Normally a trip to get my oil changed doesn’t end up in a life lesson.
I go to an Auto Mechanic shop I really like. They know me. I trust them, and they have always been good to me. They also do quality work, and try to help me save money when they can.
When I phoned to make my appointment, I asked George the Office manager (not his real name) if he was married yet. I knew the wedding was around this time, but not exactly sure when. He told me quickly and with a bit of a laugh that the wedding had been called off – on the day of the wedding a few weeks earlier. Not sure exactly what to say in that situation, so I just said I was sorry to hear, and hung up.
I was sorry to hear this. George is a great guy who had been looking forward to this wedding. I don’t need or want to know any details but did know it couldn’t be easy. I do know that George has always loved fishing, so I stopped into our local store and asked what would be a small gift a sport fisherman would like to receive. They showed me some flies and lures, and a person shopping assured me that the one type would be the kind he would want.
I wrapped them in a little gift bag and wrote on the front: “George, sometimes, you just need a reason to smile”. Added a chocolate bar and headed for my oil change.
I didn’t give the gift when I arrived because I wanted to give it after I paid, so it wouldn’t interfere with business.
After waiting about 20 minutes, George came out and said – “They can’t find your wheel lock!” in an abrupt way. “Oh,” I replied “I’ll go get it. It is in the console between the seats, in a cannister”.
I walked into the auto shop, and almost threw up. The entire contents of my trunk were emptied onto the concrete, a mishmash of all my personal things sitting behind my car like a garbage pile. The pamphlets from my Dad’s tree gifting service (he died this spring) were poking out sideways from a pile of items – my gym workout bag, my travel bag, work items, the paint tray and brushes I had bought that morning. A bottle of water. The trunk had things in it still, but everything was jumbled up.
“What!!!” I managed to get out.
“I couldn’t find it” said the young worker. “I’ve been searching through everything for 20 minutes.”
Now, there is no way this young man could know my history. That I’ve had a long series of violations of my personal space and personal items. (Items taken, stolen, broken, diaries read, clothes examined and worn by service workers etc.) That these violations happened when I was vulnerable, a special needs parent relying on the same people who invaded my privacy. That the grief of those experiences was compounded by the grief of my two children’s deaths, which I have worked through, but not “gotten over”… who does?
Just that morning, I was reveling in the concept of having my own trunk to store personal items in while I travel – and that they were all in their own space. Not neat, by any stretch, but the gym bag on the right, the hiking boots on the left… Work bag in the back. We take our solace where we can find it… and a part of mine was somehow connected to the stuff in my trunk having a place to call its own.
The young man was standing watching my reaction, and he offered quietly “I will put it back”.
“NO!” I am sure I shouted at him. “I’ll do it. It all has a place”. Then proceeded to do this, before I went to car and got the wheel lock. Papers from my glove box were strewn on the floor and seat. My little tin of nuts, and my other personal items, along with my vehicle info. I gulped. Reached into the container between the seats and fumbled through a very messy console to find the little film case which holds the wheel lock.
I replaced the items into the glove box, turned and handed the wheel lock to the young man, with a glare that could have melted an iceberg. Then walked into the waiting room, to sit down.
Our bodies don’t lie to us. Mine sure doesn’t. If something is going on, I can’t really hide it. So I sat down, pretended to type, and practiced breathing as my chest heaved. “Okay, Diane” my logical voice said. “it’s a bit of a mess. No big deal.” “Then WHY,” responded the other voice in my head, coming more from my heaving chest, “WHY do I feel like this?”
My sister Lori is a social worker. Over the years, I’ve picked up more than a few tips from her. “Name it” is one of them. If I am going through something it helps to name it. It diffuses the intensity/charge of the emotion. So I said to myself… “I feel like I’ve just been violated.”
Now, I know there are millions of people who have had far worse experiences of violation than their personal items being placed on the floor of an auto shop. But for me that action was the trigger. I didn’t even know it. But I did know that I should probably say something to the young man, so he would understand the look I gave him, and know for future customers, that they might prefer different treatment with their personal items stored in their autos..
