The other day I went into a Verizon Store, needing to get a new phone. My old one wasn’t working any longer, making me more convinced than ever that, in all of Apple’s marketing and promotional wisdom, they didn’t forget to implant some kind of self-destruction mechanism that gets algorithmically triggered right around the user’s Upgrade Eligibility Date, forcing the purchase of another one.

I don’t take these kinds of shenanigans – whether real or entirely made up in my own head – lying down. Indeed, as Levia can attest, I treat basically every consumer purchase as a kind of war.  Of course, I don’t try to negotiate the price of things like cereal in the supermarket.  But with regard to pretty much everything else, I make the entire affair as painful as possible for everyone involved .

For example, it took me months to conclude our Minivan purchase a few years ago.  Typically, most people drive away with new cars feeling reasonably satisfied, even excited about their purchase.  Not us.  By the time we finished, the car salesman hated me, I kind of hated me, and Levia was totally done and absolutely ready to stuff all of the children into the backseat of our Honda Accord, car-seats or no car-seats, and make the best of it. Anything to make the tortuous process just [______] end already. 

As we all probably know, unlike Minivans, the prices of cellular phones in stores like Verizon Stores are largely non-negotiable. But that didn’t prevent me from trying.

“Hello,” said this young techy-looking guy as I walked into the store, who somehow made his bright red Verizon Wireless collared shirt look reasonably cool. “What brings you to our store today?”

“Well,” I said. “My phone pretty much doesn’t work, and I think I am eligible for an Upgrade.”

“OK. I would be delighted to help you with that!” he replied, with artificial but strangely believable enthusiasm.

After he confirmed that I was indeed eligible for an Upgrade, he brought me right to the newest iPhone product, the iPhone 7, and went through all of its glorious features and sleekness and coolness.

“So,” he said, “is this the one you want to go with?”

“No,” I replied rather flatly, and maybe rudely in hindsight. I am really no better than a small child in places like Verizon stores, in that I become immediately hungry and therefore cranky and/or just want to go home.  “I actually just want a new version of what I have now.  Is that possible?”

I have made something of a habit of this whenever I have to buy a phone – that is, buying the previous version at a price that is either free or significantly lower than the asking price of the newest product. I learned this general money-saving technique from my father.  To take an example, he raised us as rabid Yankees fans, and perhaps the one thing a young boy taught to love a particular sporting team might really want would be a shirt with a current Awesome Player’s name and number on the back.

These kinds of shirts, however, were typically too expensive for us. But that didn’t stop my dad from making the effort.  At the end of every season, particularly a season in which a shirt-worthy player might have been traded to another team, he would go to a nearby sporting goods stores and try to find that player’s Yankees shirt, which was usually on sale for a pretty significant discount, because who wants the shirt of a player who’s not on the team anymore?

We did, supposedly, and so in 1991 we were the only kids on the playground sporting Dave Winfield Yankees shirts, and when our friends pointed out the inconvenient fact that Dave Winfield was actually on the California Angels, we just shrugged and looked away in the way young boys do when they are embarrassed and want to change the subject.

Perhaps it is not surprising then that I don’t watch the Yankees, or even baseball, any longer. But the lessons regarding the value of a dollar stayed with me, and I’ve made it a point to impart these lessons onto my own children.

For example, one day Jacob pointed out in a sales catalogue some kind of Lego Set that cost $100.

“Can I get this someday?” he asked.

“That thing’s $100 dollars,” I replied. “If we went around buying things that are $100 dollars, we wouldn’t have enough money for food, and then we would starve.”

Which ended the conversation rather quickly. And if I was unsure whether he understood my point, however exaggerated and imprecise, it was confirmed the next day, when he was with me at our local YMCA membership desk signing Gavin up for Youth Basketball.

“How much is the registration fee?” I asked the YMCA guy.

“$100,” he replied.

“Do you have like a Long-Time Member Discount or something?” I asked, not pushing this too hard, because, after all, this is the YMCA, and the guy is really like an 18-year old kid, but still not having enough shame not to ask.

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“No problem,” I said. “Sign us up.”

When we got to the car later, Jacob had a very sad look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“You just spent $100 and now we are going to starve.”

Now, most Parents might be upset with themselves for creating such fear and anxiety in their children. Not me.  Clearly, I made my point, and I expect Jacob to grow into a thrifty young man, and hopefully not too psychologically harmed.

Back to the Verizon Store.

“Oh,” the Verizon Guy said, in response to my request for an outdated phone. “Well, we do have the iPhone 6s, but the pricing really isn’t all that much better than the 7, and you probably want a better phone, right?  The iPhone 7 is way better.”

“Not really,” I replied. “And what’s this “S” business?  Can I have, what would you call it, an iPhone 6 Not S?”

“Well,” he said reluctantly, “I guess I can go in the Back and check for that one. It’s pretty old though, and really outdated.”

You’d think I was asking this guy for a bunch of cups and a string.

“Thanks,” I said. “And while you’re back there, can you check if you’ve got anything older, like a 5 or something?”

“Uh, I am pretty sure we don’t have any of those,” he said, clearly growing annoyed.

He eventually brought out an iPhone 6 Not S Plus, which at first glance seems less like a phone and more like some kind of weird self-defense weapon. In all honesty, this was something I had considered since, like it or not, as a Parent I use my phone fairly frequently, and the larger screen seemed potentially helpful.  This was also the version Levia had, and she seemed to like it, and I had asked her if she thought it would be good for me.

“You’ll find a way to complain about it,” she said. Which is pretty much true.  The pain I exert over consumer purchases doesn’t end at the Point of Sale.  It carries on for the duration of the life of the product, when I complain and feel perpetually guilty about how much I paid for it, and when I periodically declare that it doesn’t work properly, even if that’s because I don’t know how to use it.

“We only have this one,” said the Verizon Guy. By now he clearly wanted to end this transaction as soon as possible. He and Levia should get a beer sometime.  Because, sadly for him, I was only getting started.

“OK,” I said, “how much is it?”

“$100, with a 2-year contract.”

While I don’t think spending $100 is as financially devastating as Jacob now thinks it is, that still seemed kind of high.  Didn’t this guy just say this phone was Ancient, and that I shouldn’t want it?  I mean, this thing must suck, relatively speaking, and it’s nearly the size of the Corded Phone I grew up with, back when Dave Winfield was on the Yankees.

“How’s fifty bucks?” I asked, after going through all this with him.

“I can’t really do that,” he said, which seemed completely true, as these guys don’t have much or any negotiating authority, and probably seldom expect to negotiate at all.

“Can you throw in a protective case?” I persisted.

To make a long story short, he couldn’t throw in anything.  I did buy the outdated phone (no case – those things are way cheaper elsewhere), and I will probably do the same thing when this one automatically self-destructs. And if I am perpetually behind on the Technological Times, that’s okay with me.  If we starve, it won’t be because I have the latest iPhone.  And at least I am not wearing a wrong-teamed Dave Winfield shirt.