My Trip To The Jiffy Lube®

I drive a Toyota Prius. It's actually a fairly advanced automobile, technologically speaking. A person doesn't need to insert a key to start the engine, just have the car's thumb-size sensor in his pocket. There's no key necessary to lock the doors either, as long as that sensor is near a car door. Today I discovered it was time to change the car's oil. A dashboard light came on and told me so. So I figured I'd go to the local Jiffy Lube.

I pulled the car up to the door of the Jiffy Lube's garage bay. I shut off the engine and then left my set of keys on the passenger's seat. Amongst the keys was the Prius's ignition sensor. A young, grease-stained, Jiffy Lube employee pushed me out of the way, jumped into the car, and grabbed the keys off the seat. He apparently was in a hurry. I noticed that his shirt said his name was Marvin. For a moment I watched as Marvin's oil marinated fingers toyed with the keys, his brain trying to figure out which of the keys was the ignition key.

"Hey pal," I finally uttered, "let's say you find the right key, where's the keyhole you put it in? Huh?"

Marvin began searching the dash for the elusive hole. Of course there wasn't one. But I let him look around for about thirty seconds. "I'll tell you what you do, swifty," I finally said, "put the keys back down on the seat and just push the big button that says POWER. If the engine doesn't start I'll give you the car's right front tire for free."

"Why didn't you just say tell me how to start the car in the first place?" Marvin grumbled at me, a bit of agitation in his voice.

"Well I would have if you hadn't pushed me out of the way as though I were your mother-in-law standing in front of a keg of Budweiser."

Finally Marvin got my car through the garage door and up on the rack. Meanwhile, I stood in the customer's waiting area acting as though I were reading a six month old Today's Bride magazine.

Jiffy Lube advertises that they take only ten minutes for an oil change. The company could make a fortune selling watches to their customers. This I say because my watch said that it took them almost 10 minutes to figure out how to open my car's hood. Either their advertising is wrong or my watch is.

Since I was going to be there longer than I expected, I decided I'd better use their bathroom facility. I asked a cigarette-puffing guy manning the desk where the toilet was. According to the name tag on his shirt, the man's name was Elden. Well, for an uncomfortable few seconds Eldon just stared at me, his slightly blood-shot eyes peering at me out of a weather-beaten, impassive face. At last he lethargically pulled the Pall Mall out from between his lips and tossed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a door around the corner.

"Thanks pal, your the best," I uttered in exasperation as I started for the restroom.

I stepped into the toilet facility and the first thing I noticed was the wet floor. "Hey pal," I barked out of the tiny room, "there's more water on this floor than there is behind Hoover Dam."
"Yeah?" he sang out. "Well for your information, that's not water."

"Really?" I howled as I glared fearfully at the flooded floor. "That's great. That's... just... great."

"Don't worry. It's only Marvin's coffee piss."

"Marvin's coffee piss?"

"That's right. It's piss but it's from coffee. Marvin had about five cups earlier today."

"Oh, well since I'm standing in coffee piss I don't feel so bad," I sang out sarcastically. "Can't Marvin hit the toilet?"

"I'll tell you what," Eldon called back to me, "you close the door and flip the light switch and you see if you can hit the toilet."

Well, my car was being serviced and my bladder was full. And since my shoes were already soaked, I figured I might as well do as instructed. So I threw the door closed with my right hand as I tossed the light switch with my left hand. The door clapped shut but the room's lone lightbulb refused to illuminate. Pitch darkness. After groveling around in the blackness for eight or ten seconds, I finally found the doorknob. I quickly pulled the door opened, stepped around the corner and barked to Eldon, "The light doesn't work!"

Without looking my way, he mumbled, "Wow. You're a real smart fella, aren't you?"

"Why the hell don't you put in a new light bulb!?" I huffed.

"Well usually we can use that room with the door opened," Eldon explained as he used his shoe to crush out his cigarette on the floor. "But we had a run of women customers this morning."

"Oh really? How inconvenient."

"Yeah. I'm willing to leave the door opened even with women in the place," stated Eldon, "but I'm from Alabama. Marvin is kind of bashful around women. So he closes the door."

"I think I'll just hold on until I'm home," I stated. "If you don't mind."

