The works, I say to the calm-faced attendant, the one who with clear, short-handed motions and just a few words– put it in neutral, no foot on the brakes— gets me completely aligned.
It reminds me somehow of the way that vertebrae finally popped when I did yoga this morning.
The car moves forward on its own. The latte-skinned man in the grey muscle tee smiles at me– a beautiful smile– and blue-tooth in his ear, swipes his big brush over the worst of spring’s sticky leaf-grease on my car.
Soap, pink, green and yellow– the works, I suppose– spatter my windshield and windows as the track guides me forward without any hitch in the movement. No pausing, no jolts. The brushes whir, water sprays in multidirectional spurts, streams and splatters, probably all scientifically proven to get my car cleaner than the basic $7.99 package.
On the radio, some New Wave-y band’s singing some song I like with some lyrics half-poignant that I can never remember and today can’t bother to ache along to. I’m too mesmerized by the swirling of brushes and slide-slapping of blue-yellow felt banners circling the car– less like a blanket and more like some ring-around-the-rosy coven of blue felted fairies, the spray of extra-gloss coating some magic protection against further ills.
Or at least against pollen and road grease for up to a week.
When I was little, we used to go to the car wash and watch from this long-windowed alley, like it was an amusement attraction. I like the new-fangled way better. Inside the car, inside its calm shell as the blue-felted fairies dance after the works are accomplished, I feel like nothing might stick to me, either.