It’s the kind of thing you’d love to just go over and wipe off with the edge of your shirt, clean it off and look into her eyes as you’re doing it. Which leads to this long, movie-style kiss, all fireworks and rotating cameras and whatever it is they do out there in Hollywood to make you feel funny inside when two actors embrace. Of course, most men would then carry it a step further and have her say some stupid dialogue for a minute and then remove her clothes. Drop to her knees and all kinds of other stuff, too, or maybe even get a few other women involved in the festivities. That’s the way a lot of guys’ minds work, but not mine. Nope. I only get as far as the oil spot and the kiss, and then I snap out of it. Right back to reality. This is partly due, of course, to the fact that she’s suddenly standing right over me. This girl mechanic. Standing in front of me and smiling down, a clipboard held loosely in one hand.

“You’re all set,” she offers in a surprising voice. Not that it’s surprising that she can speak, no, it’s just that she sounds lively and educated and full of something. Life, I suppose. She seems bubbling over with life and makes me happy to be living it in the process. Not a bad day’s work for my little grease monkey.

I follow her up to the register to pay and get my computerized breakdown of services. As I’m putting away my Amex (member since ’87) and she’s slipping my receipt into a flimsy red envelope, she adds: “If there’s any problem, give us a call and we’ll hook you up.” Now, I suppose that is young person’s lingo for “We can fix it,” but most of it flows right past me like today’s rock and roll music. I get the gist of what she’s saying, though, and something about her manner, some twitch across her brow, seems to suggest a world of possibilities waiting just outside these cinderblock walls. Something girlish and playful and calling to me, if only I’d care to respond.

“Okeydokey,” I toss back. “And who should I ask for?” A thumb points firmly and proudly to a grimy patch that has been hand-sewn onto her striped shirt. “Tammy,” it reads. Tammy with a traditional y ending. Nice.

“So, I should just request you, then?”

“Sure, go for it.”

“Really?”

“Yep, gimme a call. Anytime.” She holds this next look just long enough for me to heed her advice, and I still don’t know why. But I do, I go for it.

“Well, I will then.”

“Cool.”

“Alrighty.”

“Great.”

“Or maybe you’d like to call me …”

“Huh?”