending institutions welcomed them without reservation. Of course, to be clear, while I found no evidence that lending institutions systematically discriminated against Black buyers, my observation does not discount the systemic inequality over the previous decades in education, housing, and employment that surely contributed to negative qualification factors inherited from earlier injustices.
Relatedly, even during the late-1980s, there was something else invidious at work. African American car buyers faced a real and overt prejudice among salesman based on the sense that they presented a higher credit risk. The perception was much more powerful than mere race hatred. Rather, based on experience, anecdotally, every car salesman ran into enough Black customers with credit issues that the notion that Black people universally exhibited poor credit took hold in the minds of many. Moreover, this economic period was one of tight credit and high interest rates, and lenders were in an unforgiving mood when it came to credit blemishes. Looking back, it was a textbook case of discrimination, differentiating on the basis of a perception of difference—and it was widespread. A whole school of salesmen actively avoided Black customers on the lot, convinced they were a waste time.
While my generation actively scoffed at so many of the hackneyed racial tropes still in circulation, we all encountered enough Black customers with credit challenges that I soon realized there was a kernel of truth to this stereotype. But I also heard often enough, and soon surmised for myself, that selling cars was a percentage game. “The more hands you shake the more deals you make.” During my brief career, I made more than my fair share of deals with Black customers because my colleagues were walking the other way, and I was happy to assist.
How did this notion take hold in so many minds?
An Example. A decade later, Summer of 1999, after my first year of grad school at Tulane. I briefly returned to selling cars at a Toyota dealership in Metairie, Louisiana, trying to pay the rent between spring and fall stipends.
Basic fundamentals of lining a deal: meet and greet, listen to the customer, land them on a car, test drive, bring them into the office and write an offer:
“if my manager were to agree to this incredibly low price, you are willing to buy and drive this car home right now? Got it. Great. This offers sounds a little crazy. I am not sure we’ve ever sold a car for this low, low price. You are Jesse James without a gun over here. But let me see what we can do. If you hear somebody screaming for help in there, come get me because my sales manager is beating me up.”
Very rarely would I deviate from the playbook. You never negotiate price on the lot. You make sure they drive the car. Be patient. Make sure they are settled on the right vehicle. No shortcuts. Shortcuts always slow you down in the end. Trust the process.
One other thing. Once we sat down in the booth but before we started negotiating: “can I get you something to drink?” Back then there was always a vending machine with cold soft drinks. Money out of my pocket. In essence, we were independent contractors and cold drinks were a small good faith investment in the customer before they made an initial offer on a car.
One Saturday morning in Metairie, two times in a row, I drew two separate and unaffiliated Black families back to back. I followed all the steps. They settled on a car. We demonstrated the car. Everybody was happy. Let’s go inside and talk numbers. “Can I get anybody a Coca Cola?” Yeah. Sure. Everybody wants a Coca Cola. Everything is great until we run the credit bureau. My apologies, folks. We are not able to finance a car for you at this juncture. Both times. Same outcome. Must be some kind of mistake. Sure. Undoubtedly. Get those misunderstandings cleared up and come on back and see us. Thank you. Good to meet you all.
Again, two deals gone sour in the exact same way, back to back. This is totally petty but ten dollars in the coke machine I am not getting back. Two times in a row.
Then, even as I am cleaning up my cubicle in the aftermath of my second disappointment, an old white guy sidles up to me, the new guy college kid with book smarts but no street smarts. He is going to let me in on a little secret: “with the Black folks you are better off running the credit report first. Most of these people are going to have a hard time buying a car. Save yourself a lot of grief and cut to the chase.”
He was lucky I did not punch him. I was fit to be tied. Not so much because I was offended by his racism. It made me sad, actually. Sad for the nice folks who just left the dealership. Sad that this racial stereotype was being perpetuated and there was not a damn thing I could say in that moment to realistically refute the perceived wisdom of this dumbass. But, honestly, I was mostly pissed off because I looked like I did not know what I was doing. Not my first rodeo you son of a bitch. I know what I am doing.
But that is how it happens. That is how that notion takes hold. This is how the next Black guy who walks onto the lot feels like all the car salesmen are ignoring him.
Based on our anecdata, we expected certain buying behaviors from various ethnicities and socioeconomic ranks. Some cultures seemed to drive a hard bargain. Some cultures more than others seemed more likely to have good credit, a history of paying their bills on time, and stability, long-term employment and residency. Home ownership almost always equaled a credit-worthy buyer.
Most immigrants, whether they were from Africa, or the West Indies, or the Middle East, or the Near East, or South Asia, or Central Europe, generally presented all the characteristics of hardworking striver culture: a modest amount of money in the bank, employment stability, and a history of honoring financial commitments. But, in truth, you never knew what you had until you ran the bureau. You could easily get fooled and turn up bad credit from someone who looked “gold plated.” I always breathed a sigh of relief when the credit report clicked out on the old-style teletype machine with a clean bill of health, and the sales manager ripped the paper off the heavy steel printer with a big smile on his mustachioed face and made the pronouncement: “this guy can buy any car on the lot.” Go make this deal!
