To The Man Who Works At Jiffy Lube

To the man who works at Jiffy Lube.
I see you.
I know your game.
When I walk in the door, young faced and fluttering eyelashes, you smile politely at me. It’s sweet, really it is. You think I’m sweet.
You think I don’t know about cars.
You’re right.
But what gives you the right to treat me like I’m stupid.
I can recite entire musicals, I can tell you a lot about the Finnish government, I could tell you how to calculate the probability of you in your ignorance believing I am stupid.
I’m not stupid.
Neither are you.
This is a conversation that doesn’t need to happen, a dialogue that shouldn’t need to be opened because we are not stupid, but we are stuck in this stupid impasse because my youth and doe eyes are reason enough to cheat. To lie. To yell at me until my hands shake and yes, I have brought this car here before. I don’t know whether or not I want my air filter replaced, if you think it should be, please do it. There’s a pink stuffed turtle on the dashboard. I call him Sheldon. Please, just charge it to my parents’ business account and let me leave.
You are a grown man. Last summer I was seventeen. I don’t know how to change my own oil. Frankly I have no interest in learning. I know you’re not getting paid to be nice to me. But you’re still getting paid. You don’t have to yell. You don’t have to treat me like I’m stupid.
I’m not stupid.
Neither are you.
To the man who works at Jiffy Lube, thank you for all you do. But next time I walk through the door, young faced and fluttering eyelashes. Smile politely. I’ll tell you I want my oil changed. You can put it on my parents’ account.
But do not ever look at me like I’m stupid. Because next time I’m asked if I want my air filter changed, I’m saying no. Because now I know I didn’t need it. You just needed an easy sale.
Let’s not mention the probability that next time you ask, I might actually need it.
But at this point, I’d rather destroy an entire vehicle than risk looking stupid in front of you, man who works at Jiffy Lube.