"Naw. The customer is always right."

Well, finally my car's oil was changed. Eldon rang up the service cost on the cash register. "That'll be $33.95," he muttered.

"Don't I get some discount because of urine damage to my shoes?" I remarked.

"Well I'll tell you, if you'd have come a half hour later, I might have been willing to give you some kind of shoe damage discount."

"Why in a half hour?"

"Well, ya see, Marvin has pretty regular bowels, and in a half hour he'd be about due to take a crap. You think your shoes are bad now, they would be a whole lot worse in a half hour, I guarantee you."

Time, Adulthood, And The Ultimate Sacrifice

When I was about twelve years old President Kennedy died. His assassination triggered philosophical questions out on the playground amongst us urchins. One question was; Are you willing to give your life so others might live? The first specific version of this question was, Would you die in place of the President of the United States? Jeff Pratt chuckled assuredly and pronounced in no uncertain terms that he'd die in place of the President anytime. All of us kids said that we were willing to take that step. Kim Gilbert said he would also be willing to die in place of the Pope. He meant it too. All of us were being completely serious.

If my memory serves me correctly, the questions became more detailed as we went along. As I recall, the next question was, What is the fewest number of people that you would be willing to sacrifice your life for? I think the first kid to speak up said he would be willing to die in place of a friend or family member. Then Lester Imboden proclaimed that he would be willing to sacrifice himself for just one important person, even if he were a stranger. Pretty darn noble, huh? Well, that did it. Everyone of us nodded that we'd do the same thing. Yeah, we were a courageous, high-minded lot, that's for sure.

A lot of time has passed since them days. But I've asked myself those same questions now and then over the years. The answers are no longer the same as they were when I was a kid. First, if my voluntary death were required to allow the President of the United States to live, well, good-bye Mr. Prsident. Nope, I wouldn't do it. Not even if he were new to The Office and he won the election by a landslide. I'm not that selfless any longer. My life means just too much to me.

If I could sacrifce my own life to stop a terrorist from blowing up a bus full of passengers, I don't think I'd do that either. I'd have to actually experience such a situation to know for sure, but my guess is that I'd choose my life to those lives on the bus. I'm just being honest here folks. I think if the body count got up into the hundreds then I'd probably have to think about it good and hard. There is a point where I'd actually be brave and noble. I'm pretty sure that I'd sacrifice my life to save a mid-sized city from annihilation. I'm pretty sure.

Yeah, when I was a kid I was a whole heck of a lot more valiant. I'll bet it's true with all the adults who were once those kids, those kids way back when. I still run in to Jeff Pratt at class reunions. He was the first kid to announce that he was willing to die in place of the President. Well of course he's grown now and I'm pretty certain he feels differently about making such a sacrifice, these 45+ years later. I mean, the last time I saw him he told me that he wasn't even registered to vote.

My Fitness Club

I joined a fitness club a while back. I will now take a moment to tell you about the club as viewed through my eyes...

I'm not sure if the fitness club I joined is typical, but I'm not yet sixty years old and still I'm always the oldest guys in the place. Sometimes I'm the oldest guy in the joint by twenty years. I've been there when I know no one has yet reached his or her thirtieth birthday, that is, no one but me.

I would say that about two thirds of the guys in the place spend almost all their time in the weight lifting section of the club as opposed to the treadmills and elipticals. As for the women, I think it's just the opposite. I'd guess that two thirds do not bother with the weight lifting equipment but rather spend their time on the "cardio" equipment. That's where I am most of the time too, on the cardio equipment.

I've been a member at this fitness club for a while now and I've never seen anyone sweat profusely other than me. Not one person. I've seen a little dampness on a few tee shirts now and then, but never a shirt soaked in perspiration. That's what I end up with three times a week, a shirt drenched in sweat. That's what exercising is all about, an elevated pulse and the accompanying sweat, or so I was once led to believe. I think that since everyone is fairly young, there's a reluctance to look anything but well-groomed. Just a theory.