Bottom Line. No shortcuts. Work your deal. Don’t assume anything.
Back to my customers on Van Nuys Boulevard, 1987.
Having said all that, I never had a doubt about credit on this deal. All three felt solid—and I only needed one. I was right. No credit issues. As I say, filling out the application was standard procedure—and an important step. A good credit application added strength to the offer, which helped with the desk. Management always told us to work the customer not the desk. But I always worked both.
And the credit application also offered a moment to pause and reconnect. The information you need is personal and must be extracted with care—but the conversation also presented an opportunity to find common ground and interact on a more human level. But, remember, I was flailing and I knew it. I am in a situation that should be a deal but is going the wrong way fast.
I knew they were sisters, but I found out they were from Chicago. Younger sister just moved here. Older sister has been here for a while. Chicago? Hmmm.
“Hey. What about Mayor Washington? How do you feel about his recent victory?”
Harold Washington was elected the first Black mayor in the history of Chicago in 1983. Born in Chicago in 1922, he was a child of the Great Migration, his parents having settled there from Kentucky and Mississippi. He had just been reelected in 1987 and was a major national figure. He would actually die of a sudden heart attack later that year to the great surprise of everyone.
What was my play here? I was desperately searching for some shared space. I have always genuinely loved politics and, because of their Chicago connection, I was hoping against hope that this was something about which we might talk freely. But I got the opposite reaction.
“MAYOR WASHINGTON!?! Why would we feel any way about Mayor Washington!?! Politics is very personal. Why don’t we keep this strictly business.”
Oh HELL! Another false step. Believe it or not, in my mind, I was not thinking that question would make things racial. But it made the moment palpably racial. I am taking on more water. I am not quite sunk—but listing pretty heavy.
I look at Uncle. He has been quiet and steady. He is a tall and stately composed man with an impassive but kindly face. I catch a raised eyebrow during their reaction as if maybe he thinks his nieces are giving this young fellow a bit too much grief. But the eyebrow is all I get; he remains silent and is clearly staying out of it.
Violating my instructions to keep this solely business, I take a chance and engage the uncle.
“Are you from Chicago as well, sir?”
“No, son. I came here from Texas a long time ago.”
“Texas? What part?”
“You would have never heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“Marlin, Texas.”
“Marlin, Texas? You gotta be kidding me. My mom and dad were married in Marlin, Texas.”
For the record, true story, May 27, 1962, at the Trinity Memorial Baptist Church, Brother Bratcher presiding.
But, at this point the two ladies look at me mouths agape like you damned car salesmen will say anything. And the uncle even seems disgusted and no longer on my side. He clearly thinks I am making up a whopper in my desperation. So far I have only parroted back to him what he said.
And then I say: “in fact, my mom was born in Kosse.”
“Kosse?” This staid man of quiet dignity is now excited. “Kosse!!!”
This changes everything. You cannot make up Kosse, current population as of the 2020 Census 464 souls. He knows I am the real deal.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “Actually, I am not really from Marlin.” Now, as if compared to Kosse, he worries that I will think he is giving me the high hat by claiming to be from a big town (current Marlin population 5,462), he confesses, “I am actually from Calvert.”
“Calvert,” I say. Nice. “You and Tom Bradley.”
Tom Bradley was elected the first Black mayor in the history of Los Angeles in 1973. Born in Calvert, Texas (current population 962) in 1917, he too was a child of the Great Migration, arriving in Southern California with his parents in 1924. Elected to five terms as mayor of the second largest city in the United States, Bradley retired in 1993.
Back to my cubicle. Uncle and I enjoy a good laugh. All smiles now between us. “Kosse. You don’t expect to meet somebody from Kosse in L.A.” he says, still smiling and not quite able to get his mind around how small the world has suddenly become.
The ladies are still skeptical and a bit stunned at the sudden exchange of unmistakable kinship. But the tension is broken. A few minutes later they ask Uncle his opinion of the car and the terms, and he says you never know about cars but this one seems as good as any they might buy.
We make the deal.
On the way off the lot, his nieces nowhere in sight, he looks back at me, still amused, we shake hands, and he says: “you have a good Texas day.” Honestly, I could have hugged him.
Perhaps the most satisfying $37.50 I ever made.
I miss the time when these Great Migration folks were all over the place and looming large in our lives. They were an extraordinary cohort of characters the likes of which we will not see again.
___________
Next Up. The Capstone Essay: When the pursuit of art collides with cultural appropriation. Is it possible for all our stories to coexist in an American Narrative?
PART ONE. The Warmth of Other Suns.
PART TWO. “Play That Funky Music, White Boy.”