“And better check the oil,” the guy adds.
“The oil?”
“Right.”
Up until now I was going good.
I got scared when Lefty—my mother’s cousin’s brother-in-law or something—said he’d go pick up the sandwiches, leaving me alone on my first morning. But I was going good. Guy drove in wanting a fill-up, unleaded. I put the nozzle in the tank, set the trigger, then washed his windshield with the combination sponge and squeegie. Trigger gave a click, meaning the tank was full, but I squeezed in another twenty cents’ worth. Came to four dollars, sixty cents. He handed me a five. I hit the little dime handle on my change-maker, which goes ching-ching, and the nickel handle and the quarter. “Here you go,” I told him. “And have yourself a real good day.”
Then I did two women at once. Got them both back on the road real quick and smooth and satisfied.
I like the way the change-maker feels on my belt and I like my blue shirt with the orange Clark patch above the pocket.
Then this jerk wanting his goddam oil checked.
After doing his gas and windshield, I open the hood and stand behind it for a minute, close it and walk up to his window.
“Looks pretty good.”
“You’re kidding. Figured I was down at least a quart.”
“Actually, you’re not. Looked like she might be down, but then … she wasn’t.”
“Pretty dirty?”
“Excuse me?”
“The oil. Is it dirty?”
“Well, little bit, little bit dirty, sure. That’s to be expected. But not too dirty, not where you need to have it … you know … cleaned.”
“Cleaned} What the hell you talking about?”
“Just saying, that’s all.”
“Saying what?”
“Just… that it’s okay, everything’s fine, looking good. Prob’ly wanna have it checked again real soon, though. Okay, so that’s five on the gas.”
“Here.”
“Thank you, sir. And have yourself a real good day.”
Over our sandwiches at his desk I confess to Lefty I don’t know how to check the oil.
He stops midbite. “You’re shittin’ me.”
I backpedal. “What I mean is, I know how to check it. I know that. I’m just not real sure about the specifics of it, that’s all.”
“You mean like how to do it?”
“Well… yeah.”
Lefty takes a long drink of his Coke and releases a long low belch. “You know anything about cars?”
“To be honest? Probably not as much as I should.”
“Know how to drive one?”
“Actually, no, I don’t. To be honest.”
He nods.
I can tell he’s wondering what else I don’t know how to do. Like make change. Or dress myself.
The next guy who wants his oil checked, I call Lefty over, like he told me to, and he shows me all about the dipstick, then has me do it.
“I’d say … down a quart, right?”
“Tell him.”
I go over to the window and tell the guy, “You need a quart, pal.”
“All right.”
I return to Lefty. “He said all right.”
“All right what?”
“Just all right.”
Lefty sighs and goes over to the window.
I slide the dipstick back into its holster. I remember Tim Baker once calling me a fucking dipstick, years ago. I figured it was just a variation on dipshit. But this is what he meant. Interesting.
Lefty shows me where to pour the oil, using a funnel. It comes out thick and silky-looking. When I spill some he tells me it’s all right, take it easy, not to worry.
But I feel him thinking, You fucking dipstick.
It’s afternoon before I get anyone else wanting their oil checked—a woman in a scarf and sunglasses, like Jackie Kennedy.
When I show her the dipstick she lowers her sunglasses for a better look.
“See right there?” I say to her. “Where the oil stops? Means you’re down two whole quarts.”
“Oh, my.”
“Yeah, you gotta watch that. Don’t wanna be driving without oil. Do some serious internal damage to your engine.”
“I see. Well, thank you. That’s very helpful.”
“Hey, it’s what I’m here for. So. Two quarts?”
“Please.”
I have a feeling this woman finds me damned attractive: a young man who knows what he’s doing. And I probably don’t look too bad either, in my Clark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the change-maker riding my hip.
After I get her all set and she pays, I tell her, “Don’t forget what I said, now.”
“Sorry?”
“About your oil.”
“Right.”
“And ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“One more thing.”
“What is it.”
“You have yourself a real good day.”
She drives off.
Standing there watching her go, wiping my hands on a rag, I’ve got a feeling she’ll be wanting that oil of hers checked again real soon.
Before the afternoon is up, Lefty shows me one other thing: how to put air in a tire.
So now I can do it all. Anyone who drives in, I can serve them. I can pump their gas, clean their windshield, check their oil, give them oil, put air in their tires—and do it quickly, efficiently, and in a friendly manner.
Riding home on my bike I’m thinking I need to learn just two more things: how to drive a car and how to make love to a woman. Learn those two things and then I’ll be set. I’ll be all caught up.
By the end of the summer I’ve learned how to drive a car.