Marmar's car must have been on the lower level of the truck, under a number of other cars. It was covered in oil that had dripped down along the drive. Dirt stuck to the oil like that stick of Big Red stuck to my wild mane in the third grade. I had to smear a clear patch in the windshield so that I could see to park it. When I cranked it up the gas light was on, the tire pressure light was flashing, there was no wiper fluid, and it smelled like the many truck stops it had visited. I parked that humiliating junker and ran inside for the night.
The next morning I took it out for a makeover. First I had to fill'er up. It's illegal to pump your own gas in Oregon. I cannot fathom why. You pull in to the gas station and an attendant will scurry out to your car and bang on the back of it for you to open the gas cap flap thing. You give them your card and tell them how much you want and then you sit awkwardly while they do it for you. As a gal from the south, I simply can't have someone doing me a favor without offering them some polite small-talk. I've been going to the same gas station since I've been here and I've gotten the same hispanic fella pumping my gas each time. He pretends not to remember me. "Hi!" I exclaim, thrilled to see his now familiar face. I rant about the weather and the complicated highway systems. He tolerates it but doesn't say much.
I pulled up in Omar's filthy clunker and he cocked his head like Buddy. I was sure I'd have him now. How could a gal get a car that dirty? And where's your 4Runner? He would ask these questions to his new friend with great curiosity.
"How much you want? he said abruptly. That was the end of our conversation.
I looked all over town for a car wash done by humans. I could only find drive thru's which I have never used before and was convinced it could not remove this caked on grime. It needed a good scrubbin'. As I drove aimlessly I found an empty, Do-It-Yourself Carwash hut. "Perfect!", I thought as I unknowingly pulled in through the exit. I stood a while, working out how to operate the various hoses and cleaning solutions. There appeared to be no one around overseeing things. I eventually found a rusty box asking for six quarters. I tossed them in and selected "soap" from the wheel of choices. Nothing happened. I waited. The hose on the ground next to me was sputtering some green liquid every 4 seconds or so. I dangled the hose over the car, moving it in 6 inch intervals after each dribble. Little here. Little there. I continued this dance for several minutes before I circled around the car to find a wall of foam expanding rapidly from a smaller hose-brush I hadn't noticed. The light pink foam formed a child size blob against the side of the car and it grew taller and taller with every passing second. I flung the hose-brush upwards, sending chunks of foam flying off in every direction. I tried scooping the pile up onto the side of the car. I began furiously scrubbing. The foam was coming out so quickly. I slid all around the car, trying to disperse the foam evenly while an ankle-deep moat formed around the car. The wind blew a tornado of bits in a circle above the car that settled in my hair and all down the backs of my legs. I abandoned the brush, dropping it to the ground to create another bear sized blob in a matter or moments. I ran to the rusty box and smacked the stop button. The foam blob melted into a puddle while chucks of soap oozed down the side of Omar's car.
Suddenly I heard a piercing beeping sound. I frantically searched for the problem and noticed I had caught the eye of two teenage boys at a smoothie place across the street. How humiliating. I finally found the source of the noise. Above my head was a red flashing countdown. I had thirty seconds to add more quarters or my time was up. I ran around and slid through the bubbles, screeching to a halt at the drivers door. I swung the door open which created a vortex that sucked all nearby foam into the car. My soapy fingers couldn't open my wallet so I began digging through Omar's cup holders and seat crevices. 10 seconds! The wind blew more foam inside. My jeans were beginning to sag with the weight of melted bubbles. I found three quarters and shoved them into the rusty box. The beeping stopped. I had purchased 2 more minutes. I picked up the other drippy hose, I turned the dial to rinse, and again I stood waiting. Moments later, water shot out of the hose with such force that it blew my body backwards several feet and into a brick wall.
I started to laugh. The boys across the street were thoroughly invested in the commotion and the shrill beeping had granted me one other viewer who was waiting for a bus. I straightened up my defeated body, somehow finding a new sense of determination to flee this scene even faster that I had wished before. I fixed the hose in my arms like a machine gun and I sprayed that pink car like it was Sonny Corleone.
I woke up the next morning and headed for some grocery shopping. I walked past Omar's car on the way to mine and I noticed a neon orange envelope delicately tucked under a wiper blade. It actually occurred to me that it was a note from an envious neighbor, complementing the stunning ride. I approached the car and really looked at it for the first time since washing it. The car was still covered in oily smudges and foam residue. I was oddly surprised by this and found myself considering anger. I plucked the envelope off the car and flipped it over;
In Violation Of: 16.20.130-D
Blocking Handicapped Ramp
Amount Due: $210.00
Make checks or money orders payable to the State of Oregon.
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