There are no fistfights, no shouts of anger at the fitness club, but neither is there an abundance of overt friendliness. I'm always saying amusing things (at least I think they're amusing) to the staff. There's a "before and after" set of photos on the wall. Examples of what the club can do, or so they want you to believe. One example of a "before" photo shows a chubby woman wearing thick glasses. The "after" photograph has her slim and without spectacles. One time I pointed to the two photos as I said to a young staff member, "I would expect exercise to take off some pounds, but who would have thought that it can improve a person's eyesight?" The staff member was totally unprepared for such banter. Impromptu conversation just doesn't happen at this place. The staffer looked at me for a few seconds, bewildered, before producing a modest chuckle.

I'm not sure whether a lack of personality is common among fitness club members, or whether it's the younger generation in general that no longer knows how to have casual interaction with strangers. I tend to think it has to do with fitness club people, but I'm not sure. More study is required.

I try to never go into the club's locker room. I might give the room a visit if it had changing stalls, but it doesn't. Just an open locker room. See, I don't like taking off my clothes in front of men. I've never gotten used to it. If I'd been in the Navy maybe I'd be alright with it, but I was never in any of the armed services. If I'd even been on the high school basketball team I might be able to manage male group nudity. But I never made the basketball team either.

Aside from the problem with the nudity, I also hate the idea of sitting on a surface that has been in contact with the bare butts of others. I don't like the thought of sitting on such a surface while I'm wearing pants. Sitting on a locker room bench with my own bare butt is an utterly abhorrent thought. Just visualizing it makes me cringe. Anyway, I change out of my shirt in the men's room, by the sinks. I even do that quickly, to tell you the truth.

Anyway, that's a peek into my fitness club, a peek through my eyes. If any of you fellow members happen to read this silly blog entry, you'll know who I am. I'm the guy on the treadmill who's actually sweating. Say hello if you want. Since no one ever says hello to anyone, it'll shock me, but pleasantly so.

In Need of Additional Repairs (By guest blogger Marcia Jeffers)

My name is Marcia Jeffers. I am single and 32 years old. I was married about ten years ago and though we were married for about five years, it ultimately did not work out. I think it was the common case of our being too young and naive. Anyway, I am the CEO of a small but rather up-scale motel chain in the Pacific Northwest. My father started the business over 40 years ago but has recently decided that he wants to spend more time relaxing; consequently he gave me the corporate reins. It isn't like I am a novice at the business. I graduated with a marketing degree from Cornell, and I have worked within the company for ten years. Anyhow, that gives you some idea of who I am.

Marcia Jeffers

Over the last year or so I have decided to get back on the horse, romantically speaking. I think it is time for me to get serious about someone again. To that end I have been dating Mathew for the last few months. He is 36 years old, very articulate, and dare I say; very good-looking. He is an independent landscape architect. He was recently contracted by our firm to do some exterior updating of some of our facilities. His past work has been very impressive and he came highly recommended. I was taken with him immediately, in more ways than one.

I have found dating Mathew to be generally gratifying and mostly agreeable. He is extremely bright and discerning. I suppose it is true that he can at times he can come off as a bit rude and insensitive, but we all have our weaknesses. No one is perfect. Our relationship has been quickly moving along and I have felt that it is on the verge of becoming completely intimate. The only reason why it hasn't reached that stage yet is that I have been purposely moving slowly and cautiously. I have decided that I want my next romantic relationship to be a long-lasting one.

About three weeks ago there was a small electrical fire in my office. The damage was relatively modest and I decided to continue doing my work in the office during the two weeks needed to do the repairs. The repairman, Keith, seemed very friendly and polite. During the first few days he would occasionally interrupt me by warning me that he was going to have to run a power drill or some other piece of noisy equipment. Keith soon became rather self-consciously humorous in his apologies concerning the commotion and the clutter. It did not take long before I realized that I was actually enjoying his little interruptions.

Eventually Keith and I were taking little pauses in our workdays to chat. I discovered that he is 33, never married, likes firework displays, carnivals, and kites. Keith found out my age, marital status, that I like old movies, and that I collect antique vases. He quietly listened to me as I tried to explain why I enjoy collecting vases and urns. He seemed genuinely interested. Meanwhile, I sensed that I was becoming enthralled by his smile, his laugh, and simply by how he moves his hands when he speaks. I liked the sound of his voice; thoroughly masculine but yet not overpowering. But perhaps the thing that impressed me most was how insightful and philosophical he was. 

