Customers don’t buy for salesperson’s reasons, they buy for their own. They buy for hope of achieving a gain, or in fear of incurring a loss. Were it not for these two dominant emotions, people would leave things exactly as they are. If you have 30 reasons you should buy from me, a canned pitch would dictate that I tell you all 30 of them. Since the average mind can only process two or three bits of information at any one time, if I tell you about 28 benefits prior to hitting one of your interests, you’ll be through listening before l’m through talking.

I can almost hear you thinking right now: “Okay, I think I’ve got this. Next time I have a sales presentation I won’t talk. But what if the customer doesn’t talk either? It could get kind of quiet.”

My answer to that is: the pay in selling is far greater for asking right questions than for knowing the right answers. In other words, a closed mouth gathers no foot.

To avoid deluging the custom with unwanted information, ask useful intelligent questions that serve the prospect’s needs, wants, and desire. Some of the more effective questions start with the words who, when, where, why, or how. No question starts with one of these can answered with yes or no. The customer has to run his chops and tell you a little about what’s on his mind. It’s vital to the goal of making a sale that you wholeheartedly agree with the statements the customer makes which take you closer to your sales goal.

For example: a number of years ago, I decided I needed a Mercedes Benz. These cars have good brakes, independent suspension on all four wheels and a system whereby you can cut the brake line to any of the wheels and the remaining three wheels will still stop effectively. This means you can take that car out on a wet airport on a Sunday and you can slalom around all those red cones, like they do on the TV, and you won’t knock any down. Not to mention that a Mercedes has a great aerodynamic design, low gas mileage…the list goes on…

But is that why you buy a Mercedes Benz? Of course not. You really buy a Mercedes Benz so you can have little electric motors crank up the windows. You don’t want to hand crank. You might hurt yourself, break a nail or something. Then, when the windows are all up snug, you can turn on the automatic air-conditioning and the Blast-O-Matic six speaker stereo and you can snuggle down in those orthopedically designed seats, look out over the enormous hood, past that three-pointed star and say to yourself, wonder what the poor folks are doing?” That’s right, you buy a Mercedes Benz to make you feel good about yourself. A Mercedes Benz is a pure and simple ego rub.

I had to have one. I mean I had the “hardly waits.” I headed straight for the local Mercedes dealer. I walked right through the front door, just like I was a real customer, and was greeted by the usual salesman. I could tell he was a salesman because he said, “Hep ya?”

“Well, I’ve sorta been thinking about buying a Mercedes Benz 450 SL Roadster,” I responded.

I had his attention. “Sounds good to me, pardner. What can I tell you about them?”

I pondered the question a moment then asked, “Oh I dunno. How fast will they go?”

Quick as a cat, he sprang on me. “Why is that important? You can only drive 55 anyhow.”

Well now that’s not quite true. Maybe he could only drive 55, but I can go like a bat out of hell, and I’ve got tickets to prove it. I’m not real sure what it’s like where you’re from, but in California you don’t just get on assigned risk automatically. You’ve got to work your way up to it. I figure this guy didn’t want to talk about what I was interested in, so I took a brochure and left.

Shortly after the crack of dawn the next morning, I returned to the dealership. I went through a side door to avoid the first salesman and was greeted by another. He must have had the same training as the salesman I’d avoided because he also said, “Hep ya?”

I replied, “I’ve been reading the brochure on the 450 SL and understand that this car has K-Jetronic fuel injection. “

“That’s a fact, pardner,” he mumbled, preparing to engulf me with his well-rehearsed product knowledge, “You can drive this car at 17,000 feet above sea level all day long. She’ll never miss a lick.”

I found that information somewhat puzzling, as the last time I had checked, San Jose was at about a 260 feet elevation. “I don’t do a whole lot of that,” I ventured.

“Well then, you’re going to be delighted to hear about the fuel economy. This little sweetheart will give you 16 miles to the gallon, even around town, on regular gas,” he boasted.

Now I don’t know how long it has been since you’ve priced a Mercedes Benz, but even as this is being written it’s easy to spend $50,000 on a Benz Roadster. I submit that you do not spend 50 grand on a car and care how much gas it uses. And regular? Not for 50 large. If I spend 50 large on a car, I want it to burn NITRO! “I really don’t care about gas mileage,” I said.

“You don’t care about gas mileage?” he cried in righteous indignation. “Haven’t you heard about the energy crisis?”

Instead of stepping up on my soapbox and explaining to this layman my knowledge of Helmholtz and the First Law of Thermodynamics and how the threat of an energy crisis was a bunch of baloney to me, I left the dealership to look elsewhere for a car.

I went looking for other cars, but none seemed to do for me quite what the Mercedes did. I kept going back, but no one would let me buy the car. One fellow showed me that the ash tray was mounted on ball bearings. I don’t smoke. Another showed me a film strip emulating what would happen to me in a head-on collision You’ll be delighted to know that if you and your Mercedes have a head-on with a Kenworth, your engine will not come straight back and catch you in the chest, it goes down and only tears off your legs.

On my sixth visit to that dealership, the dealer came out of the back room where dealers hide. He smiled at me and said, “You’ve been hanging around here a lot lately. What is you aim?”

I said, “I’m trying to justify giving you what you want for a new 450 SL They’re an awful lot of money, you know.”

