But now, a generation or so later, they go and rename the joint Happy Lube and have one of those big dancing air-filled gorillas on the roof—what does that have to do with oil, I ask you?—and young women parading around in tight uniforms and working on your car. Well, OK, no, it’s not exactly like that, I’m exaggerating for effect, but it’s close. The name and jungle animal are true, but she, this girl I’m staring at right now, may be the only female employee on the premises. But they do seem very open to the idea, very laissez-faire in their approach to preventative car maintenance. But, as I say, they’re convenient, so I keep my big mouth shut. Not that she’s doing a bad job, either, from what I can tell. Seems to know her stuff, if a little “by the book.” No, she’s doing fine, I shouldn’t complain. One greasy handprint that I can see—on the right front quarter panel—but it’s no big deal. And anyway, I’m sure she’ll wipe that off before she’s through. No doubt.

We keep catching each other’s eye as she works, me as I’m pretending to read something in a Field & Stream magazine and her as she pulls the air filter out for a closer inspection. I could be leafing through a nice copy of Newsweek or something, but I grabbed the manliest periodical out of the bunch, trying to make up for some imagined deficit within myself, since I am surrounded by young, rugged boys covered in grime as they work on engines and talk about sports. And this girl, of course. I’m doing this outdoorsy show partly for her. I even laugh out loud once or twice at an editorial piece about bass fishing, just to add a bit of aural effect to the proceedings. She glances over and smiles at me when I do, so I push it and snicker once more, a bit further on when I hit a passage that highlights the author’s travails at selecting the proper lure. Ho, ho, hilarious. But she responds again, wiping her cheek with the back of one hand and leaving the most adorable little smear of grease just under her left eye.