Oil Hoarder

We hear a lot about hoarders. Most of them seem to keep everything. Yet there are perhaps what I'll call limited hoarders. An old friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, might fit that bill.

Cloyce would change the oil in his cars himself. Fair enough; lots of folks do that. In his case, it was two vehicles; his and Mrs. Cloyce. That was it. And they didn't drive much. They might make 5,000 miles a year on each car, but that was about it.

One evening Cloyce asked me over to help with something, and we trounced down into his basement. You would have thought I was in the motor fluids section of an auto parts store, judging by the amount of oil and filters and anti-freeze, brake and power steering and transmission fluid which lined the shelves in a back room. If I had to guess I'd say there were about 50 cases of motor oil alone. "Why do you have so much oil and stuff, Cloyce?" I asked, actually somewhat in awe.

"I maintain our cars," he answered.

"Yes, but all these fluids for two vehicles?"

Cloyce responded, "I buy it on sale. Then it's there when I need it."

I protested, "Okay, but this much?"

"I never want to run out."

Trust me, folks. He wasn't going to run out in his lifetime. Nor were his kids. Maybe not even his great-grandkids. Cloyce had stored up a lot of oil.

Cloyce's grand piano

I once insulted my neighbor completely without intention. I hate that, because insults really ought to be funny, cruel, and intentional. But to be fair, I believe he was pressing me too hard on a subject I simply didn't know anything about.

This neighbor, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, is a musician, and he is a very fine one too to give him his due. One day as I passed by he called me into his house to show me his new piano. Well, not new, but an excellent used grand piano.

I have to admit it looked stunning, a deep, shining, well polished ebony. He was proud of it and rightly so. He sat to play a few bars and the sound to even my untrained ears was magnificent. By all appearances it was clearly a superior instrument.

After Cloyce had played a bit he began telling me all about the piano, stuff I didn't understand but hey, when someone's really happy about something it's a courtesy to let them talk, right? So I listened, trying to sound properly impressed at points where it seemed I was expected to be.

When the descriptions were all over Cloyce asked, "So what do you think it cost, Marty?"

I tried to sidestep the question. "Oh, I have no idea what a grand piano would cost."

"Come on, just take a guess," he persisted.

"I don't know, Cloyce." I was really hoping he would just tell me so that I might again show how impressed I was supposed to be.

"Just take a guess, Marty!"

So I took a stab. "Oh, uh, I dunno, a thousand dollars?"

Cloyce's face fell faster than Wile E. Coyote off a cliff after a harried chase of the Roadrunner. "A thousand dollars?" he asked, obviously insulted and indeed crestfallen. "What do you think it's made of, particle board?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't have any idea what grand pianos are worth," I protested. It turns out they are worth quite a few dollars more than my ridiculous guess. I want to say he he paid $11,000 for it but it's been long enough I don't recall with certainty.

I truly didn't mean to hurt his feelings though. Particle board by the way is a very low grade of plywood. I don't think they use it on grand pianos.