Lifetime Free Oil Change

Lifetime Free Oil Change
A true-life embarrassing moment 

         I had so many things to do.  The children needed summer clothes, the house was devoid of groceries, and I still had laundry and packing to do in preparation for our upcoming vacation.  It was going to be a busy day. 

         My first stop was at the Oldsmobile dealership to have my oil changed.  I didn’t mind going there because they had a playroom where the children could pass some time, but they always took so long to get anything done.  They did, though, say an oil change should only take 30-45 minutes depending on how many were ahead of you.

         Twenty minutes after the dealer’s garage opened I pulled into the lot and was quite pleased to see I was only third in line.  I parked in the service bay and herded my three children from the van as the service technician rolled his eyes.

         Nine-year old Heather held tightly to her brother’s hand.  At four years of age, Nathaniel was quick, curious, and very inquisitive.  From the moment he woke in the morning until he fell asleep at night he explored the world with everything he had at his disposal and innumerable questions.  He would often fall asleep in mid-sentence and awaken the next morning and pick up right where he had left off.

          As the young man behind the desk took care of the paperwork I could tell he was getting irritated by my son’s constant chatter.  Hasn’t been around many children, I smiled to myself.  He presented me with the sign-in form and a pen, rolled his eyes in the direction of the children, and said, “I guess you’ll be waiting on this today?”

         “Yes,” I replied.  “How long do you estimate it will take?” I asked as I turned to leave.

         He looked at the monitor in front of him and shrugged.  “You should be out of here in less than an hour,” he said flatly.

         I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Thanks so much,” I said cheerfully, hoping to leave him with a positive impression.  “I have so much planned for today.”

         I settled the children in the waiting area.  Six-year old Fallon chose a doll while her brother intently studied every toy in the collection, deciding which one he wanted. 

         “I have this one at home,” he prattled, “but theirs is broken and mine isn’t.”  He held up the toy for my inspection.  “Why do they have broken toys, Mommy?”

         “I guess because so many children play with them they just wear out,” I supplied.

         He pondered my answer for a moment.  “But if they’re just playing with them, how do they get broke?  My toys don’t get broke.”

         “Some children aren’t as careful as you.”

         Then came the all-important question:  “Why?”

         “Maybe they were in a hurry to put them away.”

         “Why?”

         “Their parents were probably ready to leave.”

         “Why?”

         “Because their car was ready and they had other things to do.”

         “Like what?”

         “Maybe they were going shopping like we are later.”

         “Why?”

         “Why were they going shopping or why are we going shopping?” I asked, delaying his inevitable response for but a moment.

         My tactic threw him off and he began a new line of questioning.  “How long will we be here?”

         “Not very long.”

         “Will it be longer than one Sesame Street?”

         “It might be about that long, maybe less.”

         “What are they doing to our car, Mommy?”

         “They’re putting clean oil in the engine.”

         “How does oil get dirty?”

         “It gets dirty from the engine running, I guess.”

         “Why does it need to be clean?”

         “So the engine runs better.”

         “What happens if it isn’t cleaned?”

         “The engine could stop working after a while.”

         “How long of a while?”

         “I don’t know.”

         “Why not?”

         “I never asked, I guess.”

         “Why?”

         “Because I always get the oil changed when Daddy tells me it’s time to get it done so I don’t have to worry about the engine stopping when the oil is dirty.”

         “Oh.”

         Whew.

         As the hour slowly passed, the children played quietly as I went over my shopping lists.  “I’m hungry,” Nathaniel chirped, breaking the silence.

         “I need to go potty,” Fallon announced. 

         The restroom was just a few steps away and I could see the playroom from the door.  “Heather, keep an eye on your brother.  I’ll be right back.”

         Heather looked up from her book and nodded, meticulously placing the marker between the pages as she slowly closed the cover.

         Returning from the restroom, I stopped in the ‘adult’s waiting room’ and picked up some napkins and a sweet roll for the children to share and purchased a bottle of water from the vending machine.  I peered through the small window into the service bay as we passed by, happy to see my van with the hood up. 

         The pastry was soon devoured and the questions began again.

         “Why are they called ‘sweet rolls’?”

         “Because they’re rolls and they’re sweet,” Heather quipped before I could reply.

         “Why do they call them rolls?  What’s a ‘roll’ mean?”

         “The person who makes them rolls a piece of dough in their hands.  That’s why they’re called ‘rolls,’” I explained.

         “Who makes them?”

         “A baker.”

         “Does the baker wash his hands first?”

         “I’m sure he does; he might even wear gloves.”

