Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Car Wash Blues

Saturday afternoon was sunny and somewhat warmer than it has been. The temperature was above freezing; so, I figured that washing the car was in order. When people can't tell the color of the car, the time's come to wash it. So, my lovely wife and I went on a drive to the Valley Laser Wash. No, I wasn't going to any old car wash; I was getting the ultimate in high-tech, automatic, robotic, industrial-strength, ultra-power-dry, space-age, extreme car washes. And I planned to clean my stuff out of the back seat and three glove boxes, vacuum the interior, and then wipe off the dust and the coffee drips and dog drool and pupkisses.

There are times one is compelled to do unpleasant tasks like cleaning the car in the middle of winter -- compelled, I say, because if one refuses to do so, well ... sleeping with the fishes is distinctly possible; and there are other things that could happen, but that particular one belligerently pushes its way to the forefront of my feeble mind.

Rather than opt for the cheapest wash alternative -- you know how it is, the various options have various clever names, like "The Big Cheapskate," as opposed to "The Cheapskate," which is a dollar more, just to make you feel like the ultimate in frugality -- but I went for the grand prize, the "Grande Ultimo Maximus," which sounds Roman, which, in advanced car washing circles, is a good thing. It also sounds like a drink at Starbucks, which put me in a good light with the spouse for that choice.

Now, Valley Laser Wash is not a pull-onto-the-conveyor-between-the-rails-put-it-in-neutral car wash; it is a pull-your-car-up-till-the-red-light-goes-on-telling-you-to-stop-and-sit-still-and-the-thing-goes-around-the-car car wash. Do you know what happens when you pull up too far? In what would serve as an ominous portent of the future, lights flashed, sirens whined, and the sign blinkered "BACK UP!" until I was apparently out of harm's way; but then, in a matter of inches, the sign switched to green, signaling me to "Move Forward." So, I tried to go as slow as humanly possible, moving forward millimeter after millimeter until the red light came on, ordering me to stop once again. It is difficult to describe the feeling -- terror, I think -- as I moved forward, afraid of what the machine might do to me if I went too far yet a second time. Incorporated into the high-tech, ultra-shiny, robotic car wash device, I noticed a dull, black thing that looked suspiciously like the barrel of a GAU-8/A 30mm cannon, capable of firing 3,900 rounds per minute. I'm not crazy -- well, not real crazy, anyway, because a red dot appeared on the hood of the car -- from the laser sight on the rotary cannon, I bet.

The machine stopped flashing its lights and blowing its horror horn at me, apparently satisfied that I was properly deferential to its designs, and decided to start moving around and around the car, spraying and rinsing and sudsing and rinsing and waxing and rinsing and Rain-X'ing and rinsing and telling me to get the fuck out of there and ahead to the big blowing dryers. I, of course, did as instructed.

After the automatic, Category-5-hurricane-force dryers finished buffeting the car, I pulled out of the building ahead to the stainless steel vacuum canisters. My lovely wife got out of the car and generously helped me clean all of my accumulated crap out of the back seat of her car, with the sun setting and colder night air pouring into the valley, in which Valley Laser Wash is located; and I hadn't yet gotten the quarters from the change machine to feed the vacuum machine.

The vacuum machine sucked. It sucked the floor mats off the floor and tried to devour them. I saw the camera affixed to the building above the exit door -- a camera recording every move I made, recording me choking the fucking hose trying to shake the floor mat loose from the maw of the silvery vacuum canister, recording my lovely wife laughing at me. Four minutes is not enough time to vacuum the interior of the car, especially if one must wrestle the fucking machine with a suction death grip for the floor mat.

And did you know that if you let the time run out before you deposit another quarter for another minute of slapstick comedy, then you have to start over and buy another four minutes; so, having learned your lesson, if you happen to hear the beep-beep-beep signaling you have 30 seconds left, you drop the vacuum canister's instrument of death onto the ground, hoping that it doesn't suck the earth beneath you into a black hole of oblivion, race around the car, trying to get a quarter out of your pocket with freezing fingers, temperature plummeting, under an all-seeing eye, your wonderful spouse doubled over, laughing.

And you've stupidly used up all of your fucking time-outs.

I finally finished vacuuming under high-tech, high-intensity sodium lamps humming their illuminating tune, and started wiping the interior, thankful that my laughing, rosy-cheeked, lovely wife had the foresight to wear her good-to-90-below, mountaineering coat, lime green, so that if she ever gets separated from the group while climbing Everest, the spotter will be able to locate her.

I hurriedly wiped the dashboard off with a damp, soft cloth, just like the owner's manual probably recommends and moved on to the middle console and the driver's side door. I thought I'd accomplish the mission by running around the car to the passenger side so that my cherub-faced, still chuckling wife could get in to a warm, clean interior. You see, I'm such a thoughtful fellow -- starting the car and turning up the heater.

She noticed that, me starting the car and all, then she remarked, "You locked the keys in the car with the engine running."

"What?" I asked, trying to open the passenger-side door.

"You closed your door. When you were cleaning in between the seats, you hit the lock button. And I don't have my set of keys," she pointed out.

Posted by Bill at February 7, 2008 11:20 AM