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A Jiffy Operation: The Suburban Saturday Oil Change
| Article
# : |
13143 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
11 / 1987 |
698 Words |
| Author
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C.M. Zielinski
C.M. Zielinski is a free-lance writer located in Washington,
D.C |
My visits to the Jiffee Lube had always consisted of skidding in just a few minutes before the seven o'clock closing time on weekday evenings. My oil changes had been largely uneventful, barring my periodic checking on the fellows to make sure that they really had put all my little caps and jiggers back in place in spite of their anxiousness to close up shop. But last Saturday, without forethought, I drove my Toyota into the lot in the midst of Suburban Saturday. I was to witness Jiffee Lube in its prime, amidst its sublime professional regalia!
The simple procedure of those weekday evenings was being transformed into a colossal operation! Dual streams of pulsating cars chugged through the parking lot and disappeared through the gaping jaws of two overhead doors.
Newspapers were unfolding behind some steering wheels and the stockinged feet of one of the drivers in front of me were airing out the window. A chubby lady in a flowered housedress returned to her husband two cars ahead with some hamburgers from the McDonald's down the block. The vibrations of the multitude of car radios blended in a collage of sound.
As I checked my watch to console myself with an estimated time of departure, a new Saturday-only employee of Jiffee Lube, Inc., appeared: The Traffic Director. This committed little guy ran frantically from car to car with his clipboard, labeling each windshield with consecutive numbers. Each time a pair of cars disappeared into the Realm of the Mechanics, the Traffic Director called us, one by one, to roll our cars five feet forward. He clearly was sincere as he tried to remember the number of each of our cars and call us "by name." (I was #33). Still, it was difficult to stifle a chuckle each time he ran by, dutifully shouting and waving. What should have happened naturally as each driver rolled his car forward to fill the gap had become a major performance.
After twenty minutes of being entertained by the scene, I decided to finish some paperwork I had been working on. I was just crawling into the back seat for my briefcase when my number was called. I maneuvered onto the parallel ramps as two mechanics simultaneously waved me toward the right and the left. After surrendering my keys, I was led through the Customers Only door to join the others who were sitting on a line-up of vinyl and chrome chairs, flipping though last month's Newsweeks and trying to dissolve the Cremora in plastic cups of coffee.
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