The Art of the Inspection Sticker

I had to get an inspection sticker for our car. Believe it or not this is a delicate process. Not for the mechanic. There was a time when cars were not computers on wheels, when they came with more pins and rods and gears and gaskets that routinely leaked and blew and wore down and sometimes spontaneously combusted. That’s how some older person (usually male) in your family knew the “cahhhr” was “a real keepaahh” and not a “frickin lemon.” By the degree to which it might try to kill you. You might even get this kind of thing delivered to you via an anxious payphone call in some shopping plaza as your car smoked and choked and sputtered.

YOU: Dad, I don’t think I can drive this thing.

DAD: Sounds like a little cahhhborataaahhhh trouble is all. Lift the hood. Jiggle the yella wiaaahhh. She’ll get stahhhted. She’s a keepahhh.

Would definitely still pass inspection. ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Now the actual motor vehicle inspection mostly involves synching the car with the garage’s bluetooth to run a systems check. If the report doesn’t come back indicating that the car is actually a nuclear warhead–it passes.

What I mean is that when it comes to asking for the sticker, there are rules, a certain kind of procedural etiquette to follow. In Massachusetts some service stations are licensed to do inspection stickers. These might not be full scale garage or repair places. So one of the first times I had to get this done, someone told me, “Just look for the little inspection sticker insignia outside the gas station and they should be able to take care of it.” Great. I love a solve that is straightforward and does not involve math or directions that tell me to head east or south or any points found along a compass.

I pulled into one of these places. There was a man in coveralls and a name patch standing outside. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need an inspection sticker. Can you help me with that?” Big sigh. Long pause. For a split second I wondered if he was going to make me answer a riddle. Another exasperated mouth noise as he not-at-all-patiently explained that I should have called ahead for this kind of thing. The implication being that the service people at the service station aren’t just hanging around waiting and hoping for any rando to drive in off the street in need of service. Even though the man in his service company provided coveralls was doing exactly that when our worlds collided. Those being me, just a girl, standing in front of an auto service guy asking him to service her auto. Lesson learned.

Moving forward I did my due diligence. I called ahead. And I usually got either a chuckle or a more brusque, “Yeah, sure, sure, you can just come in. We open at 7.” Really now! Boy do I wish I could find that service guy from days of yore. I would like a word, sir. Still, I understand that a certain amount of respect must and should be paid when it comes to the art of the inspection sticker ask.

“Morning,” I said to the woman behind the counter. “I was hoping to get an inspection sticker.” Polite. Friendly. Humble. This is the way. The woman nodded and held up her hand in a “just a sec” gesture. She walked over to the door leading to the service bay areas. To her right was what looked like a broom closet that doubled as an “office” with a desk and a phone. The woman opened the door, poked her head in and called out over the whine of machinery. She disappeared into the other room. A minute later she returned.

“He’s in a bad mood,” she said under her breath, but also loud enough for me to hear. My hackles went up in a threat assessment. I did not speak. I felt like the lone gazelle at a suspiciously quiet watering hole on the Serengeti. I stayed very, very still. The phone rang in the shoe box office and the woman went to answer it. The garage door opened. A young, black haired mechanic entered. He looked at me.

“Here for an inspection?”

“Yes.”

“Keys?”

“Yes.” I handed them over. Another thing I learned: do not waste these peoples’ time fumbling around in your glove compartment for your registration and digging through your bag for keys that are mashed down into a dark corner lined with tissues and old Dunkin Donuts gift cards that collectively have a balance of $1.50 on them. No.

He turned around and went back inside, muttering “Sure no one wants a sticker until everyone wants a sticker.” I exhaled and sat in one of the two chairs in the teeny waiting space.

The door to the station opened. A middle-aged guy dressed in a maroon Patagonia jacket came in.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, inspection sticker?”

I froze. I was appalled. Where were the downcast eyes, the lowered tone of voice, the slightly rounded shoulder posture indicating subservience? Who did this guy think he was? Frank Sinatra?

“Uh, yeah, probably. He’s got a car ahead.” The guy sat down. I noticed that he also had a bunch of folded bills in his hand. Just then a second mechanic came in from some place outside, not from the garage area. He glanced at me.

“I’m all set. Waiting for a sticker.” Be as brief as possible-always.

“Him probably next,” the woman said. The mechanic looked at the other guy who sort of signaled with the money in his hand. It was all I could do to stay upright in my chair. WHAT KIND OF GAME WAS PATAGONIA SINATRA PLAYING HERE?! DID HE THINK HE WAS ABOVE THE RULE OF INSPECTION STICKER LAW? He was probably the kind of guy who causes a scene at Starbucks when they get his name wrong on the cup.

That mechanic turned on his heel and went back outside. That’s right Patagonia Sinatra, your cash will earn you no favors here. Who carries cash anyway? Fringy religious cults? Someone who just got off their shift at Olive Garden?

He was gone less than a couple of minutes when he came back in. This time there was a skinny young guy with him who looked a little sleepy or unsure, like he might have been in bed fifteen minutes ago and is duly surprised to find himself at a gas station this early in the morning.

“You got to wait in here!” the mechanic told the guy. “Now you lost your spot! You can’t wait outside. You got to be in here!”

That’s right, Other Mechanic. Go tell it on the mountain! This is not Versace where people are paid to kiss your ass. This is a few clicks above the DMV, but just as formidable. There is real power concentrated in those coveralls.

Surly mechanic bangs back into the room. “All set.” he says to me, walking over to the counter and placing the keys on top of the print out. I settle up with the woman.

“Maybe the rest of the day will be easy, breezy,” I say. She snort laughs.

“Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

From the corner of my eye I see Patagonia Sinatra watching, learning.

Yeah.Sure. Maybe.