A Simple Oil Leak

A lot of things start small. They almost never end that way. My dilemma didn’t.

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It was just a small oil leak on the pristine (haha) garage floor. I spotted it but kept quiet. Being small, I figured it would soon self-correct. Many things will, you know. Procrastinators are lazy and have flawed thinking processes.

No secrets remain hidden for long. Mine was exposed when my daughter spotted what had become a massive oil slick beneath her car. It was a ghastly scene, I must admit. Something must now be done. And doing things for cars always costs.

The patient is a 2005 Mercedes convertible. Since Mercedes is now made in Alabama, not Germany, the shelf life has changed from thirty years to three. Planned obsolesce, of course, and cotton farmers make for a poor labor pool.

The dealer in Jacksonville has a slick operation of its own. It’s based on the Mayo Clinic model, only a hospital for sick and dying cars. All hospitals are proficient in extracting one’s last farthing in fees.

Oil is the life blood of cars. Repairs require the expertise of vascular mechanics. They’re trained at Mechanics Med School of America and have huge student loans to pay. Can you guess their hourly rates?

I arrive and am ushered under a gigantic canopy. White-starched shirted young men swarm my vehicle. They’re solicitous and work night jobs as valets at the local beach resorts. They’ve perfected of the art of the ‘open-palms’ handshake. Solicitations take many forms. After spreading around a few fives, out of nowhere my service manager arrives.

Frank, his nametag reads. Forget last names. No one cares. No one remembers. Might as well be a programmed robot. He escorts me to a desk, sort of a triage table where he chronicles the car’s healthcare history. Lengthy forms list the vehicle’s symptoms, and my financial resources.

He explains the diagnostic procedures. Having had such treatments, I fear for the car’s remaining health. I’m sent to the waiting room. It’s populated with other grim-faced gentlemen. Apparently they’ve opted to keep their old cars. New ones are expensive.

An attractive young lady works the room, offers us snacks. Concierge treatment is the industry’s buzz-word now. Make ‘em comfortable, fill ‘em with sugar, they’ll sleep. Dealerships employ on-call psychiatrists. They counsel concerned clients suffering the trauma of auto repairs.

My service manager returns before I finish my donut. His facial expression reminds me of a man with five wives, all living in the same house. He conveys a certain pained look. Another man is with him. He says, “Meet Don, he’ll be your car’s surgeon.”

Don explains ad nauseam the details about oil. It’s a thinly-veiled trick to justify the excessive cost of repairing the poor family heirloom. For emphasis, he compares oil to blood. Over-heated blood, like oil, is dangerous, he warns. He continues with comparing oil filters with kidneys and livers. I didn’t realize such parallels existed.

He concludes his diagnostic oration on oil with a recital from Shakespeare, “When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.” I wonder if he’s recovering from some trauma of his own or just a frustrated bard.

Frank hands me an iPad. The screen is filled with tiny letters, the kind that give auto salesmen a bad reputation. “Now Bud, sign here,” he says. I ask what it means. He says that you agree to pay whatever it costs for repairs. I ask to substitute ‘whatever’ with ‘reasonable.’ He’s amused.

Kissing my ailing Mercedes goodbye, I hand Don the keys. It feels like when I gave my daughter away in marriage. He puts his arm around me, “I’ll take good care of your precious baby.” Somehow I feel like I’ve heard this line before.

Frank loans me a new, shiny black Mercedes to drive to assuage my pain. It’s a cheap psychological ploy designed to sell cars. But like old men taking up with young women, it’s a bad trade. It looks good, but loses its luster after a few days of showing it off. Besides, maintenance is costly. There are better ways to spend retirement money.

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I’m waiting for a call from Frank for the cost to redeem my car.

Meanwhile, I’m showing off my hot new loaner. Old men can’t resist being fools.


Bud Hearn
April 24, 2015