I took my car to a shop the other day. It needed an oil
change and tune up. When I looked at the car’s mileage the fact that this is
not the first car I have pushed across the 200,000 mile mark did not really
resonate with me. I mean that should be some cause for celebration. Instead, I stood
beside her wondering, hoping, I can get 200,000 more miles from her.
While my Dad and my brother know their way around cars like
the back of their hands, I pretty much understand where the gas and brake
pedals are and how to turn on the radio. This has meant I needed to locate
someone trustworthy to take our cars. Jennifer, I believe, found this place and
it is the place we have trusted our vehicles to for many years. When we pull in
there, the manager knows our names, and, usually, can remember some of the history
of the car we are driving.
During all these years, there have been times we have had to
leave our cars with them for work to be completed. Other times, what they need
to do may take about an hour, so we wait for the work to take place. When this
happens, we retreat to a small waiting room, just steps off the garage.
On this day, the sky was gray and rain fell to the ground in
big drops. There have been times when I waited here before when I might stand
outside. There would be none of that on this day. Still living in the era of mouth and nose coverings, I pulled my mask over my
mouth and nose then entered the room. Sitting in a corner was an older lady who
when she recognized the door was opening, put a mask over her mouth and nose. When I
stepped in the room, the action of putting on my mask and breathing caused my
glasses to fog over. I laughed then mentioned how much I dislike wearing a
mask. The lady laughed agreeably. She then noted she had heard someone say how
if you roll up a Kleenex and place it at the top of your mask, you can prevent
fogged up glasses. I said I would never have thought to do that then added how
having a Kleenex that close could come in handy when allergies kicked in. The
stranger laughed at my feeble attempt at humor.
I am not a brilliant conversationalist. I generally bore
people to tears. I wish I could be witty, suave and loquacious, in a good way,
of course, but instead I can make a person hopped up on a pot of coffee and Red
Bull yawn within a minute after I begin talking in laborious detail about
something as exciting as paint drying on a wall. This lady I encountered on
this day though could talk and I tried to play along.
When she spoke it was evident she was not from Tennessee.
Now, listen, for those who have not noticed, those of us from east Tennessee sound
differently when we talk from those in, say, west Tennessee or middle Tennessee.
The differences can be subtle but they do exist. This lady though clobbered subtle over a head
with a big stick. She soon admitted she was from Chicago.
We talked about our cars and what needed to be done to them
on this day. Her situation was up in the air. She needed to travel to Atlanta
to visit a sick relative but was having issues with her oil light. She brought
her car here for an investigation. The price could be $200 to fix or it could
be $1700. Through it all we laughed at the predicament we both shared on this
day.
She took a phone call. After hanging up, she told me her son
was on his way over via Uber from the dentist’s office. He arrived shortly
thereafter. He appeared in some pain. Once their car was ready, their first
stop would be to pick up some medicine for him. After a time, he stood up and
walked outside. Once the door closed behind him, his mother looked at me and
said, “You think he’s dramatic, you ought to see his brother.” Unsure of what
she meant, I laughed along with her.
Time moved on as the three of us sat waiting. I looked
toward the garage area once to see a white cloud. I peered across the cars to
see that smoke circled my car. I joked about it. We all laughed. The jokes
continued for the next few minutes. I told them I felt relieved how no one
rushed in to tell me my car had exploded. I added that the fire department,
just down the street by the way, had not rushed over to put out a blaze.
Soon enough this lady’s car was ready. She got off with the
cheaper fix this day. As she left, she wished me well and I did the same to
her. I now sat in a quiet waiting room with nothing but my thoughts and the far off buzz of an overhead fluorescent light.
I thought how random this experience had been. Although I
learned a bit about this lady and her family I have no idea how she felt about the
many things used to divide us these days. I think if we had tried, this lady
and I could have found things we disagreed on. We could have then spent the
hour we waited together arguing or quietly seething at one another.
In another time, some of us would look at this experience then
remark how funny things like this random experience are. These days the word “funny”
is no longer the right word for this type of situation. Sad, or even
disheartening, might fit better. The fact that such an encounter happens with
more randomness these days is a pitiful mirror of life. It is pathetic how we now
listen to others less but seem to think we always have to say what we think,
without any filter, the instant we think it.
On
the way to work, between the chaos of bumper-to-bumper traffic, I looked to the
eastern sky. There, the sun struggled to break free from the clouds leaving
behind an interesting mix of pink, blue and gray. It was a masterpiece of the
tallest order, even if it were through an automobile windshield.
