I've always hated getting oil changes.
Like selling your books back at the end of the semester, youalways leave feeling like you got screwed with your pants on.
It never fails. The mechanic comes out holding a part. He frownsdisapprovingly.
"This 'whatsit' needs to be replaced," he says. "It'll lengthenthe life of your engine."
Now, I'm not completely incompetent when it comes to cars. I canchange my own oil if I have an easy way to raise my car off theground. I can jump a car with a dead battery, replace basicfilters, etc.
I know that ATF doesn't stand for just the federal agencyresponsible for alcohol, tobacco and firearms; it's also automatictransmission fluid.
But I have no idea what a "whatsit" is. The mechanic knowsthis.
He also knows that, if he frowns with enough disapproval, I willcave. I will let him make the repair. My $25 oil change will costme $50. I will spend the rest of the day feeling dumb.
So, like going to the dentist, getting my oil changed issomething I do only with the greatest reservation and whenabsolutely necessary.
This weekend, though, my distrust of mechanics increasedexponentially.
My roommate's car died Saturday, and after we successfullyresuscitated it, I joked that I couldn't believe he was going totrust the car for a trip to see his girlfriend in Virginia overThanksgiving.
That reminded him that he needed an oil change before next week.Because I was already in the car -- and willing to do anything toavoid work on a Saturday afternoon -- I decided to accompanyhim.
We drove through town, stopping at the first auto-serviceestablishment we found. It was the tiniest business I had everseen. The single-station garage was only slightly larger than ourdorm room.
Because the building was so small, it had no waiting room. Myroommate and I were privileged to watch the whole process,beginning to end.
The first clue that we had chosen the wrong garage came when oneof the mechanics lit a cigarette next to an oil can and a "NoSmoking" sign.
He and his partner proceeded to find fault with almost everypart of the engine. At one point, they seriously suggestedreplacing the whole thing.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that my roommate's '89 T-Bird isnot a perfect car. It has problems, but it isn't THAT bad.
The high point of the experience came when one of the mechanicsoffered to replace the thermostat gasket for either $10 or -- waitfor it -- two joints. He was saddened to learn that we couldn't usenarcotics as currency.
Thankfully, he was also willing to accept Visa.
After the mechanics gave us a receipt (one of the actualcomments: "raidator need fixed"), we pulled out of the parking lot,laughing in disbelief at the characters we were leaving behind.
I guess everything worked out. The oil was changed. The carstill works. No one was arrested.
But, having seen an oil change done by the "professionals" atclose range, I have to admit I'm more tempted than ever to buy someramps and do it myself.
Write to Stephen at stevehj@mac.com
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