Oil Be Back: A Waiting Room Tale
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am sitting in a waiting room.
Not a doctor's office.
Not a DMV.
Worse.
A car repair shop.
Specifically, a quick-lube place that promises—
in cheerful letters on their sign—
"In and Out in 30 Minutes!"
I have been here for an hour and twelve minutes.
And I know—
I know—
that when that door opens—
when the mechanic emerges with his clipboard and his practiced look of concern—
my life will end.
Not literally.
But financially.
Which, in America, is basically the same thing.
THE SETUP
I came here for an oil change.
Just an oil change.
A simple, routine maintenance procedure.
The automotive equivalent of a haircut.
Something you do regularly.
Something that costs a predictable amount.
Something that should not—under any circumstances—
destroy you.
But here's what I've learned:
There is no such thing as "just" an oil change.
An oil change is a gateway drug.
A trap.
A financial ambush disguised as responsible vehicle ownership.
You come in thinking: $39.99, plus tax, I'll be out in thirty minutes.
You leave thinking: How do I explain to my landlord that I can't pay rent because my serpentine belt was "concerning"?
THE WAITING ROOM
The waiting room is designed to break you.
Psychologically.
Spiritually.
Financially.
There are chairs.
Uncomfortable chairs.
The kind that are just soft enough to sit in—
but just firm enough to remind you that comfort is not the goal here.
There's a TV.
Mounted in the corner.
Playing the worst possible programming.
Today: a home improvement show where people with unlimited budgets renovate kitchens.
"We had $80,000 to work with, so we went with the Italian marble."
I have $143 in my checking account.
And I'm about to spend $40 of it on oil.
If I'm lucky.
There's a coffee machine.
It dispenses something that is technically coffee.
But tastes like regret and burnt rubber.
I've had two cups.
Not because I want them.
But because it gives me something to do.
Something to hold.
A prop in this theater of waiting.
There's a magazine rack.
Filled with magazines from 2019.
About cars.
Cars I will never own.
Cars that cost more than my student loan debt.
I flip through one.
Mindlessly.
Looking at photos of vehicles that represent financial security I will never achieve.
And then—
in the corner—
the vending machine.
It hums.
Softly.
Menacingly.
Calling to me.
With its rows of snacks I don't need but suddenly want desperately.
THE OTHER WAITERS
I am not alone.
There are others here.
Fellow prisoners.
Each in their own stage of grief.
The Optimist sits near the door.
Phone in hand.
Scrolling.
Occasionally glancing up.
Still believing—somehow—that this will be quick.
That the estimate will be reasonable.
That today is the day nothing is wrong.
Sweet summer child.
The Veteran sits in the back corner.
Arms crossed.
Eyes closed.
Not sleeping.
Just... conserving energy.
They've been through this before.
They know.
They're just waiting for the inevitable.
The Pacing Man cannot sit still.
He walks.
From one end of the waiting room to the other.
Checking his watch.
Looking out the window at his car.
As if he can will it to be finished through sheer anxiety.
I understand him.
I am him.
But I'm too tired to pace.
So I just sit.
And catastrophize.
And stare at the vending machine.
THE VENDING MACHINE DILEMMA
The vending machine stands against the far wall.
Glowing.
Beckoning.
A beacon of processed sugar and questionable decisions.
I can see—from here—
a Kit-Kat on the third row.
B7.
B7.
$1.75.
I want it.
I don't need it.
But I want it.
But here's the problem:
The calculation.
The calculation.
If I buy the Kit-Kat—
if I commit to the Kit-Kat—
that's an admission.
An acknowledgment.
That I'm going to be here long enough to need a snack.
That this isn't going to be quick.
That lunch—real lunch—is not happening.
But if I don't buy the Kit-Kat—
if I resist—
if I hold out, believing I'll be out of here in time for actual food—
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm here for another hour?
Starving.
Watching that Kit-Kat.
Knowing I could have had it.
Regretting.
This is the game.
The vending machine knows.
It knows.
I stand.
Walk toward it.
Slowly.
Like approaching an altar.
I reach into my pocket.
Pull out my wallet.
Count my cash.
Three ones.
