As Witnessed By Mark Thompson

It is, without debate, my least favorite chore, other than picking up dog shit on a hot day. We are all forced to do this chore once each year, and it’s all because of greed. I’ve grown a sizable distaste for greed, almost as much as this seemingly unnecessary, mandatory thing we all must adhere to. I could blame the state, or this country, but they have little to do with it. It’s the greed of a person, who belongs to a group, which is part of a corporation, where greed has become their major driving force. And it doesn’t seem to quench their thirst by squeezing all they possibly can out of us each year. They hide behind one lone bullshit fact, “It’s the law.” It’s also a law that says I can open my own mail, but my wife does it without my permission, even though my name is clearly on the envelope.

This illegal letter opener and I spend each year in equal spans of time split between North Carolina and California. I try to never miss spring or fall in North Carolina. The charm and beauty of the Carolinas during those two seasons is stunning. If I ever find myself questioning whether God exists, I simply watch the sun set on Lake Norman any brisk late fall afternoon. It morphs itself a thousand times in the span of mere minutes, changing colors and shapes constantly as you witness what mother nature is painting for you. And there’s a new show every night, no ticket required.

That said, I spend winters in California because fourteen degrees in the southeast sucks sizably. A parka is required just to go get the mail so my wife can open it, which isn’t fair. And neither is greed!

Case in point; When you buy a car, the dealership takes their sizable chunk, then there’s fees that go to the city and state level, not to mention insurance, which is the law, so you can file a claim in the event of an accident, in order to be told you aren’t covered for that particular kind of accident. You then hire a lawyer to sue, only to settle out of court and pay everybody all over again. Good times!

Early on, we had four cars. One for me, one for the wife, one for our three Labs on vet trips, and one for our kids when they visit. Over time, all three labs left us, and our kids don’t visit. So, I made the decision to rid myself of two cars, which would be two less cars I take for their state inspection every year, and the concept of that was life changing.

It also doesn’t matter which state I’m in. Both states where we split time “require” an annual car inspection. North Carolina calls it a, “state inspection,” California calls it a, “smog check.” The inspections cost me a hundred bucks each, and an entire morning wasted in some waiting room that features kid toys covered in germs that visibly move and have names. And therein lies my grievance.

I would normally go to a tire store near my house which featured a guy registered by the state who does this required inspection, but they got sold to big corporate, which means their name changed and so did their uppity attitude. So, I began my search for another state endorsed establishment that does it. My wife told me she heard at the nail salon that the Jiffy Lube close to us does them, so off I went. This particular Jiffy Lube is directly across from a Bojangles, so my plan was to avoid the dreaded waiting room experience by arriving early in the morning, deliver my car for inspection, then cross the street to enjoy a yummy egg and cheese biscuit complemented with Bo rounds if I so choose, and I do.

My first attempt was on a Monday morning, which was a failure as I was informed their state inspector only works on Wednesday since he splits time with other locations. He also doesn’t start work until eleven in the morning. So much for Bo rounds.

I arrived Wednesday morning five minutes early and was told I was third in line. The skilled Jiffy Lube technician I spoke with pointed his grease covered finger to his left saying, “You can wait in there.”

“In there,” turned out to be their lobby, which subs as a waiting room. Or as corporate calls it, “the welcome center.” It wasn’t small, yet not large, with five chairs that lined one wall and three more along the other. There was only me and another guy who had his feet propped up on the coffee table, and his face buried in his phone. I decided to sit on the opposite wall from this stoic human since I found it odd that he felt it was normal to put his feet up like that, but hey, not my table. Nor is it his.

After a few minutes I noticed my car being driven into the work area, which is a good sign. The technician got out, lifted my hood, then walked away, not a good sign. I pondered how long the coffee table guy had been here. “Early in, early out,” I prayed, yet I said nothing to the behemoth table snatcher as I sensed speaking actual words might be a massive struggle for him.

Based on the clanking cow bell above the door, someone new had now joined us. A woman in her mid-thirties passed in front of me and sat two chairs away. She plopped down her midsized carry bag and fished out a paperback romance novel featuring a muscular guy on the cover that looked like Jesus, which she immediately opened to her not so carefully ear marked page and dove in. Coffee table man/boy never looked up since whatever was on his phone required massive amounts of his undivided, razor sharp, attention.

When I felt I would go unnoticed, I glanced over at the lady reading her paperback. She was dressed in semi snug sweat pants with her socks pulled up over the end of her leggings, which is a clear sign she isn’t looking to party. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back, clasped loosely with a scroungy. She didn’t need reading glasses so I lowered her age in my mind to early thirties.

Coffee table dude grunted slightly as he uncrossed his table ladened feet, then placed the under foot on top of the upper foot. The bottom one must have gone to sleep I deduced. An astounding maneuver for a classy guy who is clearly going places. And good for him to get in a small workout.

The book lady flipped the page and anxiously continued reading, enjoying what was clearly grocery store porn. It’s my guess she had kids since she looked it. The ring on her left finger had several small diamonds sprawled across the top. I guessed seven to eight years of marriage had sprung two small kids and her, “I don’t give a fuck what I’m wearing” attitude. Her husband probably works a nine to five so book lady begins each day with some sort of breakfast for the brood, then hubby/dad exits for the car in the driveway as book lady loads the kids into the Toyota van, now receiving fresh oil, for the short drive to their schools. With all of that done, mom was now getting her own lubing from her paperback of tropical trash.

