Monday, as Mondays do, arrived bright and early.
It was a wild weekend, and not in the party-go-wild sort of way. I'm too old for all that hair-pulling and face-slapping. It was, nonetheless, a wild weekend. Lots of grass cutting and mosquitoe-slapping, a chance to sneak out with the daughter (youngest) and watch Serenity, a very rewarding flick if you're of the Sci-Fi/Firefly bent, and even got to catch some World Superbike on the tube. Mix in about ten loads of laundry and you've got it.
Okay, so that's not so wild, is it.
How about the freak rain-storm that pounded the city but died literally at the end of my road?
No, that doesn't really spice it up, does it.
Hmmm. How about the trip to Jiffy Lube? There's some good bashing there. One of the benefits of owning a very old vehicle is that maintenance is simple. There's no computer chips with their attendant giant wire looms to get in the way, no obscene snakes of climate control stuff to block your view, and everything seems to be out in the open. That's why ordinarily I do my own oil changes. It's easy, it's painless, and while it's not as fast as one of the commercial outfits it's certainly cheaper and more rewarding.
Saturday I had a lot of stops to make, so instead of Mr. DIY, I drove to my local Jiffy Lube. Big mistake. Last time I was there, about three years ago, they put the wrong oil filter on my truck and I got oil sprayed all over my engine compartment when they started it up. This time nothing so dramatic. Actually, quite the opposite. The oil change was fast and painless, the folks cooly professional. The thing that bit my arse was that it was not busy, at all. A lady drives in alongside my truck, who apparently either worked there at one time or had slept with all the employees, because the moment she got out of her car they flocked around her and stayed there, servicing her like Cleopatra fresh out of her milk bath.
The outside of my windshield got cleaned by a little guy with a squirt bottle and rags. She got every single window on her four-door cleaned, inside and out. My rubber floor mats got vacuumed. She got her seats done, her carpet, and the trunk carpet. I got an oil change, and was told my tire pressure had been checked at 35/35 psi, according to the receipt. I run heavier than standard tires on my truck, whose psi range is 40-60. If they had been filled to 35 psi (they weren't, I watched the entire time, no-one touched the tires) they'd be low. She got everything including her spare checked.
Don't get me wrong, I know that being a friend can earn you extra service. I know how the Real World works. But do us all a favor and make it less obvious. You can be discreet while taking care of a preferred customer, you don't have to rub it in everyone else's face, and you don't have to charge me for a package that you did not completely deliver on.
So Jiffy Lube, you can fuck off. I'm one of those guys you heard about in your management classes, the ones who don't get loud, who don't get upset, who don't throw a temper tantrum. I'm one of those guys who simply smiles, pays his money, and never, ever comes back. You will not see me again. And I'll tell people about the experience, too, and warn them not to go there. That I can sincerely promise you. And slowly, quietly, like a termite in the foundation, I'll eat away at your profits until you wonder why you've got to close the doors. Word gets around, my friend.
Did I tell you about getting eaten alive by mosquitoes yesterday?