Two fives.
If I spend $1.75 on a Kit-Kat—
and then they tell me my car needs $800 in repairs—
that Kit-Kat better be worth it.
I stand there.
Staring at B7.
The Kit-Kat stares back.
We're in a standoff.
The Optimist walks past.
Glances at me.
At the vending machine.
Says nothing.
But I know what they're thinking:
Just buy it or don't. This isn't a philosophical crisis.
But it is.
THE INNER MONOLOGUE
Do I need the Kit-Kat?
No.
Do I want the Kit-Kat?
Yes.
Will I regret buying it if they call me in the next five minutes?
Probably.
Will I regret NOT buying it if I'm here for another hour?
Absolutely.
Is this about the Kit-Kat?
No.
What is this about?
Control.
Hope.
The belief that if I make the right choice—
if I read the signs correctly—
if I can just predict whether I'll be here long enough to justify a vending machine snack—
then maybe I have some control over this situation.
Which I don't.
I have no control.
But the Kit-Kat decision?
That's mine.
That I can control.
So I stand here.
Paralyzed by choice.
By the weight of this seemingly insignificant decision.
By the knowledge that whatever I choose—
I'll probably regret it.
THE DECISION
I don't buy it.
I walk back to my chair.
Sit down.
Resume waiting.
The Kit-Kat remains in B7.
Untouched.
Judging me.
Ten minutes pass.
My stomach growls.
I think: I should have bought it.
Five more minutes.
Still no word from the garage.
I think: I definitely should have bought it.
I look at the vending machine.
The Kit-Kat is still there.
Waiting.
We're both waiting.
I stand again.
This is ridiculous.
I'm a grown adult.
If I want a Kit-Kat, I can buy a Kit-Kat.
I walk over.
Feed the machine two ones.
Press B7.
The coil turns.
Slowly.
The Kit-Kat shifts.
Moves forward.
Gets stuck.
GETS STUCK.
You have got to be kidding me.
I stare at it.
Dangling there.
Halfway out.
Mocking me.
This is my life now.
This is what I've become.
A man whose Kit-Kat is stuck in a vending machine—
in a car repair waiting room—
while his vehicle may or may not be dying in the next room.
This is rock bottom.
I shake the machine.
Gently at first.
Then less gently.
The Veteran opens one eye.
Watches me.
Says nothing.
Goes back to conserving energy.
The Kit-Kat doesn't budge.
I consider my options:
Walk away. Lose $1.75. Accept defeat.
Buy another snack from the row above. Hope it knocks the Kit-Kat loose. Risk losing another $1.75.
Shake the machine harder. Risk breaking it. Risk being banned from this waiting room forever.
I choose option 2.
Because I am committed now.
This is personal.
I feed the machine another $1.75.
Press C7.
Doritos.
The coil turns.
The Doritos fall.
Hit the Kit-Kat.
Both fall into the slot.
I have won.
I have won.
At great cost.
$3.50 for a Kit-Kat and Doritos I didn't originally want.
But I have won.
I retrieve my prizes.
Walk back to my chair.
Victorious.
Broke, but victorious.
THE CATASTROPHIZING
Here's what's happening in my brain:
They're going to find something.
They always find something.
It's never just an oil change.
Never.
My mind spirals through the possibilities:
Scenario 1: The Upsell
"Your air filter looks pretty dirty. We can replace that for $45."
Do I need a new air filter? Probably not. But what if I do? What if my current air filter is so clogged that my engine is slowly suffocating? What if saying "no" to this $45 filter leads to a $4,000 engine replacement in six months?
Scenario 2: The Warning
"Your brake pads are getting pretty thin. You've got maybe 20% left."
What does 20% mean? Is that like... two more weeks? Two more months? Can I drive on 20% brake pads or is this a legal liability? Will my car fail to stop at an intersection and I'll career into a Walgreens, destroying both my vehicle and my prescription pickup?
Scenario 3: The Discovery
"So we found something concerning under here."
Concerning.
That word.
The worst word in the automotive lexicon.
Because "concerning" means expensive.
"Concerning" means unexpected.
"Concerning" means goodbye savings account, hello credit card debt.
