Servicing my Corvette is only marginally more pleasurable than filling out my tax return. First, I stand around the service desk waiting for a bleary-eyed “advisor” to acknowledge my existence. Then the employee asks if I want to wait for my car or… if someone’s picking me up. If I hang fire, I’m confined to a waiting room with all the charm of a correctional facility. If I leave, I have to call to see if the job’s done. When I pick up my ‘Vette, previous experience has taught me to inspect it for familiar desecrations– oily boot marks, additional miles, changed radio stations, etc. Oh, and to make sure the job’s actually been done. Sound familiar?
If not for warranty work, many of us would never darken the driveway of a franchised dealer’s service department. Service advisors may know plenty about the vehicles they handle– note: may– but the vast majority of them are number takers, not friendly automotive experts ready to discuss the finer points of maintaining your pride and joy. They’re more interested in trying to sell you an additional service. (Would you like us to fill your tires with nitrogen?) And once your second largest financial purchase disappears into the bowels of the service department, the advisor has no clue what’s happening to it. Nor do they care. They’ve moved on to their next victim.
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