Chivalry lives

I realized on Monday that in spite of the long weekend, I had run out of time to get my car's oil changed, or even check the oil. Suddenly worried that for some reason I needed to check the oil right away, I stopped at a gas station on my way home from work last night and bought a couple quarts of oil. But I was just opening my hood, armed with several napkins from the gas station convenience counter, when he walked up.

"Can I do that for you? I'd be happy to do that for you. You're not exactly dressed for the occasion." (I admit it; I was wearing a short skirt and high heels and my hair was up.) He was tall and had a white beard reminiscent of Sean Connery, but without the accent. After asking me a few questions and listening to my halting answers he smiled. "How long've you been driving this car?"

After asking a few more questions he evidently concluded I didn't know what I was doing and began to explain. I wanted to interrupt that yes, I did know how to check oil and add it too, that I used to check the oil in my old car every week and carry two quarts in the trunk in case of emergencies, but something—I think it was the Lord—told me to shut up and smile. So I stood there wrapped in my pea coat and nodded at appropriate intervals, while he checked the light on my dashboard, checked the oil, and wiped the dipstick across his bare hand (who needs a napkin, anyway) to show me that the oil was a little dirty but not sludgy, and there was no need to rush off to Jiffy Lube. I thanked him enthusiastically and he went back to his oil tanker. I wanted to give him a friendly wave as I pulled out of the gas station, but he wasn't looking.