Au-au-au Auto-oooooo. Parts Store.
Abbie and I went to the auto parts store yesterday. My dad loves automobiles, and when I was a child took me to a fair number of auto parts stores, auto parts shows, junkyards, and other places where auto parts and the people who love them congregate. These were important bonding experiences, times when my dad would share one of his great loves with me, and I, looking upon mounds of twisted metal and grease, would wonder if I was really related to this person.
As a child, there was no place I could think of more boring than an auto parts extravaganza. Of course I thought big machines were awesome back then, with all their destructive power and the outside chance that maybe if I was really good I’d have a chance to operate one of them. The parts that make up those machines though, those are more boring than a Padres-Cardinals playoff series. Everything is an identical steel gray color coated with varying amounts of oil, each part indistinguishable from the next, not that I knew enough about the parts to distinguish any of them anyway. These places might be where I learned my passive-aggressive coping technique of being so miserable about something someone else loves that they’ll hurry and leave just to escape my black cloud. At least I managed to cajole a candy bar or two out of him at these places.
Today I own a car, giving me a passing familiarity with many of the parts on display. I’m not one of those people with no knowledge of their vehicles workings who has to run to the mechanic every time something goes wrong. When something breaks that I know I can fix, I head straight to an auto parts store after the prerequisite waiting period passes to see if the problem goes away on its own. Yesterday I was looking for replacement wiper blades. In the past, I’ve found replacement light bulbs, another dial to control the interior fan, and a new set of fuzzy dice to hang from the rearview mirror. Anything more complicated than that I head straight to the mechanic, once the waiting period passes of course.
This was actually my second trip to the auto parts store in the past couple weeks, or at least my second productive trip. I knew my wiper blades were on their way to the dumpster back during the last rain when I was reluctant to use them for fear that they’d smear the water and make it harder to see. The store only had one blade of the right size the first time I checked. I bought it figuring I really only need a clear windshield on the driver’s side, and stopped back every few days to see if my passenger would be able to see when it rains yet.
Finally they had another correctly sized blade in stock yesterday. They may have had the correct size earlier, but when I can only check the sizes of two or three blades before Abbie runs around the corner and out of sight, I don’t have optimal conditions for a thorough search of their stock.
I brought the blade to the counter, swiped my credit card, and listened to the banter between the clerks and another customer. Yesterday was the coldest day of the season in Des Moines, and they were talking about the cold when I heard one of the clerks was in town from New Orleans after the hurricane. Intrigued I stood and eavesdropped until one of the clerks asked if I needed something.
“No,” I said, “I’m just listening to you talk.”
“Well come on over and join us,” he said.
I listened for another minute, heard the clerk from New Orleans say that yesterday, with a low of about 35 degrees, was about as cold as it ever got in New Orleans. I told him the story about the time Ellie and I went to New Orleans over New Year’s, and about the one day the temperature never broke 40 and it rained all day. He said he remembered that day, so it’s good to know our trip was memorable for something.
I took my wiper blade and left. I was glad to have an opportunity to connect with a hurricane evacuee for a minute, giving him a true taste of Iowa, specifically a conversation about the weather. Despite my childhood hatred of all parts mechanical, I knew I’d be back because the people were so friendly and I would always need another car part. Plus I left my credit card on the counter, so I’d have to come back to retrieve it.
As a child, there was no place I could think of more boring than an auto parts extravaganza. Of course I thought big machines were awesome back then, with all their destructive power and the outside chance that maybe if I was really good I’d have a chance to operate one of them. The parts that make up those machines though, those are more boring than a Padres-Cardinals playoff series. Everything is an identical steel gray color coated with varying amounts of oil, each part indistinguishable from the next, not that I knew enough about the parts to distinguish any of them anyway. These places might be where I learned my passive-aggressive coping technique of being so miserable about something someone else loves that they’ll hurry and leave just to escape my black cloud. At least I managed to cajole a candy bar or two out of him at these places.
Today I own a car, giving me a passing familiarity with many of the parts on display. I’m not one of those people with no knowledge of their vehicles workings who has to run to the mechanic every time something goes wrong. When something breaks that I know I can fix, I head straight to an auto parts store after the prerequisite waiting period passes to see if the problem goes away on its own. Yesterday I was looking for replacement wiper blades. In the past, I’ve found replacement light bulbs, another dial to control the interior fan, and a new set of fuzzy dice to hang from the rearview mirror. Anything more complicated than that I head straight to the mechanic, once the waiting period passes of course.
This was actually my second trip to the auto parts store in the past couple weeks, or at least my second productive trip. I knew my wiper blades were on their way to the dumpster back during the last rain when I was reluctant to use them for fear that they’d smear the water and make it harder to see. The store only had one blade of the right size the first time I checked. I bought it figuring I really only need a clear windshield on the driver’s side, and stopped back every few days to see if my passenger would be able to see when it rains yet.
Finally they had another correctly sized blade in stock yesterday. They may have had the correct size earlier, but when I can only check the sizes of two or three blades before Abbie runs around the corner and out of sight, I don’t have optimal conditions for a thorough search of their stock.
I brought the blade to the counter, swiped my credit card, and listened to the banter between the clerks and another customer. Yesterday was the coldest day of the season in Des Moines, and they were talking about the cold when I heard one of the clerks was in town from New Orleans after the hurricane. Intrigued I stood and eavesdropped until one of the clerks asked if I needed something.
“No,” I said, “I’m just listening to you talk.”
“Well come on over and join us,” he said.
I listened for another minute, heard the clerk from New Orleans say that yesterday, with a low of about 35 degrees, was about as cold as it ever got in New Orleans. I told him the story about the time Ellie and I went to New Orleans over New Year’s, and about the one day the temperature never broke 40 and it rained all day. He said he remembered that day, so it’s good to know our trip was memorable for something.
I took my wiper blade and left. I was glad to have an opportunity to connect with a hurricane evacuee for a minute, giving him a true taste of Iowa, specifically a conversation about the weather. Despite my childhood hatred of all parts mechanical, I knew I’d be back because the people were so friendly and I would always need another car part. Plus I left my credit card on the counter, so I’d have to come back to retrieve it.
posted by Matt at
12:13 PM
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