Surviving the storm
The car salesman, a 46-year-old with a muscular build and a boyish smile, was working harder than ever. "The place is a nuthouse," he said apologetically. "We've been busy." The place looked empty.
It was all so different. Tague used to be the wizard of Weathers Dodge, but in 2009
Energetic as always, he dashed into the tiny showroom to a desk so old its age could almost be carbon-dated.
Nearby, a woman, the lone customer that evening, complimented the tidy dealership on its old-fashioned warmth.
At his desk, with pictures of his wife and teenage daughters plastered behind him, Tague didn't talk about cars. He talked about money, and how hard it was to make it anymore.
"We're all taking a cut" in salary, he said. "But you also learn to live within your means. I don't spend frivolous."
His defiant optimism couldn't mask a big concern. Everyone in the dealership, he said, was worried about the boss, Junior.
"The guy doesn't go down," Tague said hopefully. "He's like Rocky."
That was when
May, June, and
Tague, the Weathers, and so many others were frontline casualties of a lasting recession. Their business was a car dealership, but it could have been any small venture anywhere in America, hardworking people struggling to keep up and falling behind.
Its owners, an old-school father and his New Age son, found themselves up against forces of change. Sure, they made some bad decisions over the years, by their own admission. They rejected corporate guidance and stood by tradition. They thought their loyalty to
But the global economic crisis was so expansive and so deep, it obliterated millions of jobs and threatened the very existence of two of the nation's top automotive companies. With urgent aid from the
Now, a year later, Junior was still worried. Worried about the future. Worried about his family and his work family. How would he care for them?
Tague, ever the good salesman, said: "If anyone can do it, it'll be Larry."
A devastating letter
The unraveling of the Weathers family business began on
Junior went to his son's office next door, passing a bookshelf upon which sat a framed picture of
Four paragraphs on a form letter ordered father and son out of business by
The son swears he felt his heart stop.
The father stood there and cried.
"These are extraordinary times," the letter said, "and they call for extraordinary efforts."
For decades, that franchise contract had given Weathers the right to buy and sell Dodge cars. In less than a month, such pacts would be worthless, and 789
Weathers Dodge wasn't like
For that reason, dealers in good standing were fiercely protected by state franchise laws; even if
But a bankruptcy judge could nullify state franchise law - and wipe out dealers on the cheap.
"We wish there was a better way," the letter from
No appeals.
Junior called his wife, Helene. Their house was down the street, less than a mile away, with a spacious sunroom where Weathers workers had come many a time for parties and cookouts.
"The garage," as Helene called the dealership, "has always been family."
She rushed over. As workers were rounded up, Junior's face was contorted with anguish. He was wearing his old mechanic's uniform, the one he always wore, with embroidered patches saying "Larry" and "Weathers Dodge."
"It's like someone died," said
A few feet away, at a reception desk, sat
Kirk, Mattero, and the others went into the service wing, a large garage built in 1948. As Larry III, Junior's son, delivered the news, Kirk couldn't keep her eyes off Junior. He just stood there.
"Devastated," she described him. "Shocked."
Trying to stay strong for Junior, Kirk held back her tears. "I didn't cry until I got home," she said. "I didn't want to upset them more."
During the worst economic downturn in almost 80 years, Weathers Dodge had to sell, in 26 days, all 108 new vehicles on its property. In a good month, it sold about 30.
If it didn't succeed, the family's investment of
At the same time, the Weathers men also had to map out a new livelihood.
Would they be able to retain their employees? The recession was purging hundreds of thousands of people a month from payrolls. Nothing was certain.
"They're vowing to stay open," Kirk said bravely, "and I'm vowing to stay with them. They're like my family."
Larry III tried to stay upbeat. But the ordeal with
'It used to be fun'
Long before
"This building is where my father first started," Junior said, standing one day inside a whitewashed old barn.
In 1922,
The barn also safeguards a giant hulk of steel, a spoke-wheeled beauty
"It's my baby, now," Junior said. So what if its black paint was scuffed? Junior liked it that way. He liked his dealership that way, too.
"I hope it stays here till I die," he said. "Then they can do what they want with it."
That car was a reminder of early years full of promise. In 1948, the family built an upgraded showroom and service department next to the barn to handle the growing demand.
There were few imports back then, no Internet, no speed-shopping online, no pitting a dealer in
Handshakes, trust, and courtesy sealed a transaction. It was a recipe, Junior believed, that needed no adjustment.
"There used to be a lot of satisfaction taking care of people," Junior said. "The local doctor. Snowstorm. As soon as he heard snow, he'd call up, you'd go to his house and put chains on so he could make his calls."
Junior had planned to go into road construction after serving in the
"My father was sick, so I just came and went into the shop," he said, assuming leadership of the repair wing. "I just stayed."
In the 1960s,
"It used to be fun," Junior remembered.
But fun hit the brakes in the 1970s. Foreign automakers with smaller, fuel-efficient cars were penetrating the U.S. market. In 1980,
Three years later, the company paid back the federal loan and introduced a never-before-seen vehicle style: the minivan.
Weathers Dodge also regrouped that year, when Larry Weathers III, like his dad a college grad and
You could put the two 6-foot guys next to each other and never guess they shared the same DNA. They're yin and yang, from the son's slight belly bulge, balding head, and brown eyes to his dad's stick-like frame, shaggy scalp, and baby blues.
Son likes to chat with customers, philosophize about life, and be quick with a smile. Father likes to work with his hands, not his mouth: "I'm not going to get your car fixed by talking to you," he'd tell customers.
Junior kept control of the service department, while Larry III took over sales and built up a new staff. One of his hires, in 1988, was 24-year-old
Tague stored toy prizes under his desk to entertain kids while he talked business with their parents.