The day Keith completed the repairs to my office, he came in and stood in front of my desk and asked me if I would like to go out sometime and get a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. It might seem crazy or even idiotic of me, but I was very surprised by his overture. Without hardly a thought I shook my head and awkwardly babbled, “Thank you, but no, I don’t think so.”

Keith smiled politely and calmly said, “Okay, I just thought I’d ask.” He then turned and went out the door.

It was then I realized that I had ignorantly, stupidly been thinking of Keith as just the repairman, a friendly, personable repairman, but just a repairman nevertheless. In my narrow-minded brain I had not envisioned him as a potential suitor. Still, I was sure I had acted wisely by declining Keith’s offer. After all, my relationship with Mathew was moving right along.

Two days passed and my mother called me at my office. She was in the area and she suggested we go out together for lunch. Just by chance, Mathew and I had planned a luncheon date. I figured that the three of us could go out together, after all, Mathew was yet to meet my mother and it was probably high time he did.

About ten minutes before noon I was watching out my second floor office window when I saw Mom pull her car into the parking lot. I watched her climb out of the vehicle and walk down the sidewalk towards the building. Then, suddenly, her foot stepped off the edge of the walkway, twisting her ankle, and sending her sprawling to the ground. I was about to run down to her when I saw Keith hurry to her. From the window I watched him as he carefully examined her ankle, all the while making little remarks that made Mom laugh. She seemed to be okay. I took a breath and relaxed.

Then just a few seconds later I noticed Mathew coming down the sidewalk, the same sidewalk where my mother was at that moment seated while Keith attended to her. Without so much as a glance, he walked right by Mom without a bit of concern. It was as though this injured older lady resting on the walking was invisible. Fortunately there was Keith, making sure she was not badly injured, and comforting her in the process with his wit.

Concerning the things that matter most in life, I can be so stupid. Perhaps, just perhaps it is time for some additional office repairs. And I know just the man I want doing them. 

Public Restrooms and Me

I did a little thinking concerning public restrooms recently. Sometimes I dwell on unpleasant things so when I have to encounter them in reality I am prepared. I really don't like using public restrooms.

For some reason taking a whiz in a men's room is not as daunting a prospect as taking a crap. I'm not sure why that is. If I'm at work, or out in public and I suddenly realize I have to take a crap, I immediately begin to assess the situation. I ask myself, Can I hold it until I get home, home to my own toilet? If I can't wait that long, the next question is, Where is the nearest clean, seldom-used facility? If I have to take a whiz I don't ask myself these questions. When I whiz I'm just standing up at a urinal. Usually that's all there is to it. Maybe there is a slight tinkling sound of pee trickling down the drain. But there's seldom any fart sounds. I release very little in the way of embarrassing foul odors while whizzing. Perhaps most importantly, no part of my epidermis is touching any potentially vile surfaces. It's just whizzing, zipping up, and possibly washing my hands.

It's different when I have to dip a terd, pinch a loaf, drop the brownies in the pool, to name a few euphemisms. Crapping requires that I find an empty stall and that its toilet has been flushed. I then have to drop my pants below my knees and either cover the toilet seat with paper, or have my butt hover over the toilet seat. I usually find that arranging the paper atop the toilet seat to be too troublesome, so more often than not I hover. I think hovering is the cleaner way to do it anyway. It's like the difference between having sex using a condom, or abstaining. The condom might do the job, but nothing is as safe as abstention.

I've never quite figured out if toilet stalls designated for persons in wheelchairs are like handicapped parking spots, that is, reserved especially for them. I conducted a little survey on this question and most people believe that handicapped toilet stalls are available for everyone, including the able-bodied. I would hate to get cited for using a toilet stall illegally. Speaking of the handicapped. In men's restrooms there is often a single, lower urinal at the end of a line of urinals. This is a relatively new phenomenon. When I first saw one six or eight years ago I thought it was for midgets and dwarves. When I mulled that over for a minute or two I decided that was a little too silly a notion so I figured it must be for little boys. But now I think lower urinals are mostly for the handicapped. I am still not positive however.

