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Emasculation in a Jiffy
Originally Publishid in the Boston Phoenix
EVERY 3000 miles, whether I need it or not, I am emasculated. The owner’s manual calls it an oil change but I’m not here to argue semantics.
This time, though, I thought it would be different. I had a coupon. And what says, “don’t fuck with me I know what I’m doing,” more than a coupon, right? So I hopped into my car and headed off to Jiffy Lube with high hopes and a fail safe plan. “Just the 19.99 oil change. No extras.” In hindsight, I realize this was as sadly delusional as a sex addict going to massage parlor promising himself, “just the shoulders today, really.”
I should clarify, the thing I find so humiliating about oil changes is not the act of paying someone to do something I’m too lazy to do myself. Oh no. I do that all the time — McDonald’s, the woman who cleans my houe, porn. I’m actually more than happy to pass off my responsibilities to the lowest bidder. But that’s only because I feel I could do these job myself. In theory. If I wasn’t so tired. (and it wasn’t so nice out). And knew where I kept my mop. Plus in those situations I at least know enough to prevent being scammed outright. Clara never calls in the middle of the day to say, "Alan, I’ve noticed it’s been three months since we’ve hot-waxed and sealed your countertop. We could let it go another few weeks, but there’s a chance some ketchup could seep underneath the tiles, and then you’d need new cabinets. And obviously your toilet water needs to be refiltered. So, we can do both of those for an extra $89.99."
But cars are like magic to me. I believe in the combustion engine the same way a kid believes in Santa Clause. A fat man in red suit delivers presents to every kid on the planet in one night– I press a pedal on the floorboard, and 4 wheels outside spin around. He has flying reindeer, I put in “gas.” Elves make toys, I have power windows. It all makes about equal sense to me.
But when I pulled my miracle sedan into Jiffy Lube, I tried to keep my game face on, chanting my mantra, “19.99 oil change and 6-point inspection. 19.99 oil change and 6-point inspection.” As I sat in the line of cars waiting for my turn, I began to relax “They don’t look like bad people,” I thought. “They put their jumpsuits on one leg at a time, just like everyone else. At least, I think that’s how you put a jumpsuit on – one leg at a time. Maybe you do a leg and arm of the same side first, actually, and then…this is probably why I don’t meditate.”
It was my turn. They guided me into the service bay and I effortlessly glided into place. That’s right, I’ve got a coupon and I can maneuver. These guys know they’re dealing with a pro.
Then I hesitated before remembering how to pop my hood, popping the gas tank first by mistake. I might as well have turned on the windshield wipers and popped the trunk while I was at it. This was not starting of well.
I waited helplessly in the unnaturally bright waiting room, drinking bad coffee, clinging to my coupon and
watching Days of Our Lives. I’ve noticed Jiffy Lube never has the Discovery Channel on. Finally the mechanic popped in his head and asked, in that friendly yet self-satisfied tone people use when they know they can charge you $1,000 to urinate on your tailpipe,
"Mr. Olifson, could you step in here, I need to go over a few things with you."
In all my years of oil changes, this has never been followed by a discussion of how clean I’ve kept my air filter. I walked into the garage already feeling somehow guilty that he’d been out here in the grease and muck working on my car while I was lounging around watching soap operas
We then began what is the worst part of the whole oil change ordeal: the smug little engine-walk-through charade. It’s as if they’re simultaneously telling me they’re going to rip me off and challenging me to stop them. "You know what your rear differential is, right? So you can see here that it obviously needs adjusting. And, of course, if you look here, you’ll see you need a radiator-fluid exchange."
Now I could have asked what a rear differential or radiator fluid exchange is. I could have demanded a detailed explanation of exactly what they intended to do and why. But they knew I wouldn’t. The same way they knew that if they faked a knee to my crotch, I would instinctively protect my balls.
Instead I just looked over the engine, pretending to study the tubes and wires. I even poked and prodded something (a spark plug, maybe?), knowingly nodding, "Uh huh, sure, right,"
The sad thing is, my car isn’t the only thing I rely on which I am unable to maintain myself. I am surrounded by things whose inner workings are a mystery to me — not even counting my wife. My computer, my phone, my toaster. Turns out, I can’t fix anything I own.I live in the most technologically advanced civilization in history, yet I cannot even darn a sock.
People sometimes fantasize about what power they’d have if they could travel back in time, knowing what we know now. But if I were sent back to medieval times, I’d still be useless. Not only would I be unable to duplicate any modern technology, I’d probably be slow and awkward in my chain mail. As a visitor from the future, I would be a tremendous disappointment, having nothing to offer but constant complaints of "I’m cold, I’m hungry, I think I have the plague."
So it’s no surprise that my last $19.99 oil change cost me more than $100. Something apparently needed extra lubing. Don’t ask. Lord knows I didn’t.
But I can’t blame Jiffy Lube for emasculating me. It is but a symptom. The truth is, I am just a dependent cog in this great civilization, relying on machines without bothering to understand their underlying principles. Everything I own may as well be powered by magic or little gnomes. In fact, I’d be better off if my car were powered by little gnomes. Then I could just feed them and give them words of encouragement. Spark plugs, as I’ve learned, don’t respond much to a good pep talk.
It’s too late for me to rebel and go live "off the grid," to grow a beard and fend for myself somewhere in the wilds of Idaho or Montana or South of Pico. I’ve been declawed. I’d have as much chance of surviving in the wild as a freshly manicured poodle. And so I am destined to spend the occasional Sunday being humiliated by auto mechanics. It’s the price I pay for modern living.
But I can at least take solace in knowing there is one piece of equipment no one knows better than I do — my own body. Except, well, I’m not exactly sure where my pancreas is. Or what it does. Or why it would make my pee burn. Not that my pee does burn. But if it did, I would suspect my pancreas. Which probably underscores how little I know about my own body. All this reminds me, it’s time for a physical. Damn it. Talk about emasculating. Nothing makes you realize you’re not in charge of your own destiny more than the snap of a rubber glove, “Mr. Olifson, you know what your prostate is, right?”
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