But far from Weathers Dodge, giant forces were shaping a grim future.
Competition was closing franchises. At the beginning of 1998, there were 2,500 fewer foreign and domestic light-vehicle dealerships than a decade earlier. Several thousand more would disappear the next decade.
In 2007, things spiraled after
In 2008, sales tanked 30 percent. With gasoline at
In late 2008, with the stock market buckling,
Millions of jobs and a manufacturing network were at risk. President
On
In early 2009, with
Not enough, responded the Auto Team: Speed up dealer closures. This pressure would later be revisited by a
Two weeks after
Down to the wire
"This,"
He snapped a business card onto his desk and pointed to his name and home telephone number. Even in the online 21st century, Tague was insisting that what mattered was old-fashioned service.
"Nobody else puts their home phone number on their card," said Tague. "If somebody needs me, I'm there."
On
A manic pace was building. Liquidation signs had gone up on the showroom's windows. What a pleasant surprise, then, to see the couple who headed straight for Tague's desk. He greeted them with a broad smile.
"You guys would look great in this car right over here," he said of a white 2009 Dodge Caliber. The man and woman laughed. They knew his pitch. Angelina and
In his office, Junior was watching a live telecast on his computer screen. A
Junior was obsessed with the political theater surrounding the demise of his business. It was clear
On this day,
Would you know how to close down a dealership in just 26 days? he asked the
"The fact of the matter is that, in our situation, we did not plan or have in our minds the desire to have a bankruptcy," Press replied.
"Yes, you did!" Weathers shouted at the screen.
Every word out of the
Even though new cars weren't selling after the stock-market crash, Weathers had heeded
No matter what Press said, Junior pounced. "You dumb-ass!" he yelled at the computer. "Get the hell out of here!"
Out in the showroom, the Caros didn't hear Junior. They were listening to Tague's siren song. "That's your car - right behind you," he said again with a wink.
"Really?" they said. What's the gas mileage? Better than the 2001 Dodge Stratus they were driving?
The banter was over. Tague answered every question.
But what if we need the car serviced under warranty after Weathers Dodge is gone?
"I will personally take it to a local dealer myself," Tague assured them. And the trio zoomed off for a test drive.
Larry III was sifting through lowball offers jamming his e-mail inbox. He was so busy pounding rebates, taxes, and other figures into his adding machine that an 18-foot strip of paper spiraled off his desk like tape from a crime scene.
"You can either live in the past," he snapped, "or you can live in the future."
In the showroom, Tague worked to close the deal.
"We were not planning to buy a car; we were just going to look," said
She and her husband were proud to talk about their loyalty to Weathers Dodge, as were other shoppers and repair customers who came in those final days. "They're so honest,"
The Caros sampled all the Caliber's features. Tague knew you couldn't rush the process, though he had a lot more cars to sell.
Used-car manager
The pitch was made.
The Caros conferred.
They considered.
You've got a deal, they said.
The paperwork was prepped, reviewed, and signed. The car was hosed down and rolled out front.
Tague carried Target bags from the Stratus to the trunk of the new Caliber. And Angelina and
In his office, Junior had not taken his eyes off the
"I would - I would have to find a way to do it," said the
Not quite dead yet
The Final Day began with drenching rainstorms.
At
No one expected a reversal. Still, Junior, a marked man, dared to hope.
A fury of noise arose in the service department. Idling engines, grinding machines, and the shouts of men bounced off the brick walls.
The 5,600-square-foot garage had a vintage feel, just like the showroom, with its mismatched desks, filing cabinets, and console TV. In the shop, old signs hung like museum pieces. On
Every hydraulic lift held a car or truck in midair. Grease-coated
"I've been a Dodge mechanic since 1976," said Pinnock, working a lathe with ease.
Even though he was 51, Pinnock lacked seniority at Weathers Dodge. He'd be among the first to go if Weathers couldn't avoid layoffs.
And yet, Pinnock said he was less worried about himself than Junior, whom he considered a good, smart man getting a raw deal.
The shop dripped with condensation. A detailing attendant, busy hosing down just-sold cars, pooled suds and water on the gray concrete floor.
In the showroom, salesmen were selling models faster than they could be rolled out front and driven home. Weathers was on pace to notch 24 sales by midnight - almost a month's worth in a single day.
Two TV news crews were at the door when Weathers opened. When they left, they made room for customers like Media resident
"Being in business myself," he said, "I feel their pain. There's no loyalty anymore . . . getting kicked by the wayside."
Anderson had come for a desperation deal: Maybe he would find something for his 17-year-old daughter, Jayna.
"It's capitalism," Jayna shrugged.
Salesmen popped in and out of chairs, and Mattero couldn't keep up with the sales documents she was processing.
At 4:30, activity screeched to a halt, and attention turned to a TV news segment, The Last Day at Weathers Dodge, localizing
When the reporter signed off, the frenzy resumed.
"We're all set," said Tague, stepping away from a customer. "I just need 20 seconds to breathe."
Just before 5 o'clock, the bankruptcy court made the ruling Weathers had been awaiting. The judge approved the company's request to eliminate 789 dealers.
"So," Junior said, "midnight tonight's it."
The next day, a new
"It's just as well," Junior said. "No sense prolonging things."
There had been talk of throwing a party to mark the end of their family's legacy. Instead, Larry III was too busy hosing down just-sold cars in his dress slacks. At 7:30 he brought in pizzas, sodas, and paper plates.
That was all father and son could manage in the end: lukewarm pizza for the weary staff and last-minute buyers. Customers smiled as they tore into slices while salesmen kept plugging away.
Back in the service department, all was still. Outside, the spots that new cars, trucks, and minivans had occupied were now empty. The old dealership died, drenched in a kaleidoscope of fading color from a sky brushed with storm clouds.
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