A Day at the Jiffy Lube

I was driving down the highway the other day, minding my own business and thinking manly things, when I happened upon a couple of distressed damsels experiencing a spot of car trouble.  What a great chance to practice a bit of manliness, I thought as I eased onto the shoulder and climbed out.  After they'd decided I posed no serious threat to their safety or their virtue, the pair explained that they'd suddenly lost power and coasted to a stop, and that they'd called AAA, who was about 15 minutes away.  I offered to take a look.

I popped the hood, assumed an appropriately furrowed brow, and earnestly began to investigate the nature of the problem.  Sure enough, there were some shiny things, some greasy things, and some wiry things in there, and just as I suspected, they all appeared to be in exactly the right spot.  I tugged on the belts, wiggled the battery cable, and made sure there was enough blue stuff in the window washer jug.  My preliminary inspection produced no obvious answers; wiping my hands on the front of my jeans and frowning meaningfully, I proclaimed the problem to be very serious indeed. 

At about that time the AAA guy showed up, poured a few gallons of gas in the car, and left me to wonder how this little episode had gone so completely wrong.

* * *

I had a little car trouble of my own one day about 15 years ago.  It was the morning of my wedding, and I was under a bit of a deadline: I needed to pick up the rings, exchange a pair of tuxedo shoes, and get myself to the church in time for pictures.  I'd noticed the key to my GMC pickup had been catching in the ignition from time to time, but I figured this little problem would eventually work itself out, and anyway, a little wiggle here and a jiggle there, and it always seemed to start.  That particular morning I was in a bit of a hurry as I slipped the key into the slot, gave it a little twist, and . . . nothing.   Shit. 

Panic is a strong word, but I went back into my house without much of a plan.  Luckily, my dad and his dad, two very manly men, were hanging out in my kitchen sharing a laugh about some thing or another.  I frantically explained my situation, and my grandpa said, "Well, why don't you just replace the ignition switch and be done with it?"  The look of complete and utter bewilderment on my face probably led to his next statement: "Here.  Take my car.  We'll do it for you." 

I picked up the rings, exchanged the shoes, and delivered to my dad and grandpa something called a steering wheel puller, then watched in amazed wonder as they systematically disassembled the entire dashboard assembly of my truck.  There were wires and springs and parts everywhere . . . it looked lke the Swiss Army had lobbed a series of quartz watch grenades into my garage. 

I knew there was no way I would ever drive that particular vehicle again, and as I paced the floor wondering how I could call off the wedding on such short notice, I heard my truck start.  Around the corner they came, my dad wiping his hand on a red rag and my grandfather tossing me the keys.  In about an hour's time they had completey removed the steering wheel, disassembled the steering column, replaced the ignition switch, put everything back together, and even managed to reset the clock, which had been an hour off since daylight saving time had begun.  I heard my dad chuckle as they walked into the house about how out of practice they were, as that job used to take about a half-hour.   

* * *

I'm writing this odd little story from the waiting room of our local Jiffy Lube, where pretty soon I'll write a check to a high school kid with a dirty hat and baggy blue jeans to do what, for decades my grandfather used to spend a Saturday afternoon doing on his driveway and my dad still does.  I wonder if they saw this day coming, and that's what they were laughing about in my kitchen all those years ago.