The Model S Tesla.Kim Hong-Ji/Reuters
Two years ago in Los Angeles I experienced my first and only Tesla ride with the coolest man in jazz: Herbie Hancock. It may not sound true, but it’s true. Herbie and his pal, who goes by the name “Red,” kindly offered to drive me back to my hotel in West Hollywood from a friend’s birthday in Malibu.
I was innocent about Teslas. I hadn’t registered any difference from regular cars, just that they relied on a different power source.
The car I entered, however, struck me as important. Herbie, at the wheel, talked about his love for his sleek four-wheeled companion most of the way back and would later apologize for his effusion. He is a musician but studied as an engineer. He spoke eloquently about what the Tesla Model S could and couldn’t do and what the future would look like with driverless cars and how he, personally, couldn’t wait for that future.
He said to think of the Tesla as being driven by the equivalent of thousands of flashlights, which I could grasp, because paradoxically and ironically, earlier that day I had been issued a single flashlight at my hotel, because of an irregular, but scheduled overnight blackout.
While I sat in the backseat and marvelled at the space-like dashboard, I wondered how anyone could pay attention to the road while having the potential to FaceTime someone in Dubai. What if I had died right then? My family might not have been happy, but how terrific my obit would have been.
At one point, while Herbie was speaking about how smart the car was, he took his hands off the wheel (I didn’t see this) and then chuckled and told me the car had changed lanes all by itself. I was gobsmacked.
He and Red had entered a language zone of their own, speaking car talk and technology, musing about the EV future. Would they embrace driverless cars? How adventurous were they really at their age (two guys in their seventies)? Would they, for instance, sign up to go to Mars if it were on offer? Red, yes. Herbie, maybe. If he were younger.
As they spoke about Edison and cylinders and space travel, I kept thinking: “OMG. Some geek who seriously knows and loves cars deserves to be sitting in this backseat instead of me.”
The first car Herbie purchased was a 1963 AC Shebly Cobra, the greatest sports car of its day. He had a royalty check from his hit single Watermelon Man, and went to a showroom. The salesman basically ignored him, kept his head stuck in a newspaper. Herbie investigated his dream car and gave the tires a little kick, because that’s what you did. He bought it, despite the salesman, whose indifference likely had to do with race, presumptions about income and him being dressed as a regular non-famous person.
Last year, my friend Eva had a similar experience at a downtown Toronto dealership. She was shopping for a hybrid, not ready to commit to the full electric. She felt brushed off. Was it because she was flying solo? Who knows? The salesman may have been more courteous had he known she’d been an executive for a major television network.
Regardless, still determined to test-drive a hybrid, she made an appointment at a different showroom on the outskirts, only to be met with the same treatment. She would not be allowed to get in the car, let alone drive it, until she signed an “intent to purchase” contract.
She left, fuming. A few miles along the Don Valley Parkway she had second thoughts and went back to share her feelings with the manager.
His professionalism saved the day. She ended up buying the Honda Accord hybrid despite the salesperson.
The point being that this brave new future of smart cars and fancy electronics doesn’t let you off the hook from being courteous, especially when you sell cars.
Embrace change, but be supernice to customers. Go back to basic etiquette if you’ve forgotten. Remember never to judge prospective buyers by colour, apparel or gender.
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