Thoughtfully, he nodded, “They are an awful lot of money, aren’t they?” The average salesperson would have jumped at the chance to overcome my objection and prove me wrong in the bargain. He didn’t argue with me but by failing to argue with my perceived objection, the dealer gave me nothing to fight. He withheld support by remaining neutral. Since I didn’t have to defend my position, I didn’t waste any more time selling myself that I was right.

“Why do you think you might want to own a Mercedes Benz?” he asked.

That seemed like a pretty fair question, so I replied, “Well, I’m given to understand that they’re fast.”

“That’s a fact, they’re VERY fast,” he grinned. “Just how fast is VERY fast?” I asked.

“I can’t really tell you that, since the factory doesn’t give us top speed figures and we have no test track,” he hedged.

“It says 160 m.p.h. on the face of that speedometer. Will it go that fast?” I pressed.

“Not with me in it it won’t, Bunkie,” he answered.

I pursued, “I’ve seen you driving that blue Roadster. How fast have you had that little beauty?”

“I really shouldn’t tell you that,” he said, “as I have a position to maintain in the community and don’t want to be known as a scofflaw. But do you remember a couple of weeks ago when we had that east wind blowing the fog out to sea and the evenings were as soft and velvety as in the tropics?”

Clearly this guy was good. People buy on emotion and justify with fact. He was using descriptive words to paint emotional images on the retina of my mind. It was working. “Oh my, how I remember,” I breathed.

“You’ll recall that at about that same time we had a big, ivory harvest moon shining all night long.”

“As best as I can remember, the old Mercedes racing cars were all silver. Cars driven by guys like Fangio and Carriciola.”

“Oh yeah,” I sighed, visions of leather-helmeted road warriors dancing in my head.

“Well, I’d been up in San Francisco at a meeting with a bunch of fellas and was coming home, all alone, about three o’clock in the morning. This big full moon was shining down, the air was warm so I had the top down, the wind blowing through what hair I’ve got left. I was out on the 280 Freeway in back of Palo Alto. You know that long straight stretch between Sand Hill Road and Alpine Road?”

Know it? I could positively feel that road unwinding under my seat. “I know it. I know it,” I whispered.

“I came under that Sand Hill overpass,” he continued, “and looked down that long straight toward Alpine Road I couldn’t see any headlights, or tail lights, so I just thought ‘What the heck. Let’s see what this little Momma will do.’ I just wrapped my toes around the radiator and hung on. Now I can’t honestly tell you how fast that car will go, ’cause I ran out of guts before I ran out of go. But when I had to let go at the end of that straight, I was going 135 m.p.h. Made me grin so big I’ve still got bugs in my teeth.”

“OMIGOD, that’s wonderful,” I almost screamed. My fondest, most intimate dreams were coming true in the deepest recesses of my brain.

“If you were to own a Mercedes Benz, what color do you think you’ want?” his voice intruded on my daydream.

“I really don’t care about color. I pick out the car, my wife picks out the color. That’s the way we’ve always done it,” I replied.

“You know, I’m not a believer in fate,” he said, “but just yesterday the drive-away truck was here and he dropped off a brand new SILVER 450 SL Roadster. It has both tops, the hard top and the soft top, and it has leather upholstery. I know you’ve been reading all the brochures and know that the standard upholstery on a Mercedes Benz is vinyl. Now don’t get me wrong. It’s terrific vinyl upholstery; has holes poked in it so you won’t sweat and what all, but just predicated on the off chance that I might encounter a particularly discriminating individual, such as yourself, I took the liberty of ordering one up with top grain Austrian cowhide upholstery. Would you like to see that car?”

I guess he could tell, as there was drool all over the lapel of my jacket. Over 55 percent of our ability to communicate has nothing to do with what we say, or how we sound when we say it, but how we look when we say it: nonverbal communication. This guy was a master. He took the keys off the keyboard and took me out to the back lot where this little gem was reposing in 92 degree heat. You know how new cars smell when they’ve been sitting in the sun … intoxicating.

The dealer stuck the key in the door, opened it a couple of inches, hung his nose over the top of the door glass and took a little sniff. Then he just stood there for what seemed like a week. I wanted to smell that new car so badly that I nearly jumped on his back. Finally he fully opened the door and gestured that it would be permissible for me to enter. I jammed my head and shoulders into the cockpit and went “SSSSNNNNIIIIFFFF.” I’m so glad that car was new. Had it been used, I’d have sucked the whole ash tray right up my nose.

“Sixteen prime Austrian steers gave their lives for your comfort,” crooned the dealer. It took him little more than one half hour to liberate me of not just the full purchase price of that car, but the full price plus $1,500. I had to get some special wheels to go with those seats.

Did he need pressure manipulation or hard closing? Not likely. He had only one close. It wasn’t very fancy, but I remember it still: “You like it. You want it. You can afford it. Go on and buy it.” I did.

Hank Trisler, a former realtor, now conducts seminars and workshops on sales and sales management throughout the English speaking world. He is the author of No Bull Selling and No Bull Sales Management, both published by Bantam Books. For more information write The Trisler Co. Inc., 1416 Fruitdale Avenue, San Jose, California 95128 or call 4081286-6630.