This weekend, the check engine light came on in my car. Turned out the gas cap just needed tightening. But the idea of a long stay in the service waiting area got me thinking of a post written a few years back. See what you think of this comparison between the contemporary service station waiting room experience to waiting for a loved one who’s undergoing surgery.
The Waiting Room
I took my car to the dealership for its 30,000 mile service check today. The service manager met me at the front desk and assured me he would take good care of my automobile. Then he ushered me into the waiting area, and I settled in for what I thought would be a pleasant wait. Instead, it was unnerving. Even ludicrous.
Every so often a service technician came in, announced a name, and a car owner raised a hand. If the news was devastating, the technician went to sit beside the owner. “Mrs. Smith, we’ve completed the diagnostic tests, and we found a big problem.” If everything had gone as planned, the technician stood in front of the owner and announced happily. “We completed the procedure and everything is good as new.” Once in a while someone carried a car part into the waiting area and knelt beside the anxious customer. “The preliminary examination was inconclusive. So far we’ve found this,” he would hold up a dusty or broken car part, “but we’re not sure we got everything. Do you want us to do more?”
The grave expressions on the technicians’ faces and their deference toward their customers, including me, freaked me out. Was I in a car dealership or a hospital? Were they working on my car or my kid? Since when did taking a car in for repairs become as heart wrenching as taking a child to surgery? And did those service technicians perfect their bedside manners by watching soap operas or what?
The whole episode seemed like a Saturday Night Live comedy sketch. Except I couldn’t find the humor in it. I don’t want my car repair experience to mimic the gravity of serious medical treatment. But that’s what it felt like they were doing.
Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe the whole thing brought back too many memories of the days we spent in hospital waiting rooms. All I know is that from now on, I want to sit on a pile of tires in the greasy corner of a dimly lit garage, drinking a bottle of pop with Opie and Gomer while Goober services my car.
Human life is sacred and worthy of gravity and deference.
My car most certainly is not.
