“Oil Can What?” Said the Scarecrow
“Oil Can What?” Said the Scarecrow
By Paul Giles
Since when did getting your car’s oil changed become as complicated as launching an interplanetary probe? I’m not talking about the do-it-yourself type. Remember those? A socket wrench, a filter strap, a can spout, and a rag were all the tools needed, and I looked pretty damned manly doing it. Oh, I might have worn an apron so I wouldn’t get my clothes too greasy, but once I got started, the black sludge covered up the butterflies and flowers and filled the holes in the lace.
Now, at that HalfSquare age, I prefer to have someone else take care of even the simple jobs. I wouldn’t even pump my own gas if it weren’t for the fact that the full service price is a testicle-and-a-half per gallon and there’s actually no service performed. As for other simple chores, well, I’m still trying to find an inexpensive valet to dress me in the morning and tie my shoes.
My sloth was what brought to my attention the complexities of the modern oil change. Having to take an out-of-town trip, I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my usual mechanic, Ed “Ooh, That’s Gonna Cost Ya” Hemmy. Ed was known far and wide in auto repair circles for the utterly sincere sympathy he showed customers as he overcharged them, replacing perfectly good parts with realistic-looking cardboard replicas he constructed each night in his basement workshop. Often, while giving estimates for very expensive jobs, a tear can be seen escaping the corner of one eye, which will then show up as an item on the customer’s final bill, usually at $17.95 plus labor.
In a rush, I stopped at one of those instant oil change places. The price seemed reasonable – oil and filter for only $21.99. The establishment was clean and bright, staffed with young men and women who were neither. The exception was the clerk who greets the customers and sells them the service. He was obviously the brains of the operation, able to enter my vital statistics into the database without having to use the little pictures on the computer keyboard like they do at McDonalds. He took my keys and said they’d take care of me right away. That’s when it started.
In my world of sunshine, bright colors, and Oompa-loomps, an oil change is supposed to be a simple thing. Drain it and replace it. It’s not complicated. But the pit crew at this place acted like they were working for NASA. Orders were barked. Lights flashed. Bayonets were fixed. Sweethearts kissed one last time. I didn’t write down the exact exchanges of dialogue that transpired, but this is a pretty close reconstruction of events at my oil change.
“Driving into bay!”
“Driving into bay.”
“Ignition off!”
“Ignition is off. Roger that.”
“Opening door and exiting vehicle!”
“Roger. You are cleared for extra-vehicular activity.”
(In the pit below the car, the “technician” begins the process.)
“Rolling drip pan in place. Drip pan is in place.”
“Confirm drip pan in place.”
“Removing oil fill cap. Removed.”
“Roger that.”
“Now moving to oil plug. Lefty-loosey on the oil plug.”
“Roger lefty-loosey.”
“Uh, control. We have greater resistance on the lefty-loosey than we had in training. Request permission to use longer socket wrench for leverage.”
“One moment, Eagle One.”
(30 seconds of silence.)
“Okay, the consensus here is a go. You are authorized for longer socket wrench.”
“Roger. Attempting lefty-loosey with longer wrench. I can…(inaudible)…mother…(inaudible)…sucker…she’s loose! It’s…yes, we have positive oil flow. Repeat. Positive oil flow.”
“Roger that. Eagle One, mission control would like to know if you feel it’s safe to proceed with filter removal.”
“I feel conditions are optimal for filter removal.”
“You may proceed then.”
(A few minutes pass.)
“Filter is off.”
“Roger, Eagle One. What’s your estimate for replacement of oil plug?”
“I’m examining plug now. It looks like it was over-tightened during routine maintenance, but thread integrity is still good.”
“Uh, we recommend using a torque wrench for righty-tighty on the oil plug so we don’t have a repeat of the lefty-loosey next time.”
“Roger that. Replacing oil plug now. (Grunting.) Oil plug is in place. Proceeding to oil filter replacement now.”
(Commotion is heard from pit.)
“What…it’s not…(inaudible)…I can’t…(loudly, with fear) Mission control! The filter will not thread on! Repeat! Filter will not thread on!”
“Eagle One, are you sure you have the correct replacement part?”
(Still agitated.) “I can read a filter chart, damn it! I’m telling you it won’t thread! If it doesn’t go on, I’ll be stranded down here! Do you hear me? Stranded!”
“Stay calm. Panicking won’t help. Can you see any thread burrs? Maybe you can file them down.”
“Damn it, Jim! I’m an oil change technician, not a machinist!”
(Voices arguing, inaudible.)
“Uh, we have our people up here working on our duplicate Ford, and we think we’ve got a solution. Now, I know this will sound crazy, and it goes against every rule in the book, but it’s all we’ve got. Double the lubricant on the filter thread. Repeat. Double the lubricant.”
(Silence.)
“Double the lubricant? You scientists think you can play God with a filter! But let me tell you, some things were never meant for man to do! You can count me out!”
“I know how you feel. It’s dangerous. It’s unethical. Hell, it’s probably illegal in Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, California, and anywhere prohibited by law, but we didn’t join the Instant Oil Change Corps to debate the niceties. We joined to give mankind the best damned oil change in under 30 minutes, and by God we’re not going to let that incredibly handsome and obviously virile guy who drove in here down!” (He may not have used those exact words, but I’m paraphrasing.)
“Forgive me, Jim. It was just a moment of panic. It won’t happen again. Preparing to re-lubricate the filter thread. Lube complete. I’m giving it another try.”
(One minute of silence.)
“Negative on the oil filter.”
(Moaning, cursing, and rending of overalls from the sales desk.)
“Preparing to triple the lubricant.”
“What? No! You can’t! Wait for us to come up with another solution! I know what I said before, but this is madness!”
“That may be, Jim, but you were right. We took an oath. I’m finishing this job no matter what the cost. Preparing to triple lubricant. And please…tell my girlfriend, Lindsey, that I kinda like her and she’s really smokin’ in those low-cut black jeans that show off the top of the unicorn tattoo on her ass.”
“Will do, and God speed, Dude. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
“I got it! It’s in! It’s in!”
(Cheers from the sales desk.)
“Roger Eagle one. We’re almost home. Prepare to inject five quarts of premium 10W30 motor oil.”
“Right. Injecting oil now. Oil injection is over. Replacing oil fill cap. Cap on. Mission complete.”
“Very good, Eagle One. Everyone up here is proud. Damn proud. And when you get back, there’ll be a burger and a cold Red Bull waiting for you…on me, you big lug nut.”
I felt proud to be an eyewitness to this younger generation’s finest hour. Well, finest half hour, or it would have been free. Still, the sterility of the experience put me off. It all seemed so overproduced, like a film adaptation of “The Little Engine That Could” directed by Vincent Minelli. I guess I just don’t feel something that simple should be made so complicated.
Which reminds me. Did I ever tell you about my dinner at that Japanese steak house? We were seated around this big grill, see, and this guy comes out with these really big knives…