         “Does he have to wash his gloves first?”

         I laughed, “His gloves are already clean when he puts them on.”

         “Who washes them?”

         “If he wears gloves, they’re probably disposable.”

         “Eww!” Fallon squealed, looking up from her doll.  “Like disposable diapers?”

         “Disposable just means that once you have used them, you throw them away.”

         “Is oil disposable?”

         “No.  Oil needs to be recycled.”

         “How do they recycle oil?”

         “I’m not sure.  They take it somewhere to refine it and take the dirt out of it so it can be used for something else.”

         “How long does it take?”

         “I don’t know.  Maybe we can find a book about it at the library.”

         Heather looked up at the mention of the library.  “Can we go to the library today?”  She held up her book to show me how close the marker was to the back cover.

         “Yes, if we have time we’ll go to the library.  If not today, then tomorrow.”

         “Do they use oil at the library?”

         “I’m sure they use it for something.”

         “Like what?”

         “To oil the wheels on their carts so they don’t squeak and make the librarian say ‘Shhh!’” Heather exclaimed with a giggle.

         “I’m going to go check on the van,” I said, standing up to stretch.  Another hour and a half had passed and I was growing frustrated.

         Approaching the young man behind the computer in the service bay I waited politely until he finished typing.  He slowly looked up and met my gaze.  “Do you need something?” he asked, annoyed.

         “Yes.  I’ve been here for two and a half hours and I was wondering when my oil change will be finished.”

         He rolled his eyes indignantly and pushed a key.  “It should be finished any time now.”  He turned his back and busied himself with papers.

         I walked across the service bay to the showroom door, a bit intimidated and a little angry.  You don’t have to take this.  Why don’t you stand up for yourself? I scolded myself.  I was always too shy and quiet to say anything when I felt confronted.  I returned to the children and waited a while longer.

         “Are they done putting in clean oil, Mommy?” Nathaniel asked.

         “Not yet, but soon.”

         “Where do they put the oil in?”

         “There’s a special cap they take off and they can pour the new oil in there.”

         “How do they take the old oil out?”

         “There’s another special place under the engine with a filter.  They take off the filter and leave the pipe open and the oil drains out.”

         “What’s a 'filler'?”

         “It’s a round thing that looks like a can.  The oil goes through it and it traps some of the dirt.”

         “If there’s already a ‘filler’ then why does the oil get dirty?”

         “Because some dirt is too small for the filter to catch it.”

         “Why don’t they make a better ‘filler’ to catch smaller dirt?”

         “That’s a good question.”

         Forty-five more minutes passed as I paced between the playroom and the door to the service bay, peeking through the window in search of my vehicle.  Other customers came and went but we sat.

         I stopped a salesman in the hallway.  “How long is an oil change supposed to take?” I asked.

         “About thirty minutes, ma’am, unless there are a lot of people waiting ahead of you.”

         “Are there a lot of people waiting?”

         “Nah; they say it's been pretty slow today, actually.”

         “Really?  My three children and I have been here for over three hours waiting for an oil change and the guy in the service bay keeps telling me it will ready any minute!” I fumed.

         “Let me go see what I can find out.”

         A few moments later he returned.  “Are you the grey Silhouette?” he inquired.

         “Yes.”

         “Clay said he thought you were coming back later to pick it up so he put it on the hold list until this afternoon.  I’ll tell him to get hopping out there and get you out of here.”

         “Thank you,” I muttered through clenched teeth, trying to hold back tears. 

         Fifteen minutes later I looked out and they were just pulling my van into the shop.  Ten minutes after that it was still just sitting there.  Frustrated and angry I took Nathaniel’s hand.  “Let’s go for a walk and get some answers to all of your questions,” I suggested.

         His eyes brightened at the prospect and we headed across the service bay.  Clay was leaning against the counter with his back to us, laughing with a few coworkers.  My expression sent chattering servicemen quickly scurrying away through every available exit, like cockroaches afraid of being tread upon, leaving Clay by himself.

         Clay turned toward us with a look of confusion mixed with dread.  “Oh.  It’s just you,” he huffed, breathing a sigh of relief.

         “Yes.  It’s just me.  I have a question.  Why have I been here for over three hours waiting for a 30 minute oil change?  I’ve been more than patient and more than polite.”

         “There was a little confusion earlier and one of the guys thought you were coming back later to pick up your vehicle.”

         “Hmm.  Did you see me drive in here towing another vehicle behind me so I had something to drive away in?” I asked, my voice rising with aggravation.

         “No, ma’am.”

