BY DAMIEN COWGER
My shirt sleeves aren’t rolled up uniformly while I’m sitting and waiting for an oil change and it reminds me that I’m not getting everything right. Sure, it’s no big deal, but right now, with the rubbery smell of new tires and stale popcorn in the air, it bothers me. A lady with a silver mask covered in sequins that form the American flag approaches me with hesitation. “Did you need something?” “I’m just waiting on an oil change.” She seems to think I don’t belong. I roll the sleeves down to reveal an armload of wrinkles, each beautiful in their own right, crisp lines that I couldn’t have accomplished if I tried. I begin the rolling process again, this would surely be easier with a partner, but the wrinkles are willful and fold back together like a roadmap, which never goes back together correctly, but you know what I mean. I think about getting some popcorn and bottled water but that’s all the way over there and besides, the lady with an American flag mask is standing by the refreshments and I swear she keeps looking over at me clocking my every gesture. My mask feels hot after an hour and I begin pacing around the dealership like a tiger in a cage, trying, in the moment, to remember what MSRP stands for and if the one listed on the sticker of this minivan is a good one. My sleeves are still bothering me and I roll them down again and wish for a hot iron and another chance.