photo by jurvetson
So many men will find this totally irrelevant, because they either know enough about cars that they can hold their own in a conversation about dual overhead cams, or because they are wise enough to know their own limits and pay someone else to maintain their vehicle. I neither know enough, nor am I smart enough. Hence many of my problems in life, including the Autozone factor.
Let me ask you this, O faithful reader: auto parts stores–what the crap?
For many of you that says it all. For those who have never ventured beyond the outer sidewalk and through the double doors of the mechanical Purgatorio that is my experience every time I need a part, I will explain further.
I am driving to the store, rehearsing my lines over and over in my head. I will have to say clearly but in a casual way, like I am totally comfortable with the jargon, “Yeah, I need an accessory belt for a 92 Honda Civic.” You have to say it just like that, just like you’re saying “yeah, I need a quarter pound of thin-sliced honey cured ham” from the deli people (which is a much easier process, both because I feel at home with sandwich meats and because I come out with something I am sure is the right thing and not some foreign object that I have to nod wisely at in faked recognition).
You have to say it like this, because the guys behind the counter can smell fear. And they know you’re coming; they see you in the car, breathing heavily and rehearsing your line over and over again. As soon as you walk in, they deliberately start doing something else, so you have to interrupt them to get what you want and so now it’s clear to everyone who doesn’t belong and shouldn’t really be allowed in here in the first place.
So you lean in casually, knocking over the jar of tiny multi-colored flashlight keychains with laser pointers on the end, and you say, “Yeah, uh [voice crack], I’d like a pump. I mean a belt. A belt for…uh…my car.”
Now they’ve got you on the ropes. “Do you know what kind of a belt [or is your memory full after storing that one word in it]?”
“Yeah, OK, an accessory belt.” [Confidence is building, but they only want to set you up to knock you over.] “There are 17 different kinds of belts on most standard vehicles. [pansy] Do you know what kind it is?”
“Uh…[cotton mouth]” “Did you bring it in with you [for show and tell, or did Mommy forget to put that in your My Little Pony lunchbox with your Hi-C juicebox]?”
“No, I forgot [my brain was full after memorizing the word "belt"].” “OK, well, I’ll look it up and maybe we can find it [we really can't, but I want to prolong your awful experience so that you'll never come back here again]. What kind of a car do you have?”
“The one I drove here or the one at home?” [disrespectful silence while he waits for it to click home.]
“Oh! Yeah, stupid of me. The broken one.” “Yeah, that one. What kind of a car?”
“It’s blue. My car is blue, but it has gray interior.” Silence to make the disdain evident. “What’s the make [you don't know what that means, do you?]?”
“The make? [No, I guess I don't know what that means.]” “Like Honda, or Ford, or Subaru.”
[Something clicks and the rest comes pouring out]: “I need an accessory belt for a 92 Honda civic.” [internal sigh of relief.]
“Four cylinder or six?” [Thought you were home free, didn't you?]
“Uh, six cylinders.”
“Are you sure [because we both know you totally made that up on the spot, and it gives me one more chance to humiliate you], because the belts are different for different engines.”
“Yeah [busted], I’m sure. Definitely six [and I can bring it back if I'm wrong but please get me out of here].”
“OK, six cylinder accessory belt of some sort. There are four options here. Do any of these pictures look like it [they're all the same picture, but if I can actually get you to pick one I win $5 from my co-worker for serving the lamest customer of the day]?”
“It’s definitely the third one, yeah that one [let me go home I want to go home my wife will come back and get the right part let me go home i shouldn't be here].”
“OK, normally you need to replace them in pairs [there's only one on your car, but why stop having fun now?].”
“Yeah, I knew that. I meant I need two. I’ll take two. [maybe I can buy my way out of this.] And two more for a friend of mine; he has the same car I do. His is red though [I am six years old]. And one of those keychains [wow, a laser].”
“OK, that’ll be $90.98.”
“The price here says $16.30.”
“Yeah, but you ordered four, and there’s a disposal fee for old parts and an oil recycling tax [and you owe me for putting up with you].”
“OK, well, thanks for your help [I will go home and cry now].”
“You’re welcome, have a good one [I can't believe I have to breathe the same air as you.]“
On days like today I remember that the pain of Jr. High never really ends; it just relocates.
