My grandfather did his own oil changes in his garage.
He’d drive his car up on these little ramps that fit under the front wheels.
Then he’d slide underneath it, lying on this board with swiveling officer-chair wheels attached to it.
He’d empty the oil into a pan.
And then he’d dump the oil in a patch of dirt behind the garage reserved for that purpose.
And likely contaminate the groundwater underneath.
But, hey . . . you didn’t worry about such things back then.
My grandfather always kept a bag of kitty litter in his garage.
Not because he ever had a cat.
But because that’s what you put on the floor to sop up any of the oil that may have spilled.
All the piles of oil-soaked kitty litter made it hard to ride your skateboard in the garage on rainy days.
But, looking back, I see the logic in my grandfather’s methods.
Unfortunately, I’m not sure he’d see the same in mine.
I take my car to the dealership for oil changes.
Which, everyone knows, is exactly what you’re not supposed to do.
Maybe you don’t have to change your own oil like my grandfather did.
But, rather than take your car to the dealer, where you’re likely to get screwed, you’re supposed to take it to the local, independent guy.
Which I’ve done from time to time.
The shop in town does good work.
I think.
How the hell would I know?
The trouble is, it can be a very frustrating experience.
Whereas I can schedule everything online with the dealer, the local guy just tells you to park your car in his lot, and then he’ll get to it when he gets to it.
He doesn’t use some fancy website and a bunch of “service consultants” to run his business.
He just does the work.
I called the shop once to try to schedule something.
My car’s owner’s manual said it was due for its whatever-thousand-mile service.
“Sure,” the mechanic said, “we can do that. Just drop it off next Friday morning.”
So, I did.
Even though the lot seemed strangely empty that day.
I parked my car and walked the two miles back to my house in twenty-degree weather.
Later that afternoon, after I hadn’t heard from the mechanic all day, I gave the shop a call.
And I got a recording that said the shop was closed for some random holiday.
I walked back to the shop, retrieved my car, and promptly scheduled an appointment online with the dealer.
And I haven’t been back to the local guy since.
But that still doesn’t make me feel good about going to the dealer.
Like I did the other day.
I pulled into the service bay behind the clear-glass garage doors that opened automatically when you drove up to them.
Inside, the place was sparkling, with the service lanes flanked by a row of small offices housing the service consultants.
The moment I stepped out of my car, I was met by someone, maybe a mechanic.
It was hard to tell. They all dressed the same.
“Who’d you schedule your service with?” the guy asked me.
Who? That’s an odd question, I thought.
I hadn’t scheduled anything with any person.
I just needed a stupid oil change. I didn’t care who did it.
When he saw my quizzical look, he asked, “Who do you usually work with?”
Again, an odd question. I didn’t usually work with anyone.
“I’ll set you up with the Tom,” the guy finally said.
And then he asked me the first logical question of the day.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Yes. I’d enjoy a cup of coffee. Thank you.
Inside Tom’s office, I was invited to sit down.
“Okay, Daniel, let’s see what we got here . . .” he started.
I hate it when they call me Daniel.
Dan’s fine, I told him.
“Well, Dan, it looks like you’re due for your sixty-thousand-mile checkup,” Tom said, looking over my file in his computer.
Sure enough, I wasn’t getting out of there with just a simple oil change.
Fucking dealership.
“The good news,” Tom continued, “is we can knock that out today. Should only take a couple hours.”
And what might that cost? I asked Tom.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Brake fluid . . . cabin air filter . . . tire rotation . . . labor . . .”
I had an ominous feeling.
“We should get you out of here for six hundred eight-five dollars,” he concluded.
Are you kidding me?
“Oh! I forgot to mention, we’ll also replace the battery in your key fob and the service reminder sticker in your windshield,” Tom added, quickly.
As if those things somehow justified the ridiculous price.
Guys like Tom love it when guys like me walk through the door.
That’s because they know that guys like me know their six-hundred-dollar oil change is the least bad of three options.
Those include, one, skip the dealer and go back to the flakey local mechanic; two, roll the dice and forego the “extended service package” altogether; or, three, pay the six hundred bucks.
I’m a big believer in preventative maintenance, and I have no patience for flakes of any variety.
So, as Tom and his brethren know, I’ll pay.
Dejected, I told Tom to go ahead with the full checkup.
He smiled approvingly . . . knowingly.
I grabbed my briefcase and walked to the waiting room.
At least they have snacks, I told myself.
I grabbed a bag of peanuts and another cup of coffee and headed for the “quiet lounge.”
It’s a separate room, adjacent to the main waiting area where HGTV blares in unison from four televisions.
I opened my laptop and started in on some emails.
A moment later, I was interrupted by pounding coming from the wall across from where I sat.
What the hell? I wondered.
The pounding continued for several minutes.
Curious, and annoyed, I walked out of the quiet room and back into the main waiting area to investigate.
The children’s play area sat right next to the quiet room and shared a common wall.
The wall from which I’d heard the pounding.
And the source of the pounding, I discovered, was a little kid with a toy Thor hammer wailing away on the wall.
Which the kid was still doing, uninterrupted, while the woman, who I assumed to be his mother, blabbed away on her phone.
That’s some fine parenting, I thought.
I hope the kid puts a goddamn hole in the wall, and you have to deal with it, there, mom.
Unbelievable.
As I stood there, judging, Tom found me.
“So, the mechanic completed your inspection, and you should have gotten a text,” he said.
They liked to send you a video clip of the of the mechanic’s describing the underside of your car while it was up on the lift.
It’s supposed to give you peace of mind, I guess.
Or to make you pay for even more unnecessary service.
I’d watched the video once before. It was all gibberish to me.
Thanks, I told Tom. I received it.
“Looks like those are new tires,” Tom observed.
Yes. They were new. And I sure as shit didn’t buy them at the dealership.
“Did you get an alignment when they were installed?” Tom asked.
Why? Are they not aligned, I asked.
“Well, it’s just a good idea to have an alignment done to prevent uneven wear and tear on the tires,” he explained.
Thanks for the tip there, Tom. But I think the six hundred eighty-five dollars you’re taking from me today is plenty, don’t you?
“Okay,” he conceded. “But if you change your mind . . .”
I drove out of there a short time later.
It was the drive of shame.
The same, shameful drive I make every five to ten thousand miles.
I don’t think my grandfather would have approved.
And I wouldn’t have blamed him.
But maybe at least the dealer doesn’t dump used oil in the dirt behind the garage.
That’s a good thing, right?
Right?