LJ and I have finally picked out The Car. If all goes well, tomorrow we will be the owners of a very expensive, forest-green Chevy Tahoe, financed for four years at an exorbitant rate of interest. I'll admit I'm scared to death. Actually, though, The Behemoth is a better name: it's a Chevy Tahoe, for god's sake, something of the sort I swore I'd never own. Well, the ol' male "car size = genital size" theorem is once again operative, and so--a Tahoe. In fact, I plan to begin referring to "drivin' the 'ho" as soon as it's possible to begin referring to driving ANYTHING.
That it is not currently possible to mention driving as an option is owing entirely to the fucktards at Insure One's 800 number.
Here is the sequence of events.
I am told by the dealership that they need to have proof of insurance before we can take the car.
I call Insure One's 800 number and get a quote. I am told by them that I cannot be covered before they see and inspect the car. But, I tell them, I can't take possession of the car til I have proof of insurance! No problem, they tell me. We can cover you if you have a debit or credit card.
Well, I don't. The credit card is maxed out and the debit card is empty. Besides, LJ is paying the insurance down payment, so that problem is solved. I tell them he will go to the office and make the payment.
He can't do that if he's not on the policy, they tell me.
Okay, so I put him on the policy. NOW, I say, he'll come to the office and make the payment; how late are you open?
7:00, they say. But you don't have to do that today; we can send the dealer a temporary binder which will cover you until you're able to come to the office and have the car inspected and make the payment, the woman tells me.
Read that again. According to them, they will fax a temporary binder to the dealer, which will cover us til tomorrow and enable us to take the car. Then we can go to the office tomorrow and make the payment and have the car inspected.
Okay, I say. We'll do that. (I'm trying to avoid putting too much on LJ's plate; he's a wonderful man, but a wee bit lazy, truth to tell.)
Flash forward. LJ arranges a ride out to River Grove to the dealer; I rush out of work (still half an hour late, but a fast half-hour late) and ride all the way out to Harlem on the Green Line. (I hate riding out to Harlem. When you get off at Harlem, people look at you like you're one of those people who get off at Harlem.) LJ and Marcus pick me up and we ride out to the dealership.
I call Insure One to give them the fax number...and I am informed that the person I need to speak to has already left. The person who answers the phone claims "I have three people here" and offers me the "internal" number. I dial the "internal" number and explain my plight. They tell me "oh, we don't do that sort of thing. We need a credit or debit card." I tell them I don't HAVE a credit or debit card available; I have CASH, and I was told by the person I spoke to at the 800 number that they could issue a temporary binder. "We're sorry you were given faulty information," they tell me. I ask them "can we go to the nearest office and pay there?" "The office closes at 7," they tell me. It's now 6:40.
I call the nearest office (Melrose Park). I explain the situation--I'm at the dealership, I need proof of insurance, I was given bad info at your 800 number, and now I'd like to come into the office and pay to start up the insurance. Can they PLEASE make a TINY exception and wait for us til we get to the office a few minutes after seven?
"You know, I'd really love to help you," says the woman at the other end, in a heavy Hispanic accent, "but I have an appointment tonight and I can't stay." She gives me the number of the SECOND closest office, Elmwood Park.
I dial the number she gave me and I get someone's voice mail. Thinking I've misdialled, I try again. This time, I reach the Elmwood Park office and make the same request. It is now 6:50. I am placed on hold. The exchange that followed was enough to make me long to be back among the lilting strains of the hold music.
The hold music stops, and I assume I'm about to speak to the person who'd placed me on hold in the first place. Instead: "Insure One, may I help you?" comes another heavily-accented voice.
"Yes, I was waiting to see if someone could wait for me til I get to the office?"
"Yes?"
"I need to make a payment? I just talked to someone and I was waiting..."
"Yes."
By now I am nearly ready to throw my cell phone. "Okay, I'm going to start from the beginning here. I'm at the dealership, I need to make a payment..." I go through the whole story again.
"Yes. Did you call the number I gave you?" I suddenly realize that though I've dialled a different number, I've got the SAME STUPID BITCH.
"Yes," I say. She reads the number back to me with the last two digits reversed. "No, I called..." whatever I'd actually called.
"Yes, that's the number."
"No, you said 05, not 50."
"No, it's 50."
"That's what I DIALLED!" I am nearly shrieking, and the dealers and LJ are all chuckling.
"Well, that's the number you need to call," Stupid Bitch says.
"I'm telling you, that's the number I DID CALL!"
"Well, try it again."
When I try it again, I get the same voice-mail box I got the first time I called--a voice-mail box which apparently belongs to the main Elmwood Park agent.
At this point I give up. The dealer--still laughing, by the way--says he will take the insurance money, take the car over to the Melrose Park office tomorrow, have it inspected, and LJ can pick it up tomorrow. I sign all the paperwork and we leave.
If I can take ONE single happy thing away from all this: further proof that LJ is WAYYYY more patient than CR ever was. Had that happened with CR--had we planned to purchase something and run into bureaucratic troubles--it would have resulted in hours and hours of verbal abuse directed at white people/smart people/rich people/females in general, and smart, white, employed, female me in particular. LJ just hopped into the front seat of Marcus's car, and laughed as he blasted evil misogynist hip-hop. (It _was_ pretty funny, though--talking about six-foot dildoes and how it's hard for a guy to keep up anymore, what with all the stuff women have to pleasure each other with. Even I laughed--though I also said "they're going to revoke my feminist card for this!")
When he got out of the car, to let me out of the back seat before he and Marcus headed back to Maywood, I said to him "I'll explain this later, but I just want to say: thank you."
"For what?" he said.
"I'll tell you later," I told him.
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