Working at the Car Wash

The wintery weather in which I've reveled over the past few weeks has ended. For the time being anyway. The roads have completed their transformation from pristine white and snow-covered to messy salt and sand-covered to regular mundane dry pavement.

My poor car was left trapped in a grimy coating of winter road filth. While I could wash it myself, that particular chore is one I'd rather not do. Even on a glorious day such as we were treated to yesterday. It was a day that screamed "find something to do outside!" But washing the car? I'd rather bathe the dogs. Both of them. And the cat too. All at the same time. With one arm tied behind my back. Blindfolded. You get the idea.

I went to the car wash instead. The privilege of dropping $20 for someone else to wash my car was mine. Completely.

There are four car washes within a three mile radius of our home. I bypassed the closest one because I had an unpleasant experience there 23 years ago and subsequently never returned. (Never mind that the pinched old hag behind the counter who was so incredibly rude to a much younger and shyer me has probably long since assumed a new position buried deep in the cold hard ground. Hold a grudge? Me? Ha.) I zipped on over to the one down the block.

It was Tuesday, and while the car wash was busy, there was no line. On weekends this time of year these places have lines snaking in, around and back out of the lot. Seems I'm not the only one who does not enjoy washing her car. I followed the signs and a fellow with a clipboard waved me into the one unoccupied vacuum station. The other two were filled. Each station was manned by four workers: two holding bright yellow vacuum hoses across their chests the way a soldier holds his rifle, the other two with cloths dangling from their hands.

All four of my car doors were opened simultaneously and I got out as the men dove in. Then I watched as my vehicle was run through the gauntlet, soaped and swabbed and waxed efficiently by machines designed do to all that.

As my car exited the wash bay, it was swarmed upon by six workers. They all expertly brandished rags, some had squirt bottles filled with blue fluid. Three of them worked the exterior and the other three the interior. They dried and buffed and polished it to a gleaming shine.

I stood with the other patrons, soaking up the lovely weather while watching the men work. It was almost like watching a ballet. They moved as if orchestrated, on task and efficient, graceful even. There were six cars being dried. Each was being tended by six workers. 36 men wielding rags polishing cars. Add to that the 12 who worked the vacuum stations. 48 men, and that's not counting the detailers and runners and the man with the clipboard.

They all wore an expression of perseverance. They spoke aloud to each other in a language I did not recognize. Communication with the customers was achieved via waves, nods and polite grunts. Where did they come from, all those men? Are they day laborers? Do they have families to support? What do they do when the car wash is not so busy?

It rained men? Hallelujah? My car thinks so.
But me.
Me, I'm left thinking.
I'm left thinking how easy my life is.

Anyone remember that movie Car Wash from the 70s?