Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Against my better judgment, I’m actually looking forward to my 7 AM alarm tomorrow, a time which runs counter to everything I know to be good and true about decent morning hours. What’s more, the early start is solely in service of an oil change, a seemingly mundane task that shouldn’t call for waking up early, let alone excitement. But it’s not so much the what as the where that’s so appealing, and the chance to seize a little piece of normalcy is just that much more crucial these days.

Between a persistent headache and reports that weekend rainfall was slightly radioactive–one look at my Pur pitcher and it was, like, I don’t think you filter that–I’m not sure what’s next. For about 40 minutes, though, I’ll know exactly what to expect. I’ll step into the cozy waiting room, hand Dutch my keys, and then take a seat near a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Our ritual will then proceed like so: he’ll offer a cup, and I’ll decline to his mock chagrin, telling him I’m there for his auto know-how, not the coffee.

Invariably Dutch, the only service provider I’ve ever met who’s tried to talk me out of keeping the Saab, will ply me with other food and drink–even a mechanic’s jacket, once–and I’ll grab something. This is all merely a prelude, however, to the talk. That’s the main attraction, after all, and after conversing about everything from Smart Cars to autism to crew cuts to Freemasonry, I can’t imagine what’s on the docket for tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll lead in by asking him about car care tips for optimal performance in an irradiated wasteland.