by Jim Whitehouse
My car is a mess. It is coated with salty, dirty, yucky stuff. The windshield and back window are streaked. My wipers and washers are not doing a good job clearing the constant spray from the other vehicles on the expressway.
I glance down. The rubber mat under my feet is white with salt and full of bits of dirt and gravel.
Back in town, just a mile from my house, I pull into the gas station. I only need a few gallons of gas, but I desperately need the car wash. I’m very lucky—as I put my credit card in the gas pump and make my selection of 97 octane gas and a mid-priced car wash, I glance over at the car wash building. Nobody is in line. That’s very unusual this time of year.
I pump the gas and fill the tank. I look again. Still nobody in line.
Putting the nozzle back on the pump, I push the screen to ask for the receipt, which includes the code for the car wash robot.
Nothing comes out. The screen tells me the pump is out of paper, which is better than being out of gasoline. It kindly invites me to trudge across the sloppy parking lot, go inside, and ask for a paper receipt.
The person at the head of the line is buying lottery tickets. And a candy bar. It takes forever.
The next person is paying for gasoline but also buying cigarettes. “The red one. No, no-the one below it. Now, to your left,” she says to the clerk. Finally, the two come to agreement as to which pack of smokes to draw from a dazzling array of choices. It is a cash transaction, and the customer digs around in her purse to pull out the right number of bills, then dives back in to pull out the exact coins needed.
Finally, it is my turn.
“Pump 7—my receipt didn’t print at the pump,” I say.
“Here you go,” says the clerk, handing me a paper receipt.
Out I go, through the slushy mushy snow and ice mixed with bluish chemicals.
“Whatever happened to snow shovels?” I say to the air. The air doesn’t listen.
Back in my car, I start the engine and head over to the car wash. I’m 4th in line.
The guy in front is going to pay the robot but doesn’t know how to make his credit card work. He tries about six times before getting out of his pickup truck. The driver of the second car gets out too and helps the first guy to pay up.
I am occupying myself by glaring at the clock on my dashboard. The minutes go by. I sing, but my singing sounds more like tunelessly grumbled swear words, for a good reason– I’m a lousy singer and I’m tunelessly grumbling swear words. All three of the drivers in the vehicles in front of me opt to pull through the blowers at the end of the wash cycle at the slowest possible speed, to get their money’s worth.
Twenty-four minutes after I get in line, I get my turn, happy to watch the suds, the water, and the brushes clean up the outside of my car.
Back in my garage, I pop the hood and refill my nearly empty windshield washer reservoir. I pull the floor mat out and take it outside, rinsing it off under the hose faucet and adding another layer of ice to the sidewalk underneath.
I know what you are thinking, but you are wrong.
I still love winter.
