At the risk of sounding inordinately pompous and vain, I generally tend to think of myself as a fairly intelligent person. Not a genius, mind you, but with enough higher education, training in critical thinking, and exposure to NPR and The New Yorker to walk around with the inner confidence that I’m No Dummy! So while it might not be a surprise to anyone around me when I run smack into the limits of my brain, it usually comes as a bit of a shock to me and makes me feel stupid on two accounts—1) that I’m stupid in whatever area I’m being stupid in, and 2) that I’m stupid not to have known this about myself.
Today’s beat down occurred at my local Jiffy Lube (whose commercial tag line is, “Jiffy Lube—every 3,000 miles!”). The stupid begins with my not remembering that the same rip-off occurs every single time I go there. I don’t know where this blind spot comes from, but somehow it manages to block out any memory of my getting ripped off at said location until it happens again. As in, my credit card has already been swiped and I am walking to my car looking over a bewildering list of services and wondering to myself how the $30 oil change I went there for turned into $125 worth of work.
This is what happened today, which is just a variation of what happens every time:
I pull into the lane marked by the yellow lines and get out of my car. “Hi,” I say to the man in navy blue overalls walking towards me with a clipboard. “I’m here for an oil change.”
He ignores this declaration and says, “Car keys?” I pry them off my key chain and hand them over obligingly. After scribbling down a few pieces of information from my car, he motions me to follow him over to a small stand with a computer on it. He inputs some information and a screen pops up. “This you?” Obviously this man means to take my money with as few words as possible. I can barely see the screen because the sun is shining almost directly in my eyes, but I make out a fragment of my address and nod. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Okay.” The mechanic begins clicking and scrolling through a rapid succession of screen images that appear to be long lists of services with accompanying picture diagrams. They flash by at a speed comparable to the images in one of those films meant to brainwash you (รก la Clockwork Orange), and they are narrated by an equally blurred mumble from the mechanic that goes something like this: “Okay, last check 3,100 miles ago, you have 50,000 miles, time for radiator flush, transmission flush, air filter, ignition valve replacement, brake pad replacement, windshield wipers, and combustion crank adjustment.” Of course, he didn’t actually say most of that. I’ve made the terms up because the sad fact of the matter is that I had no idea what he was talking about (and how do you remember words you don’t know?), which is the whole problem. I have no idea what goes on inside my car’s engine or what the parts are called, and it is precisely this great ignorant void within me that shines forth like a beacon, beckoning mechanics everywhere to take advantage of me.
When the long list of services my car is supposedly in dire need of finally subsides, this is my response: “Huh.” I stand for several seconds scrambling around internally for contact with at least a modicum of common sense and/or a backbone. “Well, I just had my brakes replaced this summer, so I know I don’t need that,” I finally venture, “and my windshield wipers work fine.” The mechanic sniffs and swipes his nose with the back of his hand, his contempt for my assessment obvious. “And do I really need a transmission flush?” I ask meekly, futilely. His eyebrows lift and he taps the computer screen with his pen. “50,000 miles!” he exclaims.
An indisputable fact. I have 50,000 miles. I cave. “And how much is all of this?” The flashing screen thing starts up again and numbers fly by.
“Seventeenninetyninetwentysevenfiftyeighteenninetyninethirtyfiveninetynine,” the mechanic rattles off, auctioneer style.
“Huh.” Now I am the inarticulate one. We stand staring at the screen for several more seconds. This is mainly the result of my being preoccupied with the myriad of thoughts racing through my head. He’s ripping me off! I hate getting ripped off! But maybe I really do need these services. My car has been shaking some when I start it lately. And it has been 50,000 miles. But didn’t I have something done in September at the dealer? I know I had a coupon for something. Or was that September of last year? Why didn’t I check my records? I need to keep records. Actually, what I really need is to take an automotive class or something. Do they offer those through the city? I wonder how much they cost? But when would I have time to take a class? Maybe they have one of those one-day deals where you just go for a Saturday and learn the basics. But do I really want to give up a Saturday for that?
The mechanic seems to interpret my silence as a bargaining technique, and he scratches his head and says, “Okay, ten percent off.” As I have been so absorbed by my thoughts, this offer comes as a complete surprise and I am ridiculously happy about and humbled by it. He’s giving me ten percent off!
“That would be great, thanks,” I say cheerfully, “but I don’t need the new windshield wipers.” There, that’ll show him. I am taking charge and not just being a stupid female getting ripped off by the mechanic. I am getting a ten percent discount and drawing the line at replacing the windshield wipers—hooray for me!
“Okay,” says the mechanic. “You go wait over there, okay?” and I am ushered off to a tiny waiting room strewn with the entrails of old newspapers and a coffee pot that looks welded to its base. I sit gingerly on the only chair that doesn’t have a mystery stain on it and take out a stack of essays that I need to grade. Given all the repairs he just listed, I figure I’ll be able to grade quite a bit.
I am only on the third essay when he shows up in the doorway. “Okay,” he says, jerking his head towards the payment window. Apparently, “okay” is his go-to word. “You’re already finished?” I ask, but he’s disappeared around the corner. His head pops out from the window.
“Yeah, it’s done. How you wanna pay?”
It takes me a few seconds to put the essays and my grading pen back into my bag. He taps his pen against the counter in a staccato of impatience. I open my wallet and hand him my credit card. He takes it and slides it through the machine. And then, all of a sudden, he’ relaxed and chatty. As we wait for the credit card confirmation, he asks me, “You like boxing?” I am thrown off by this question and stutter a bit. “Um, well, no not really.”
“No?” he sounds incredulous. What’s not to like? He reaches under the counter and pulls out a flyer. “Here,” he says, sliding it towards me, “you should enter this.” The flyer is advertising a contest to win tickets to a fight. I don’t notice the names of the fighters (not that it would matter to me anyway) because my eyes are caught by the grainy photo of some man’s face distorted by the blow he’s just been delivered to the side of his head by his opponent. Sweat and agony spray out in a shower. I look up doubtfully and the mechanic smiles. “It’s good. You should enter,” he repeats, shoving the flyer towards me again. I nod weakly and he rips off the receipt for me to sign. After deftly separating my copy and stapling it to the printout of what’s just been done to my car, he is positively beaming. I end up taking both papers and say “thanks” automatically. He taps the counter and waves. “Sure. Have a good day.”
What’s up with him turning into Mr. Friendly like that? I ask myself walking out to my car. I look down at the papers in my hand and at my watch. Total cost: $87. Total time spent: 21 minutes. And the icing on the cake is that he got me—prim-looking, prissy me in my crisp white shirt and pearls—to thank him for it and go home with a boxing flyer in my hand. No wonder he’s smiling. I get in my car and it’s all I can do to keep myself from banging my head against the steering wheel. I am the college educated, NPR listening, New Yorker reading Jiffy Rube—not just once but every 3,000 miles.
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So true! That's why I avoid oil changes. 5,000...6,000 miles. Who knows when I got my last one? I barely take my car to get its scheduled check ups. I think I skip every other one. I know this is not a great solution, but what's the alternative? I want to marry a man who will take care of my car and finances. Everything else is optional. I'll even cook! I hate, hate, hate dealing with my car. I feel like I'm a sucker every time. The last time I had something major done (my driver's window would not go up) I took my car to the dealer on Friday. They looked it over and said, "It'll be ready Tuesday." I asked, "How am I supposed to get to work?" Apparently, that was not his problem. Luckily I arranged rides with Susan and a coworker. What do other people do when their car breaks down? Car basics should be a course offered in high school because obviously it is needed!
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