I waited till he came back into talk to George, then stood up to speak to him. But he had slipped back into the shop. “Oh, I wanted to speak to you both.” I said. “About what?” asked George. “About why I was so upset when I saw my things all on the ground”.
“Yes.” Said George. “That was really tough. He searched for 20 minutes to find your wheel lock and still didn’t find it anywhere!”
“I just wanted to explain though…” I continued, but George cut me off. “We pay him by the hour. That usually costs someone $20 if we don’t find it”… He said motioning to a sign that was posted on the counter.
“I didn’t know that I needed a wheel lock to get my oil changed”, I continued.
“You asked us to check everything” Said George. That includes your brakes.
“You need to unlock my wheels to check the brakes?” I asked. Clearly my mechanical skills are not my forte. I didn’t say, but mumbled to myself…”I thought they just lifted up the car and looked at them”.
“I don’t want to argue”… I started, then George cut me off by saying “Oh, we can play it like that if you want to”, then walked out into the shop.
Now, I returned to my seat and the tears were searing through my blinking eyes: Why was I crying? Misunderstanding. Not being heard. Not being able to help others by clarifying the situation so it is avoided in the future. I didn’t care if he charged me $20. I didn’t want to make them look for something I could have just given them… but I didn’t KNOW. I didn’t understand what they needed.
I went to them, because I trust them. They look after me. They are NICE to me. And now, I don’t even get to explain things and clear up the communication?
Some part of my adult brain kicked in. “So, how comfortable do you think YOU would be two weeks after your wedding dissolved on your wedding day? How sensitive to perceived arguments, and unknown dynamics popping out at you that you weren’t expecting? Give George a break. He’s coping the best he can.”
The truth is.. we ALL are. Who knows what the young man was going through. Maybe he was triggered by having to root through someone else’s stuff, and just wanted to get it done as fast as he could. Maybe George just got called out for having to pay his staff extra hours for work that wasn’t really mechanical. Maybe they were sick or had people they cared about in hospital.
We can second guess till the cows come home. We don’t know. And we don’t need to.
It is not our business to know. Most of what goes on for other people is private.
All we can do is take a breath, and dig into that part of us that stores compassion. Sometimes it gets hidden a bit deeply, when we have our own stuff running around on top of it. But that is the only answer. Compassion, and the realization that we just don’t and never will know what is going on with the other person or people. Even if we know them. Even if we know some of the situation. We don’t KNOW exactly, completely. Because we all live in different bodies, and we all process situations differently, and have different history to add to our experiences. It’s what makes us unique.
So I paid my bill – (was not charged the $20). Left the bag I had brought on the seat. And walked out to my car to let the remaining charge of my past experiences out in tears and big gulpy breaths as I drove through the streets, in my car which is now good for another 5,000 km.
And typed this note, to have a place to put it… and maybe even salvage the opportunity to share the message, and help others avoid it in future. The difference you make. It’s often the choice to remember that we simply don’t know.
Sept 25, 2019 Diane
Postscript. Shortly after I had finished typing this all out, George called me back to apologize. Voice sounding a bit raw, he said he is processing a lot and didn’t intend to be so abrupt. I told him I totally understood that, and wanted to share the part about why I was so upset. As circumstance would have it…. I was just paying for a few items I had stopped to get at the No Frills grocery store. I glanced at the cashier, and shrugged. What’s another few minutes of vulnerability? So dove into my brief explanation while she looked on, eyes widening. Real world doesn’t always curate beautiful times and locations to get things ironed out. I didn’t care. George knew that my stuff was about me, and that I cared about him. He hadn’t even seen the little bag I left on the chair yet. I mentioned it, and he went over and opened it. “Guess it’s not the greatest day for either of us” he said softly. “Thanks though, this means a lot”.
The difference you make. It’s real. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.