I used to work as a parts driver for the City of Elmhurst, so I am pretty familiar with dealerships and their waiting rooms. Back then, though, I didn’t have to wait for very long, and I usually sat on a stool at the parts counter, far away from the others who came in to get their cars fixed.
Today I finally got the tires on my Ford Focus replaced. Yes, I’m driving a safe vehicle now, except for the air filter, which is stuck in place with rusty bolts. I am told I should just replace the casing, which costs $340. Since my bill was already going to be $540, I understandably declined.
But getting everything else fixed (including the oil change) took three hours, and I had to sit in the waiting room. I figured it would take a while, so I came prepared with today’s new comics (if you’re not reading Ed Brubaker’s CRIMINAL, you should have your head examined), Simon Clark’s VAMPYRRHIC RITES (which is nowhere nearly as good as VAMPYRRHIC), and a couple of double cheeseburgers, so I thought I’d have plenty to keep me occupied.
Guess what was on the television. Go ahead, guess. Never mind, it was MAURY. People who were ugly as teenagers and had become sexy as adults were confronting people who wouldn’t give them the time of day back in high school. Since I didn’t want to get mustard on my new comic books, I ate my burgers while watching this tripe. I don’t know, but it seemed a bit creepy to me. It left me with the impression that these people got plastic surgery just so they could have a better chance when they resumed stalking their "high school sweethearts."
The burgers went fast, so I was able to quickly lose myself in books. The first hour passed, and before I knew it, Maury was replaced by Steve, formerly of the Jerry Springer show. Every other phrase out of his mouth was, "as a cop," as if we needed any further reminder that he used to be a police officer. This one was about child molesters trying to beat lie detectors, and immediately I decided the whole thing was the daytime equivalent of WWE. This one made absolutely no sense to me. Scumbags go on TV just so they can be ridiculed and shamed in front of the world? No one would do that.
God help me, I kept peering over the top of my book so I could watch this insipid display with . . . *gulp!* . . . interest. My IQ was dropping like JFK, Jr.’s plane, and I found myself getting ready to praise the screen as Steve got into a child fucker’s face and started yelling at him.
"Holy fuck, what am I doing?" I wrenched my eyes away from the TV and forced them to go over Simon Clark’s words instead. I feared that if my car wasn’t ready soon, I’d turn into Castle Freak, drooling and screaming..
Incidentally, have you ever noticed that daytime commercials are vastly different from those run at night? I was shocked at all the rabid and vile people I saw screaming catch-phrases and phone numbers like epileptics being tasered. I nearly shat myself upon seeing the grim visage of William Shatner doing a commercial for lawyers who are concerned about my rights. He is, beyond a doubt, history’s most prolific sell-out. He transcends the very concept of selling out. Is there anything this guy won’t do for a buck? I wonder if I can get him for a TABARD INN ad . . . .
A new show pulled me out of the frying pan of daytime TV and tossed me into the fire of sit-coms. As I settled in to continue reading, I noticed a middle-aged woman was staring at me from across the room. "No," I thought, "she’s probably looking at something behind me." Except I was up against the wall. I looked around to see if there was an intersting poster next to me only to find nothing. She was definitely eyeballing me.
I considered starting up a conversation with her, as this was what I usually did in such circumstances, but she wasn’t even blinking (which is never a good sign), so I tried to hide behind my book.
I thought I’d succeeded in securing myself, but she said, "You have a fascinating beard. You look Eye-talian, but your beard looks Greek to me."
"Um, thanks." (For the record, I am part Italian, part Greek, part Irish, and part everything else, so her guess was correct.)
"It’s good to see a young man like yourself with a beard. I don’t trust these youths running around without hair. They don’t know what it’s like to be a man."
I decided not to mention that I was going to get a shave and haircut tomorrow.
"Do you have a hairy chest?" she asked.
I have no shame whatsoever. At this time, I’d like to remind everyone that I have done many crazy things, up to and including publishing a picture of my penis (Mr. Happy, the mascot of TABARD INN) in issue two of my magazine. What did I do in this situation?
That’s right. I hooked a finger in the neck of my t-shirt and pulled it down, revealing exactly how hirsute I am.
"That’s good," she said, giving my chest a cursory exam. "I don’t trust guys who shave their chests."
I wondered how she’d respond if I told her that I shaved my crotch on a regular basis. Would I then be only slightly trustworthy in her eyes? A parts guy was looking at us, so I decided to stay my tongue.
I thought that was the end of our conversation, so I went back to my book. My neck tingled, which usually means someone is looking at me. When I glanced up, she was still watching me. When she licked her lips, I stabbed my face at the book and did my absolute best to ignore her.
She stood and began to approach me when one of the service guys came in and said, "[Expletive deleted], your car is ready."
She turned away from me without another word and followed him out to the shop. The parts guy behind me laughed, and I wondered what it would be like to be him, watching people in the waiting room all day. I’m sure it’s a great way to develop characters.
An hour later, the service guy freed me from waiting room hell and gave me my car keys. As soon as I was paid up and on the road, I thought, "So this is what it’s like to drive a car that has tires with treads on them." I no longer have to fear wet roads. No more fear of flat tires. No more fear of equipment failure.
Just so long as my air filter holds out . . . .
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