Scenario 4: The Apocalypse
"Your transmission is leaking. We need to do a full rebuild. That's going to run you about $3,500."
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not with a bang.
But with a transmission leak.
I'll have to sell the car for parts.
Walk everywhere.
Move back in with my parents.
Explain to them—at age 35—that I can't adult anymore because my car needed a transmission.
THE WAITING
Time moves differently in a car repair waiting room.
Minutes stretch.
Expand.
Each one feels like ten.
I check my phone: 2:47 PM
I check again: 2:49 PM
Two minutes.
It felt like twenty.
I unwrap the Kit-Kat.
Break off a piece.
The chocolate is slightly melted from sitting in the vending machine.
But it's mine.
Hard-won.
$3.50 worth of chocolate and corn chips.
I take a bite.
It tastes like victory.
And regret.
And the faint possibility that they'll call me in the next thirty seconds—
meaning I didn't need to eat in the first place—
meaning I could have had real lunch—
meaning this entire vending machine saga was pointless.
But the Kit-Kat is already open.
I'm committed now.
To everything.
The snacks.
The wait.
The impending financial doom.
I try to distract myself.
Scroll social media.
Everyone is having a better day than me.
Someone posted a photo of their new car.
"Just upgraded! Loving this ride!"
I want to comment: Congratulations. I'm currently waiting to find out if my 2009 Civic needs financial life support.
But I don't.
I just scroll.
And wait.
And imagine worst-case scenarios.
THE MANAGER APPEARS
At one hour and forty-three minutes—
thirty-seven minutes after the vending machine incident—
the door to the garage opens.
A man emerges.
Not the mechanic.
The manager.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Mechanics give you estimates.
Managers give you eulogies.
He's holding a clipboard.
His face is... neutral.
Practiced neutrality.
The kind that suggests he's about to tell you something you don't want to hear—
but he's been trained to deliver bad news with compassion.
He scans the room.
Makes eye contact with The Optimist.
Shakes his head subtly.
No.
The Optimist deflates.
Then he looks at me.
"McSeinfeld?"
My heart stops.
This is it.
The moment.
The financial reckoning.
I stand.
Walk over.
Trying to read his face.
Trying to prepare myself.
"So," he says, glancing at his clipboard.
"So."
The worst opening word.
Nothing good ever follows "so."
"We did the oil change. That's all done."
I wait.
There's more.
There's always more.
"And we did our complimentary inspection—"
Here it comes.
"—and everything looks good."
I blink.
"What?"
"Everything looks good. Your fluids are fine. Brakes are fine. No leaks. You're all set."
"I'm... all set?"
"Yep. Just the oil change. $42.83."
I stare at him.
This is a trick.
A test.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Nothing else?"
"Nope."
"Not even... the air filter?"
"Air filter's fine."
"The brakes?"
"Good for at least another 10,000 miles."
"The... transmission?"
He smiles.
Not unkindly.
"Your transmission is fine, Mr. McSeinfeld."
THE DISBELIEF
I pay.
$42.83.
Exactly what I expected.
Exactly.
Plus $3.50 for snacks I didn't need.
Total damage: $46.33.
I could have had lunch.
Real lunch.
At a restaurant.
With a plate.
But instead I have:
Fresh oil
A Kit-Kat wrapper in my pocket
Half a bag of Doritos
The knowledge that I won a battle against a vending machine
And lingering suspicion that the universe is playing a long game
I walk to my car.
Keys in hand.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe the car won't start.
Maybe the mechanic forgot to put the oil cap back on and my engine will explode on the highway.
Maybe this is all a simulation and I'm actually in a coma and none of this is real.
But I get in.
Turn the key.
It starts.
Runs smoothly.
Better than before, even.
I pull out of the parking lot.
Merge into traffic.
Drive.
Nothing goes wrong.
THE AFTERMATH
I make it home.
Park.
Sit in my car for a moment.
Processing.
I went in for an oil change.
And got an oil change.
Just an oil change.
Nothing catastrophic.
No financial crisis.
No surprise expenses.
Just... a normal, routine maintenance experience.
And somehow—
somehow—
this feels wrong.
