Oil Man

 

I have been working hard to rebrand myself as an “oil man.” The problem is that most people have outlandish notions about what an “oil man” should look and act like. They ask where my Stetson is and wonder if I wear cowboy boots on the subway. They scoff at my decided lack of twang. I can’t seem to get past the idea that to be an oil man is to be a strutting goober in a bolo tie.

I want to take this opportunity to change all that. Allow me to humbly introduce an alternate and much-needed definition of “oil man” into the lexicon. 

After switching from fries as a dining default, I found myself confronted with another dilemma. What happens when you say, “yes, I have a salad.” If only the choices ended there. Not so. Immediately you’re hit with a sonic barrage: Russian, ranch, blue cheese, vinaigrette, creamy Italian and on and on. Like a stale crouton, many crack under the pressure. This should be a simple transaction. I want a salad. Condiments are for other dishes, not ones this green and lustrous. 

I preface the confrontation with, “I’m an oil man. Extra virgin, not Texan.” That usually takes a few seconds to register before they nod and return with a small bottle. Because dressing is for wild game, not salads.