Another Day

She was pretty in that common beauty pageant, TV anchor sort of banal way. Consumed by her own materialism. Her too blonde hair, too red lipstick, and too matte makeup. Her myopic rendition of beauty. In one hand a breakfast sandwich of some sort from McDonald's. In the other, a vat of coffee from Starbuck's. As I stared at her I found myself wondering how she would negotiate the impending turn without wrapping her car around a light pole. As if in response to my curiosity, she shoved the remainder of her sandwich in her mouth. Her cheeks straining against the load. It reminded me of a scene in Aliens, where the alien is tearing free of its host's chest. I chuckled a bit to myself. Then, full on laughter as a tube of impossibly red lipstick suddenly appeared in her hand. That's what you need, more lipstick. As she began applying it, the light turned green. She mouthed, "Shit" to herself. I thought I would hang back some. I didn't want to be in the way if she wrecked. Impressively, she managed the turn sans carnage.

I turned my attention to the radio station, Shade 45. Rick Ross is hustling everyday, if you let him tell it. And he will tell it--over and over and over. As I pull into Vavoline, I wonder what ever happened to talent. What happened to the rule that says, "You must possess some talent to be an entertainer." The radio just plays these canned, commercial, homogeneous songs anymore. One "artist" barely discernible from the next. Sad, really.

It was right about here that one of the attendants raises the garage door and, standing there in that dingy blue uniform, starts guiding me over the oil change station. Funny, suddenly I feel like an airline pilot.

I exit my car and,exchanging vacant pleasantries with an attendant, make my way to the waiting room. Here I peruse the magazine selection and realize that I must be a mutant. Apparently, everyone who gets their oil changed is obsessive about cars. That must be the case, because all of the magazines seemed to cover the automotive industry with pathological enthusiasm. I don't share their enthusiasm for cars or the industry.

"Hey, Simon. How ya' doin?" It's the attendant that I exchanged pleasantries with. I find it almost hilarious that he's speaking to me as though he's a friend that I've had for years. Glancing at his name tag, I decide to play his game, "Not too bad. Terry. Yourself?"

"Looks like you're a little overdue here by a couple hundred miles," he says. I look at him impassively. There's a pause. I realize he's expecting me to offer some sort of excuse. I cross my arms and yawn.
"Well, do you want to go with the same oil as last time?"

I nodded in the affirmative. I'm pulling out of their driveway about 10 minutes later. As I'm driving out, I wonder why we offer excuses, or lies, to perfect strangers. You could tell from Terry's Pavlovian behavior that he expected me to offer up some sort of excuse. "Well, Terry, because thinking about doing mundane tasks, like getting my oil changed, makes my balls itch." Or, maybe, "Yeah, I always like to wait a little longer than your recommended date because I like to see you stand there in that slack-jawed way asking me stupid fucking questions. It's part of the $28 for me." It's a curious cultural idiom--making up excuses. It probably stems from a sense of guilt. Guilt is overrated.