Oil change

Emily Busch

I had to get my oil changed, so I dropped off my car and I walked into the service station. I scanned the room for an open table. There it was, the only one. I walked over to it and started to work on my Spanish homework.

After about five minutes, a rather corpulent woman walked into the room, sat down, and pulled out her knitting. A couple of minutes later, I was startled by something that sounded similar to a werewolf with a hairball. I looked up, unaware that there was a full moon tonight, only to find that it was not a werewolf, but the corpulent woman. She had been clearing her throat––something she continued to do every thirty seconds.

All this time there is a woman who paces back and forth behind me until she finally grabs a chair, pulls it out, sits down and begins to interrogate me. She demanded answers to questions such as why I was here, accusing me of getting into an accident when the reality was that I only needed an oil change.

She then asked me how long I had been driving, and the conversation then turned to how old I was — the lady, assuming I was nineteen, was surprised to hear that I hadn’t even had my license for a year. After a momentary spaz attack she began showering me with compliments. “Oh, well I thought you were at least nineteen – you are the prettiest girl I have ever met – you’re just gorgeous,” she said.

Stunned by the all around awkwardness of this situation, I sat there in silence. The knitting werewolf cleared her throat quickly three times in rapid succession.

After that she proceeded to argue with a salesman about the price offered for her car. After five minutes of heated argument she finally settled for $500. Expecting her to leave I continued working on my homework, when suddenly she turned to me and began to complain about her unsatisfactory transaction.

“Those people are just so stingy, all they care about is their money. In fact I bought the car from these people — I knew this guy because I was dating his niece…anyway I just had to do it — I’m in a hurry to move to a different state,” she said. Then suddenly she shoved her chair back and started smelling her shirt. “I’m sorry, I smell really bad,” she said. Then she picked up her stuff and left.

Well I’m not exactly sure what to make of the encounter. I don’t know if she was hitting on me or just trying to find a new look so that the authorities can’t find her in her new life in her new state. The one thing that I learned is to never get your oil changed at night––you don’t know what lurks in the depths of the service station, whether it be werewolves or a crazy fugitive woman.

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