So, it was time for a new car. I knew this because the old one had lost some of its options, such as brakes and the ability to drive uphill. No problem, really. I just prowled through a car lot and waited for a winking, hand-pumping salesman to descend with the stealth and speed of a hawk.

I hate car shopping.

For one, I’m not one of those guys who can look under a hood and see the myriad things that are right or wrong with the automobile. I open the hood and what I have to observe is largely: “Hey! There’s an engine in here!”

For two, I’ve always bought disposable cars that look like crumbled balls of tinfoil on wheels but that ran great. The Chevy Vega. The Subaru Justy. The Geo Tracker. The Nissan Stanza. None of them babe magnets, but now and then I wheel past broken-down motorists next to flashy cars with bras and spoilers and vanity plates like “RCKURWRLD” and I honk gleefully as I pass. If the horn’s working that day.

For three, those car salesmen. They spout off bunches of numbers that never mean anything to me. They could be reciting the mathematical formula describing the function of electromagnetism for all I know. And then they start with the letters too. APR, MSRP, SSDD, OICU812, LMAO … Like Big Bird on meth.

So, on a recent weekend I was on a lot in Auburn looking at a Nissan Maxima. I test-drove it and determined that it was probably designed for space flight. We’re talking thrust. One second behind the wheel and I had Deep Purple’s “Highway Star” roaring through my head.

“Nobody gonna take my car, I’m gonna race it to the grou-hound. Nobody gonna beat my car it’s gonna break the speed of sou-hound …”

So the salesman, a refreshingly low-pressure type, began jabbing at a calculator with the frantic speed of a man disarming a bomb. He unleashed a series of numbers, some of them with decimal points, and what I heard was something like the voice of the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons: “Mwamp mwamp mwamp wamp waaaaaw …”

So I did what any man will do if he’s honest about his deficiencies. I turned it over to my wife and went outside to smoke. You may think me a weasel, but I would have been no good at the negotiations. I would’ve been largely faking it and doing more damage than good.

“Look here, Mr. Snake-Oil Salesman,” I’d snarl, jabbing my finger at his paperwork. “If you can’t change that two to a six, I’m walking. I also don’t like the AEIOU rates you’re offering. And sometimes Y!”

So my wife, who can talk the language of shopping with the best of them, started yammering in car-lot speak. Equity this, book price that. I didn’t understand a word of it. I was doing my part by ensuring that the car stereo played really, really loud. Which is important in the operation of a new vehicle. Check your manual.

Long story short, this particular salesman really messed with my head. He did so by exhibiting cheerful indifference during the car-shopping give and take. At one point, he seemed to be trying to talk me out of the purchase.

“Son,” he said, “have you considered buying an electric scooter, instead?”

So by the time we were done, I was convinced that he really didn’t want to sell me the car because it was a super-secret, special vehicle he was holding onto for himself. Perhaps it talked, like KITT from the old “Knight Rider” show. Maybe the Maxima could fly away from traffic jams or drive on the bottom of the ocean. That selfish son-of-a-salesman! So I did what any wise shopper would do when confronted with such a deal. I advised my wife to do whatever it took to get that car.

Ha! Stupid salesman. I guess I showed him a thing or three about pressure. After 12 easy years of payments, that baby will be all mine.

“I love it! I need it! I bleed it! Yeah, it’s a wild hurricane. All right. Hold tight. I’m … a … highway … staaaaaaaar.”

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. To offer car-shopping tips or math lessons, e-mail him at [email protected].