If there's someone in the restroom, I get a little self-conscious with the non-verbal noises I make while in the toilet stall. The farting sounds, the terds splashing into the water, even the sound of the toilet paper dispenser makes me a little ill-at-ease. Depending on my recent diet, I sometimes feel the need to apologize for the stink too. I think that Taco Bell is indirectly destroying the ozone. I probably wouldn't have these concerns for grotesque smells and noises if I were ever in the military. So I can't be identified, I usually wait until everyone is out of the restroom before I exit the stall. Waiting until the restroom has emptied has a secondary advantage; with no one there, I don't have to wash my hands.

Wilma's Deception (By guest blogger Henry Mullins)

A few years ago my wife, Wilma, died. Today, May 30th, is our anniversary. Wilma and I were married 63 years ago today. She had been an incredible woman to go through life with. She was “my girl Wilma”. In fact, she liked for me to say that. Wilma died of what they call “a long illness”. It was cancer and once the cancer was diagnosed, it took a few months. We knew that Wilma could not survive the cancer. The only question was; could I survive the loss of Wilma?

Henry Mullins

When Wilma was growing very weak, lying in bed in a hospice facility, she whispered to me that she had something she wanted to tell me. She said it was something that before she left, she wanted it off her mind. I moved close and in a halting voice Wilma told me that many decades earlier she had been unfaithful to me. Although she was not trying to be funny, I kind of chuckled. The notion of my girl Wilma being unfaithful was funny. But she shook her head listlessly and insisted that she had been untrue. In her tired voice she told me who it was; it had been Bob Maxwell. I remembered him. Decades earlier he had been a handsome, single man who had been a neighbor from across the street. Wilma said that their affair had gone on for at least a year.

It just did not seem possible, but Wilma was obviously being forthright. I had no choice but to believe her. I stepped back away from the bed and slowly lowered myself into a nearby chair. It felt like some invisible dagger had been thrust into my chest. There were a number of emotions washing over me. I felt confusion, heartbreak, and a lot of anger.

I came to visit Wilma the next day. She was in and out of consciousness. For a time I held her hand but I did not feel the sorrowfulness that should have been there. How could I? I had been deceived by the woman I had spent my life with. In a way our entire marriage had been a lie.

The next day Wilma died. My wife had died and yet I did not know how to feel. I decided that it was all right to feel some anger. After all, I had not brought it on myself. Over the subsequent months I felt a degree of grief and loneliness, but I felt disgust and disappointment too. I just could not help it. It was a natural reaction to my torment. 

Exactly six months later Wilma’s younger sister, Catherine, came to visit. I have always liked Catherine, and I thought it was a nice gesture for her to pay me a call. We sat at my kitchen table and I brewed a pot of coffee. For a moment we chatted about the weather and one thing or another. Finally Catherine stated that it had been six months to the day since Wilma died, and that there was something I was supposed to know. Catherine then said simply “Bob Maxwell”. For an instant the mere utterance of the name stunned me. But it was only for an instant.

I carefully placed my coffee cup upon the table and muttered, “So, your sister told you about him, huh?”

Catherine nodded. She then smiled and said that it wasn't true. It had been a lie. “Wilma thought that resentment was less painful than grief,” stated Catherine. “So that’s what she did; she gave you resentment instead of grief.”

Wilma and I on our wedding day

I was numb, speechless, but I also knew it was true.

“Wilma figured that in six months, when time had bypassed the period of grief, you should be told the truth. She wanted me to tell you that there had never been anyone but you, and that Wilma had loved you very much. She wanted you to go through the remainder of your life knowing that to her, her marriage to you had never been less than a wonderful thing, and that you were a wonderful man. In fact, she thought you were so wonderful, her last act was to save you from the pain and agony of her dying.”

My girl Wilma, happy anniversary.       

God Where Are You?