Her time spent at Jiffy Lube this morning is her rare opportunity to read her wife smut since her late morning/early afternoon will probably be spent with the washing machine and a purring vacuum. This must have been a rare treat for her, getting to read her weekend fetish frolic in the middle of a weekday morning. I found myself respecting her use of this time for her benefit. If I’m correct in any of this, her book reading session was planned ahead, and that somehow made her slightly more attractive to me. I admittingly have a thing for a proper MILF.

Not so much for the coffee table hero. He was dressed head to toe in sloppy black, loose-fitting clothes since dark doesn’t easily show his three days of un-showered filth. Which brings up the question, who crosses their feet on the only existing table of a Jiffy Lube welcome center? Clearly, this proud child of God does!

The cowbell then announced another guest had joined us in this round of Jiffy jollies. The fourth participant breezed through the door speaking rather loudly on her cell phone. She plopped down on the lone chair next to the door by the grease pit, better known as the “work station.”

A typical middle-aged woman who wouldn’t stand out in any crowd. Like most, she was just there, filling space. None of us in the welcome center had a choice of whether or not we wanted to hear her phone conversations. It filled the air we were all in, so we listened by default.

Patron number four was a staunch supporter and viable volunteer of her local church, and each call she made was directing someone to do something “churchy.” In her mind, I deduced, she greatly mattered. As soon as one call would end, she would immediately search her phone for the “anyone” she would call next. She was friendly and cordial with each, but spent a great deal of her conversations explaining how busy she was with her church duties and how she wished there was, “three of me.” This seemed to placate her true need for being on this call. It seemed more important than the task at hand to explain to each voice on the other end how exhausted she was from all she was sacrificing for her church and for her God.

Of the three calls she made, the last recipient got off the call rather quickly. Patron four was in the middle of her grandiose sermon about how much she does for the church when she abruptly stopped talking and started listening. She then said, in a subdued tone, “Okay, bye.” She had clearly been dumped mid-pity pitch!

She lowered her phone to her lap and scanned the welcome center for the first time. Terrified I might be the next recipient of her, “I’m so busy speech,” I briskly looked away. She then scanned her contacts for her next call, but there wasn’t one, no soul left that she could explain how important her exitance was to the church, and that was seemingly devastating for her.

She sat there not knowing what to do with her hands or herself. It became sadly clear that this “gig” with the church is her entire existence, the very core of who she is as a person, and without it, she was little more than the coffee table guy. She was simply there in the welcome center with no soul available to listen to her drivel about the next whatever, and that’s when I felt sad for her. It crossed my mind to say something to her, but I knew where that would go, so I sat silently starring at a dingy beige wall that was white at one point.

My Jiffy Lube mega morning began with just me and the coffee table hog, and now there were four. But that was interrupted by the startling “woosh” of the work bay door being flung open allowing the induction of our newest member. He was young, early thirties maybe, whose perfectly quaffed hair barely moved as he whipped around the side wall of the desk area, into “the business center.”

He quickly glanced at the lone piece of paper in his hand and with proper vigor announced, “Mr. Thompson.” I stood from my chair without need of gathering my belongings since I refuse to bring personal items into an area that is beautifully decorated with grease.

The young man typed away at the computer as he printed out the needed material so I could pay and be on my way. As I lifted my credit card, I scanned the boy/man behind the service desk. His hair was nicely quaffed and glued in place. His Jiffy Lube employee shirt was properly tucked and he had a very cordial way about him. He seemed happy to be doing what he was doing, meaning, he likes his job.

It crossed my mind that he was quite possibly “the owner’s boy,” but I quickly dismissed that since, in most cases, that scenario comes with an attitude of, “I’m above this” or the opposite, “I’m only doing this because my old man makes me.” This young man displayed none of that. I was left to believe that he likes where he is in his life.

I judgingly thought, “how can he possibly like this?” That realization caused me to remember when I was sixteen and newly hired as a bellhop at my local Holiday Inn in Muscle Shoals Alabama, and I was damn proud to be there. I was later fired from said job for having too many friends drop by my workplace. All of them were simply using me as their “friend ticket” to swim in the Olympic sized Holiday Inn pool, which I never gave any of them permission to do.

One of them, while swimming, was questioned by the hotel manager, who was told I gave him permission to swim there, which I clearly didn’t. That led to my dismissal, and an early life lesson on how shitty friends are capable of being.

As I placed my credit card on the scanner, the owner’s boy said rather loudly and with a bit of authority, “Darrel, lube and oil change on bay three.” As I put away my credit card, I witnessed the coffee table scholar slowly, and in no hurry, remove his feet from the table, rise up and sloppily shuffle his way through the “woosh” door into the work area.

That fucking filthy pig worked there! I contemplated walking over and beating the shit out of him, but I’m sixty-nine and challenged with physical things like getting up out of a chair without making guttural noises, so I chilled.

I grabbed my paperwork and headed for the door, which was briskly opened by “the owner’s boy” as he smiled. He then followed me out and opened my car door saying, “Have a nice day Mr. Thompson.”

Most things are never what they appear. My observations weren’t judgements, but merely observations that formed into loose speculation. We all tend to size up people as we move through life. I believe we do that as a way to gauge ourselves. How do we match up to “them.” The judgements we make says more about us than those we judge. But I know this; I am way better than that wasted coffee table bag of skin that’s using up valuable air. I guarantee you; he eats his boogers!

One question I’ve pondered since. Did the book lady go home and enjoy the pleasures of her personal massager because her “novel from nasty town” hit the good part? She was hopefully enjoying the advantage of an empty house because this would probably be the highlight of her week. I choose to believe that was her plan all along, or at least I need it to be.

We patrons of the Jiffy Lube welcome center invite you to join us and sit a bit. You never know what you’re going to see.

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