OILCHANGE

When Lester called this morning, wanting me to accompany him to Lake Murray to fish for captive bass, I begged off, saying I had to get an oil change for my 17 year-old Cadillac.

Lester is my best friend. We were in first grade together, though it was the second time around for him -I can’t imagine how anyone can flunk first grade - and here we are, eighty some-odd years later and we’re still pals.

Lester lives alone – widowed now for almost twenty years. He lives in a jacked-up motor home on the outskirts of Santa Ysabel amongst a scattering of pines and manzanitas. Lester lets his dog lick his dishes clean. “Saves water,” he says. When the big fire came through a few years back, Lester holed up in his motor home, refusing to leave. Truth was all his tires were flat and there wasn’t time to get them inflated. Luckily he survived, as the flames skirted the place. Everyone said it was a miracle. (How is it that things that do not occur are miracles? If true, the number of miracles must be infinite). After the fire Lester said, “It got pretty durn warm in there. “ He held up a couple of sagging candles to show me how warm.

Initially, I thought about stopping at the local oil change emporium where short –termers treat your ten dollar coupon for a twenty five dollar oil change like an entry fee - where in fact they are trained to convince you that your transmission is on the brink of failing (drain, flush and refill - $59.95, special today only) and your radiator needs flushing ( drain, flush and refill. $49.95 , special on that today too.), and so on.

I have mixed feelings about blowing them off and saying: “Just change the oil.” I wonder what they might do just for spite.

I thought instead to drive to the service department of the city’s most successful Cadillac dealer. I had visions of spending a couple of hours with the upper class while seated in a soft carpeted waiting parlor, catching what I could of quiet conversation amidst subdued laughter, clinks of expensive china coffee cups in their saucers, soft background music…. Bach, of course. The anticipated ambiance seemed compelling. So pleasant, furnished by an interior designer who clearly knows the art. And at your service, a comely State University Sophomore, working her way through college, moves from client to client with her cart loaded with stuffed croissants, baklava, freshly brewed coffee. Pouring to your taste, decaf or regular, she asks you if you want sugar and cream. She takes care of that too and departs with a smile you will remember all day.

I drove into the service entry and was immediately greeted by a cheerful , well dressed young man who asked me how my day was going. I thought he was just doing a survey so I told him I didn’t want to participate.

A big guy with a badge that said Assistant Service Manager then appeared and I now figured I was in business. I told him that I only wanted an oil change and he said a car wash goes with it and did I want a car wash? I said that was okay and then mentioned that there was an occasional whirring noise from the engine when I started up at stop lights. He said, with an air of authority, that would be a water pump bearing or an alternator bearing and I said that it couldn’t be because in those cases the noise would be constant and getting worse. I sensed that I was getting off to a bad start, changed the subject and followed him into his kiosk where I signed up officially for an oil change.

I then sauntered across the drive and approached a doorway above which was a sign reading Customer Waiting Room. I felt my jaw drop upon entering. Noisy. A medley of television talk, Muzak in the background and a roaring air conditioning system. And who were these people, a dozen or so, lounging around an ill-furnished room? They didn’t look upper class at all. Tee shirts and dungarees. All but one or two were likely candidates for Weight Watchers. I sat down beside a grizzled old fellow who looked like he had just crawled out of a mine shaft. An outsized man wearing a Padres cap who followed me in was clearly host to a losing battle between a wretched leather belt, valiantly trying to hold his pants up while an overhanging belly was insisting, with the help of gravity, on lowering them to his ankles.

I looked around. It was nothing like what I expected. On a moderately sized television screen a demo-cook was excitedly showing how to prepare a delicious dish starting with a can of beans. A blond woman seated directly before it seemed completely absorbed.

Seating was reasonably comfortable – black vinyl upholstered chairs; not like the folding chairs in the fore-mentioned emporium. There was indeed carpeting - enough so when seated, your feet were insulated from the cold concrete floor. Overhead lighting was recessed, its intensity not enough to read by, so someone had the right idea for encouraging conversation. Buttressing this notion was my observation that there were reading lamps placed above only two of the chairs, and this led to the conclusion that the same person was of the opinion that Cadillac owners are largely illiterate.

I looked for wall decorations. There was a sign by the door that said “Special. Oil Change - $69.95. One painting hung on the wall, an original, signed acrylic that dwelt on arrangements of browns on browns. A magazine rack hung beside it. I speculated on the artist’s feelings, had he known that his masterpiece had been chosen to be hung beside a magazine rack. Actually, the pair looked not too bad together.

There were signs that an interior decorator did have a hand in the design, but likely, in my view, a learner. On a side table were arranged three white blown glass vases. I picked one up to see if I recognized the artisan. It said China. It didn’t ring a bell. On another table a round basket contained a small collection of balls fashioned of strands of fabric of different colors. The depth of the idea somehow escaped me.

My vision of a comely university student dispensing coffee and pastries devolved into a peek next door, where I could fill a free paper cup with coffee, with powdered milk, sugar and stirrer also gratis. For anything else, pastries, Fritos, whatever you find on counters and dispensers at gas stations, one had to step up to a cash register.

The conversations I expected did not materialize. Each person appeared to be cocooned in a private little world. I did get to exchange words with the fellow beside me. It turned out that he really was a miner.

I glanced through the glass entry door and spotted my service manager exiting his kiosk. He saw me at the same instant and waved a paper at me. My car was ready. I approached him and he pointed me toward the cashier’s station.

“Nice place you got here,” I said as I passed him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Hope to see you again, to fix that problem you mentioned.”

The newly washed Cadillac rolled up. The driver extracted the paper floor mat and seat cover and held the door open for me. I got in and drove away.

In retrospect, I do not think badly of the experience. I didn’t expect to fully experience what I had imagined. Still…. I wonder if somewhere……

I think next time I’ll try Lexus.....or maybe Ferrari.