Oil Change Special

People often ask me why I don't trust the majority of quick-lube, muffler, brake, and other auto service shops to work on my cars.

It's because I learned about the vehicle maintenance business the hard way.

Here is one example of the risk naive car owners take.

Summertime Blues

In the summer of 1963 I got my very first automotive job, at the age of 14, in a gas station. Two years away from a driver's license, I was thrilled.

Trying to mooch a nickel from my father was getting old, and the station was at the corner of First and Main where I could sit and watch the muscle cars cruising out to McDonald's and back.

But my best reason for loving my job was a secret. I got to drive the cars being serviced around the court, and when nobody was looking, around the block.

At the end of my second week, the boss left me to mind the station. And do our cheap oil change and lube special on a brand new 1963 Pontiac Grand Prix. Well, I had changed the lubricant in my dad's lawnmower, twice.

The big car rolled onto the rack and I proudly raised it into the air. Staying up late to read every issue of Hot Rod magazine sure paid off.

See, I know what I'm doing.

With considerable satisfaction, I drained oil, replaced the filter and plug, pumped grease into a few zerks, and lowered the car to add the oil.

Greased Lightnin'

A couple gas customers rolled up, but after that the whole block was deserted.

So I backed those people's new car out into the street, slammed the gearshift from reverse to low, and mashed the throttle all the way down. The big car lifted its nose a few degrees and, tailpipe whooshing, away I went. Up the street and back down the alley, then around the block twice, whee.

When I got back and parked the car, I noticed a bright red light on the dash. Oops, I forgot to add the oil!

No problem, I ran and got six quarts of Quaker State and filled the crankcase. I was checking the dipstick when a taxi dropped off the owner's wife.

Car's all done, m'aam.