I don't belong in this club

Remember why you hated to go into Radio Shack? You went in because you happened to walk past the store while you were at the mall and you remembered that you needed a special, obscure battery that you couldn't find in the rack in the supermarket. Or a particular light bulb that fit in that weird lamp you got when you cleaned out grandma's attic when she died. So, for a quick purchase — with no intention of ever setting foot in a Radio Shack again — the cashier pressed you for your name, address, phone number, yearly income, your previous address, the name of your employer, your pet's names, your dead pet's names... an entire profile of your current living situation. He typed all of your responses into the Central Customer Radio Shack database and you were officially indoctrinated into the cult of Radio Shack. No wonder Radio Shack went out of business. Who needed that shit?

There are several types of stores I try to avoid. Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores. I am not a "do-it-yourself" guy. I don't want to "do-it-myself." I want someone to do it for me. I don't want to put an addition on my house. I don't want to paint a room in my house. I don't want to do anything to my car except put in gas and scrape off snow (when necessary). Anything more involved than those simple activities, I want them done by someone who is not me. AND... when they are completed, I do not want a run-down on how those tasks where done. I don't care. If I cared, I would have taken the time to have learned how to do them myself. But, I did not do that, so....

I worked for Pep Boys Auto Parts for three years. I worked in their advertising department, where I placed pictures of various auto parts into ads alongside a giant red price. I could not identify any of the auto parts in the ads. I placed them by item number. I didn't know (nor care) what any of the parts did. My job was to make the ads look "pretty" and "appealing." I think I accomplished that. During my time with Pep Boys, I set foot into a Pep Boys store a grand total of one time... and that was to purchase a set of Pep Boys bobbleheads. Any "car-related" issue I had was taken care of by my trusted mechanic.

Home improvement stores, paint stores and auto parts stores all have one thing in common. They have customers that fall into two very distinct categories — do-it-yourselfers who make these types of stores a frequent destination and those who rarely venture into one of these stores and try to avoid them as best they can. I fall into the latter group. I hate these types of stores. The employees, it seems, do not posses the skills to differentiate between die-hard roll-up-your-sleeves doers and those of us who are not sure which is the "business end" of a hammer. Maybe that's just the kind of people who are hired to work in these places. Maybe they don't have the thinking capacity to "read the room" because that have just about grasped the concept of "measure twice, cut once" and that can be very taxing on a limited-thinking brain.  So, they just treat everyone as though they are Bob Vila. On the off chance that they can tell the difference, they seem to go out of their way to make non-DIYers feel inferior. They use specialized lingo that only someone who completed years of authorized MOPAR training would understand. They expound on the foot-per-pound ratio of a particular line of torque wrench as though it was common knowledge. They explain primer coverage and semi-gloss opacity as though they were discussing the weather. And they talk about the comparative ins-and-outs of windshield wipers as though anybody really gives a shit. 

Which brings me to this...

We experienced a rather brutal winter this year. We had several days of heavy snowfall, coupled with ice storms and weeks of below-freezing temperatures. The weather, and its lingering after-effects, really did a number on the windshield wipers on my car. During a recent rainstorm, I noticed a long strip of rubber bouncing wildly across my windshield, noticeably out-of-step with the rhythmic uniformity of the wiper arms. It looked like a single strand of black spaghetti wildly whipping around the rigid wiper blades who were otherwise maintaining their glass-cleaning duty. This errant string of rubber was causing an occluding streak of water right in my line of vision. I craned my neck to see around it, but it was a futile effort. It was obvious I needed to replace the wiper blades. Or, more accurately, I need to have someone replace the wiper blades for me. 

My car is due for inspection in May, and since it will probably rain a few more times before May arrives, I need new wiper blades immediately. I weighed my options. There's a quick oil change place a few blocks from my house. A quick Google search revealed that they sell and install wiper blades. However, my experience with those types of places is they love to upsell. I didn't need an oil change or fluid check or whatever else they offer. I didn't feel like being subjected to their company-sanctioned "you know you could also use a (fill in the blank) while you're here!" My second option was to visit the Advance Auto Parts that's just a short drive from my house. I have noticed a sign in their window that proudly announced that they install windshield wiper blades for free. I decided — with much trepidation and anxiety associated with going into an auto parts store — to go with Advance.

While trying to skirt a four-day-late St. Patrick's Day parade, I maneuvered my car on an alternate route to Advance Auto Parts. I parked my car and, with my stomach already in my throat, I entered the store. A fellow greeted me and asked if he could help. I told him I needed wiper blades for my car. Our exchange went like this:

Josh Pincus: It's a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek.

Auto Parts Guy: 2004?

JP: No, 2024.