         “Did I not come out here over an hour ago and inquire about my vehicle?”

         “Yes, ma’am.”

         “Then why didn’t you get on it then instead of waiting to pull it in until I questioned someone else about it?”

         “Ahh, umm, well I …” Clay stammered for an answer; he knew he’d been caught fooling around on the job.  Color flushed his cheeks making him look like he’d been slapped across the face for making an impertinent remark to a proper young lady, but I had no pity left for him.

         “Well, since you don’t seem to have any answers to my questions, perhaps you’d be better able to answer the questions of a four-year-old."  I drew my son forward.  “First, he’d like to know why a car engine needs oil.  I’ll let him take it from there.”

         Nathaniel looked at me with an excited grin, took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders, and looked up expectantly into Clay’s ever-reddening face.  When no answer was forthcoming, he reached out and tugged Clay’s pant leg.  “Mister?  Hey, mister!  Why does a car need oil?  Where does oil come from?  What does it look like?  Where do you put it?  How does it get dirty?  How do you get it out?  Can you make a better ‘filler’ to catch smaller dirt?” 

         Nathaniel paused for breath and Clay’s eyes begged me to rescue him.  I threw up my hands and shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyed and walked away.

         “Mister?  Why does dirty oil make the engine break?  What do you do with dirty oil?  How do they get the dirt out of it?  What do they use it for after that?”

         I stood at the service bay door, my hand on the doorknob, enjoying every second of Clay’s discomfiture.  Behind the glass garage wall, his buddies looked on, doubled over with laughter, slapping their knees and wiping tears from their eyes.

         “Mister?  If you don’t know the answers, its okay.  You can go and look ‘em up at the lib’ary tonight and tell me tomorrow.  That’s what Mommy does.  Mommy’s good at findin’ books with answers so if you need help jus’ ask’er.” 

         Nathaniel’s comment brought renewed gales of laughter from Clay’s peers, who looked in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen due to their extended hilarity.  I finally stepped in, not for Clay’s sake but because I’m a responsible mother.  “Nan, sweetie, let’s let the man do his job,” I said softly, returning to the desk.  “You head to the door and I’ll join you in a minute.”  I looked straight up into Clay’s face and said, “I’m leaving this garage in ten minutes, and my van had best be finished.  Ten minutes, or I’ll bring my son back out here with his questions about brakes and the exhaust system, do you understand me?”

         Clay’s voice squeaked in his throat but he nodded vigorously, terror rising in his eyes.

         No sooner had the children put away all of the toys than our name was announced over the loudspeaker.  When we walked into the service bay, Clay handed me the keys but wouldn’t meet my gaze.

         As I walked around the back of the van to let the children in the side door, I noticed someone seated in the passenger seat.  He put his hand out the window and waved me over.  “Please get in,” he said hoarsely.  I recognized him as the owner of the dealership.

         With the children securely in their safety seats, I got into the driver’s seat.  He instructed me to start the car and pull out of the lot.  As we drove, he apologized for the behavior of his service staff and said they would all be reprimanded for their poor treatment of a customer and lack of attention and professional courtesy.

         “Young man,” he said, turning in his seat to address Nathaniel face to face.  “It may be a while before you’re able to read and understand these for yourself, but you should find the answers to all of your questions about oil, brakes, exhaust, and much more in here.”  He handed Nathaniel a thick folder containing technical information with full-color pictures and transparent overlays explaining the workings of an engine and all other major systems in a modern vehicle.

         I was proud of my son.  He thanked the man properly and enthusiastically for the information and flashed him a winning smile.

         “And for you ma’am,” he said as we pulled back into the lot.  “Whenever this vehicle needs an oil change, just bring this letter with you and it will be taken care of, on the house; and if they don’t wash and clean your vehicle from top to bottom, inside and out, give a holler and I’ll come down myself and make sure it gets done to my own standard of satisfaction.”

         With a nod, he exited the vehicle and sent me on my way.

         From then on, whenever I went to the dealership, we were treated with kid gloves.  Clay would stand at attention and shout orders to the other members of the service team.  We barely had time to go inside and get a soda before our vehicle was ready to leave, fully serviced and sparkling clean.

         While this may not have been an embarrassing moment for me, personally, it was certainly an embarrassing moment for Clay.  I wonder where he is now.  Did he ever have children of his own?  I wonder if he’d be able to answer Nathaniel’s questions any better today, ten and a half years later.  Wherever he is, I bet he’s never treated another customer like that again; especially not a shy, quiet, red-haired mother of three driving a minivan!

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