I'm highly skeptical that there is a god. I'm putting the odds at 1 in 10. The problem is, I want there to be a god. I want it in the worst way. It's a selfish thing, really. Plain fact is, I yearn for an afterlife. I have a tough time with the concept of an eternity of nothingness. I find is scary. Terrifying. When I envision death, it is like a prolong term of acute boredom. Tied to a theater seat during a continuously playing David Spade film. As I see it, the only way to avoid the endless darkness is via God. I have to suck-up to God. But see, there's the rub. I don't think God is out there. I could cover my bases and pretend I'm a big God fan, but if God is anything like people claim him to be, he'd know I was faking it. All the prayers, the kneeling, the sacrifices during Lent, all an act and the Guy'd know it. He'd probably be less pissed if I didn't acknowledge Him at all. I can't make myself become a theist any more than I can make myself eight feet tall, or a country music fan. What a predicament.

The other day I was sitting back in my recliner and staring up at the ceiling in thought when it entered my head that there's actually somewhere near a reasonable chance that some kind of thinking entity created the universe. He, or she, or it, would have put together all the various forms of matter, concocted the rules of physics, and kicked the whole thing into motion. For a while I thought I might be on to something. Maybe my problem was on the verge of being solved. But as much as I pondered I just couldn't make this "being", if it's even there, be even remotely similar to the God found in various religious literature. I figured that this hypothetical "being" may have created the universe, and both the Earth and man are byproducts that came into existence through a combination of a lot of time and a fair amount of happenstance. No I could not convince myself that this creature even knows we are here. I couldn't come close to buying into the notion that it is looking over us, critiquing our lives for moral content. In short, this mild revelation I recently experienced didn't help me negotiate my dilemma with the hereafter.

People have said that God has spoken to them. But if I'm standing right next to one of these individuals while God is communicating I know I won't hear a thing. I think God needs to come out in the open. That's the only answer. I'd start a global petition if I knew where to send it. What's with all the secrecy anyhow? I've heard this thing about "faith" but in the great realm of human behavior, faith isn't actually a particularly positive trait. As deeds go, faith is kind of neutral. So why would God make it a requirement? See, it's just that kind of thinking that gets me in trouble. The standard response would be "Because that's the way he is", or words to that effect. Well, that's not the kind of logic that's going to sway me. And I want to be swayed!

If you see God, if he's sitting on your porch drinking a lemonade, send me an email and I'll rush right over. I'll travel at top speed because I'll want very desperately for him to be there... I mean really there.

My Cyber Mother (By Guest blogger Chet Mays)

My previous computer was over a week old so it had become obsolete. It worked okay so I decided to delete all the porn, and anything else that might seem objectionable, with the idea that I'd give it to my grandmother. She'd been asking about computers, you see. The old gal is about six hundred years old and has lived alone for a decade or so. So about a month ago I took the Compaq over to her little house to set it up for her. I actually find my grandmother's digs kind of creepy. Everything is clean enough but the stuff is just so darn old. She has this ancient highback chair that I think Lincoln was sitting in the night he was assassinated. She has this long, wooden table in her kitchen that I believe was originally built for the Last Supper. Her television is a Philco, circa 1955. Just about the only time she turns it on is to watch the Huntley-Brinkley Report, which explains why it still works.

Chet Mayes and Grandma

Anyway, the old gal didn't know a thing about computers. She was starting from scratch. She called the keyboard the "typewriter", and the monitor the "television". She was amazed that the television's picture was in color. An oversight on my part made it impossible for us to use the computer without typing in the password MrHung, a bit of inaccurate self-flattery. Following a split second of anxious thinking, I explained that Mr. Hung was probably the Japanese man who assembled the computer in the factory.

I showed her how the mouse worked, various keyboard functions, and so forth. I returned after two weeks and saw right away that the old dame was starting to get the knack of it. Too much so, perhaps. She had enough confidence that she wanted to go on that thing called "The Internet". After a few minutes of discussion, I relented. I figured that with my grandmother's advanced age, an old computer, and a connection with dial-up service, she would likely be dead of natural causes before the Net ever appeared on her computer's television.

I returned a few days later with the required software. Low and behold, we got her up and running on the Net. We visited some generic website. There across the top of the page were terms such as "Support" and "Log-Out". I told her that it would do her no good to click on "Support" if she suddenly lost her balance, and "Log-Out" had nothing to do with a bowel movement. For a few seconds she wasn't sure if I was kidding or not. But it was only a few seconds. She's not quite that bad. 

God help us, a mid-20th Century passenger just climbed on board the 21st Century.