I don’t know why I have to remind you to get your oil changed. Everyone loves either changing their own oil, or going to a dealer, or to a quick lube garage. Everyone. No exceptions. It’s a universal truth.
Transporting used oil to the dump? Who doesn’t love it? A waiting room with coffee like water, powdered non-dairy creamer from 2001, along with Car and Driver magazines of the same vintage? That’s for me, 24/7. I keed.
Yet, unexpectedly an errand can surprise you. Sometimes right there, right in the middle of a crummy chore, something happens, something wonderful. Let me explain what I’m yammering about.
About three months ago I took my Honda minivan, my mobile command center, to Jiffy Lube to get its old goo drained out, and new goo pumped in to the engine keep it from seizing up. Very friendly techs got to work without a pause and I took my place in the waiting room. Let’s set the stage.
The seat of the chair is hot from morning sun pouring onto it and heating the vinyl, the TV in the corner where two walls meet the ceiling is dark, the coffee machine, which I was kinda looking forward to, is gone, a ghost. The magazines are gone, the radio sitting on the counter, is likewise silent. It is as quiet as the grave.
I don’t like signing onto public wi-fi and I would sooner sell state secrets than use the meager data allotted to me each month. So, my phone stayed in my pocket. I sat, and waited.
I saw a mourning dove flap to the parking lot out the window. It cooed two sweet songs then flapped off. I saw that the ancient Toyota Celica in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut next door had a front end held together with a bungee cord. I wondered about the car. First owner? Last owner? How long will this car live? Did the dove sing for it? A comforting lullaby for a weary import?
Just then the sun pierced the cracked side panel of the Celica and made the turn signal shine like cut topaz. I thought to myself, “What is happening right now?”
Instead of shaking my head to clear my eyes and head, I made the call to settle in and let the soma do its job.
I heard another dove calling, I watched a ground squirrel explore the shadow of the ancient Celica, I felt my feet warm in my shoes as the sun beam continued to bake them, a whiff of cigarette smoke from the second tech waiting for the next oil change to drive up found its way to my brain reminding me that I used to love that sticking, acid taste in my throat and lungs, my eyes locked on the metal plate of the glass door and the word above it, “PUSH.”
The next thing I remember was the tech calling my name. Yes, Mr. Clarke, that’s me, that is my name. Where was I? I feel fantastic, I want to shake this guy’s hand and let him know that he’s my friend, I want to thank him for hosting me, I want to come back in six thousand miles and go back to that place that wasn’t simply zoning out, it wasn’t falling asleep, it was silence.
Silence isn’t unknown to me, but it’s pretty rare. In addition to the typical volume of Wisconsin families, I like to have the radio on all day. I like music, news (good God, the news!), talk, weather. It’s on most of the time, then the kids have a video game they like to play, and when none of those is happening, I’m listening to a pod while I work.
Every day, until the end of the day, the world is pretty damn noisy. This silence that I found, was a three-day weekend packed into twenty minutes.
Letting that profound and fulfilling silence in the waiting room take a place in my day made the rest of my week fit more perfectly together. And when this kind of renewal is waiting for you, and for your car, at your local garage, I really don’t know why I have to remind you to go get your oil changed.
– Micah Clarke
Micah Clarke is a father of two, a husband of one, a son of two, and a brother of one. He draws a lot, paints very little, and writes children’s books. Is a book a book if no one has ever published it? If not, he’s still a draftsman and a very little painter. He likes his eggs over easy, with grits and crispy bacon. And he wants you to know that he’s grateful to you for taking time to read his posts. It makes a southern boy all warm and fuzzy. And that’s really nice during a bitter Wisconsin winter. But seriously, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Y’all are the best.