THE PARANOIA
Because here's the thing:
It's never this easy.
Never.
There's always something.
Always a catch.
Always a "well, as long as you're here..."
But not today.
Not this time.
Which means...
Which means it's coming.
The disaster.
The real one.
This was just the calm before the storm.
The universe lulling me into a false sense of security.
So that when the transmission does fail—
when the brake lines do rupture—
when the serpentine belt does snap—
I won't be prepared.
I'll have let my guard down.
And that's when it'll strike.
THE PHILOSOPHY
This is what poverty does to you.
Not actual poverty.
But close-to-the-edge poverty.
The kind where you have money—
but not enough.
Never enough.
Where every unexpected expense is a crisis.
Every car repair a catastrophe.
Every medical bill a disaster.
It trains you to expect the worst.
To catastrophize.
To sit in a waiting room for ninety minutes—
building elaborate financial apocalypse scenarios in your mind—
just in case.
Because being prepared for disaster feels safer than being blindsided by it.
Even if the preparation is just... anxiety.
Just waiting.
Just expecting the worst.
So when the worst doesn't come—
you don't feel relief.
You feel suspicious.
THE PATTERN
I've been here before.
In this waiting room.
Or waiting rooms like it.
Dozens of times.
And every time, it's the same spiral:
Drop off car for routine maintenance
Sit in waiting room
Catastrophize
Imagine financial ruin
Prepare for bad news
Receive... normal news
Feel suspicious
Drive home
Wait for the real disaster
Repeat in six months
It's exhausting.
But I can't stop.
Because the one time I don't catastrophize—
the one time I walk in confident that it'll just be an oil change—
that's when they'll tell me I need a new transmission.
The universe is watching.
Waiting.
Testing me.
THE LESSON
So what did I learn?
Lesson 1: Routine Maintenance is Never Routine
Even when it is, it doesn't feel like it. The anxiety remains.
Lesson 2: Waiting Rooms Are Psychological Warfare
They're designed to break you. To make you grateful for any outcome that doesn't involve a second mortgage.
Lesson 3: Financial Anxiety is Persistent
Even when nothing goes wrong, you still feel like something will. The threat is always there, hovering.
Lesson 4: Hope is Dangerous
Hoping for the best feels like tempting fate. Better to expect disaster and be pleasantly surprised.
Lesson 5: Oil Changes Are Never "Just" Oil Changes
In your mind, maybe not in reality. But in your mind? Always a potential catastrophe.
Lesson 6: The Vending Machine is a Test
Of patience. Of hope. Of whether you believe you'll be there long enough to justify a snack. You'll always make the wrong choice. The Kit-Kat will always get stuck. This is the way.
THE CONCLUSION
I survived.
The oil change.
The waiting room.
The catastrophizing.
All of it.
Nothing went wrong.
Everything was fine.
My car runs.
My bank account is intact.
I am... okay.
For now.
But in six months—
when that little sticker in my windshield tells me it's time—
I'll do it all again.
Drive to the shop.
Sit in the waiting room.
Drink terrible coffee.
Flip through outdated magazines.
And imagine—in vivid detail—
every possible financial disaster.
Because that's what I do.
That's what we all do.
Those of us who live on the edge.
Who know that one unexpected expense could unravel everything.
We sit.
We wait.
We catastrophize.
And sometimes—
just sometimes—
nothing goes wrong.
And that's both a relief and a warning.
Because next time?
Next time it might.
THE PROMISE
But I'll be back.
Oil be back.
In six months.
Or 3,000 miles.
Whichever comes first.
I'll return to that waiting room.
That purgatory of automotive anxiety.
And I'll sit.
And I'll wait.
And I'll spiral.
Because that's the price of vehicle ownership.
Not the oil change.
Not the maintenance.
The waiting.
The catastrophizing.
The ninety minutes of melodramatic dread.
That's the real cost.
And I'll pay it.
Every single time.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, car running smoothly, bank account barely damaged, anxiety fully intact. Behind him, the waiting room waits—empty chairs, terrible coffee, 2019 magazines—ready for the next victim. In six months, he'll return. And the cycle will begin again. Oil be back. Always.)