APG: Oh! That makes a big difference. In 2017, a lot of car manufacturers like Subaru, Mazda, Volkswagen and some others changed the kind of wiper blades they use to the new, single push button type that are the slim design cfkjngpofr[  klkspokqf sps alctkwd gjhspsn dbdfojdp

Oh my God, I thought I had a fucking stroke. Suddenly, this guy launched into Marisa Tomei's climactic "Chevy Bel Air" speech from My Cousin Vinny. I tuned his words out and said nothing. He continued, however, going on and on and on about clip housings and old designs and about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.

He turned his attention to a computer screen after typing in some information.

APG: I'll bet you — without even looking — that it's part number A327875-AE.

He said this to me, I suppose, but I think he said it more to impress himself with his vast knowledge of random auto part numbers. 

APG: Let's see.....

Suddenly, he turned to another employee seated waaay down at the other end of the counter. He, too, was working with a customer.

APG: Hey, AJ! Hear this song? (He pointed up in the air, indicating the music floating through the store, courtesy of the overhead speakers.) Rolling Stones. Gimme Shelter, man. My favorite Stones song, man.

He returned his attention to his customer (me) and the wiper blade inventory that had now populated the computer screen.

APG: Yep! A327875-AE! Just like I said. (If he was a sideshow contortionist, he would have patted himself on the back.) I hope we carry these, because sometimes these new model numbers are fdkg hddkd djfgjfiueh jdhoidp jdpdpokf   (Things were starting to grow dim again and my hearing was getting distorted.)

I followed him to the windshield wiper section of the store, where he pointed to a bunch of similarly packaged wiper blades. He pointed out the prices and I selected a pair of beautiful Bosch Focus blades... just breathtakingly beautiful.

APG: Would you like me to put them on your car?

JP: Yes. (This was the first word I had spoken since I corrected him about the year of manufacture of my car.)

He instructed me to swipe or tap my credit card on the terminal and I did so. Then he asked for my phone number. And my last name. And my first name... in that inimitable style made so irritating by Radio Shack.

APG: Pincus? Is that a Scandinavian name? Sounds like a Nordic name. I think its a Nordic name. Is that Nordic?

JP: (thinking) What the fuck does the origin of my last name have to do with me buying wiper blades? And what the fuck business is it of yours to analyze the etymology of my last name? (I merely shrugged my shoulders and remained silent.)

The APG fumbled with the packaging until he finally removed the blades. I followed him out to the parking lot and, although I had earlier gestured towards my car from inside the store, he still needed me to identify it. It was, however MR. CAR PARTS GUY, the only Subaru Crosstrek in the entire lot. Even a non-car guy like myself could see that. Within three seconds, he had popped off the old blades and set the new ones in their proper place. I thanked him and offered an accompanying wave of my hand. His parting words were, "I think you'll really enjoy these blades."

I have owned and driven several cars in my lifetime. I do not recall ever — ever! — thinking, while observing the wipers sweep the downpour of rain off my windshield, allowing for a clear view of the road ahead of me, "Well, goddamn!, I certainly am enjoying these windshield wipers! Yes sir! Pure enjoyment!"

Guess where I will never be going again.  Go ahead.... guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no, I don't love your dog

I have been pet-free for three years. Before that, I had always had at least one cat. Sometimes, more than one. Cats are really good pets for people who don't always want a pet. They are affectionate when you want them to be and when those times come when you don't want to be bothered, they are happy to oblige. As far as a cat is concerned, people only exist to open cans. Yeah, once in a while a person can scratch a cat's head, but they are primarily a can opener.

Dogs, on the other hand, are honest-to-goodness, high-maintenance pets. Dogs need to be walked and played with and, because they love to roll around in their own shit, they need to be bathed. (Cats take care of that on their own, without human assistance.)

Dog owners are high-maintenance, too. Dog owners treat their dogs like most humans treat their children (the ones that they love, anyway). And because dog owners love their dogs, everyone must love their dogs. You must! How could you not?

I have lost track of how many times I have been accosted by a dog on the sidewalk — all muddy and slobbery and smelly — only to have its owner assure me that "He's friendly!" or "He won't bite!". Well, I don't want to be friends with your fucking dog. I have visited dog-owner friends who refused to pull their over-curious canine away from me, while laughing and explaining, "He probably smells your cat on you." Well. I smell his excrement on him, so please get him the fuck off of me. I don't love your dog. Only you love your dog.

My wife had a few dogs growing up and has brought up the subject infrequently in the twenty-eight years we have known each other. Fairly late one evening, my wife and I were driving home in a treacherously heavy rainstorm. A block or so from our house, I could make out a figure in the downpour. It was a man dressed in a rain slicker with a waterlogged hat drooping on his head. In one hand, he held an open umbrella. In the other, he gripped a leash. At the end of that leash was a soaked dog, its sodden fur matted against its body. The man dutifully followed the dog as he slowly and deliberately sniffed the ground looking for a place to crap — or possibly for nothing in particular. I pointed out the fogged window of our car to the sorry-looking sap with the dog and I said to my wife, "Y'know why we don't have a dog? Because if we did, that poor asshole would be me."