07-057
Of Quarts It’s Time for an Oil Change
The other day I noticed
that my car was due for an oil change, so I took it down to one of those
franchise auto shops that are always named something like, Super Fast Greasy
Express 2 minute Jiffy Monkey Lube. I used to change the oil myself. My dad taught me, as is
tradition. The father takes his son out to the driveway for an afternoon lesson
of basic automotive maintenance. There, the father starts up the car, pops open
the hood, and proudly shows his boy how an engine operates, while the son -
displaying impressive potential as a future mechanical genius - tries to spit
on the fan belt.
This is followed by
the actual oil-changing lesson, which goes as follows:
- You and your dad
crawl underneath the car.
- Dad bangs his head
on the oil pan.
- You learn several
new dirty words.
- Dad shows you how
to unscrew the oil pan cap.
- Some oil gets on
the driveway.
- Dad tells you to
grab some dirty old rags.
- With greasy hands,
you barge into the house, and round up Mom’s best towels.
- Dad gives you the
dipstick to hold as he pours oil into the engine.
- You swat your
brother with the dipstick.
- Your brother hits
you back, and you get into a big fight.
- Sighing heavily,
Dad makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet.
As you can see, this
is a lot of work. So now I get my oil changed professionally by real men in
greasy uniforms who are always telling me that I should replace my transmission
fluid, knowing full well that I have NO CLUE whether or not I actually need to
replace my transmission fluid. They also know that as a man, I don’t want to
admit to having the same level of automotive knowledge as a 3 year-old girl, so
when the mechanic offers his suggestion, I stand there and act like I know what
he is talking about: “Yep.” I say,
nodding my head and lying, “I figured she was about due.”
While the macho men
changed my transmission fluid, I poured myself a cup of their complimentary
coffee- coffee so old that it’s age could only be identified o through carbon
dating. Looking back on it, I’d rather
have drank the transmission fluid.
After they finished
with my car, the mechanic handed me back my keys and testosterone. He then
proceeded to spend about 3 hours reciting to me a checklist of everything he
and his crew did to my car - a list that I am confident is longer than the list
it took to actually build the car.
Maybe I’ll go back
to changing my own oil. It does makes you feel good. You save money, you get
under the hood and do some honest work, and you get the satisfaction of being a
mature man who is responsibly taking care of business.
(Plus it’s fun to
spit on the fan belt.)