I live on a dirt road.
In three seasons it is, more or less, mud, and in the fourth season it is dust. It is altogether a thankless and unrewarding task to wash the car.
Yesterday I set out at eleven o'clock in the morning, thrilling to the sun sparkles on the snow. The dirt road was frozen and preceding drivers' tires had worn down and evaporated the slush and snow on the surfaced roads so they appeared to be mostly dry. It struck me as a Car Washing Day.
I had ten quarters, two more than the DIY car wash requires to start the pressure washer. I turned down the little village lane to the car wash. Two of the four bay doors were open and both occupied and another driver and I waited for a free spot. After ten minutes or so, a bright clean blue minivan reversed out of one of the bays, and I moved to the head of the line that grew behind me.
A little silver car pulled in to the parking lot and drove right up to one of the closed bays. The driver got out and threw up the overhead door. "How enterprising," I thought. "Why didn't one of us think to do that?"
But he didn't go in; he moved on to the change machine.
The man in the car behind me got out and I watched him ask if the silver car man would be using that bay. He turned around and addressed me in pantomime: Go ahead and use that one.
I mimed back, "That guy isn't going to use it?"
He shrugged and threw his thumb over his shoulder.
I shrugged, tipped my head and flipped my eyebrows and drove into the newly opened bay.
The silver car man must have been the proprietor.
After you clean your car, you drive carefully. You stay far away from those dirty cars that pass you inviting you to eat their dust. You avoid puddles. You go on your way, to the library, to the supermarket. You get back home and the car looks just like it did when you left the house.
It's new dirt.
I guess that's an improvement.
Gon Out. . . Bisy . . .Backson . . .
15 hours ago