There I was, windshield smeared with bug guts and the remnants of whatever unholy snack my kid dropped last week. I pull up to the car wash, unsuspecting, unarmed, just a regular civilian trying to redeem my dignity with a $12 wash and the vague hope my car will no longer smell like chicken nuggets and despair.
Enter The Guy..... You know the one.......the self-appointed "Commander" of the Foam Fleet. Dressed in reflective neon like a disco traffic cone and armed with nothing but windmill arms and attitude.
As I slowly inch forward, he spots me, eyes squinting, sizing me up like I’m a rogue F-14 Tomcat trying to land on a storm-tossed aircraft carrier.
He’s suddenly all motion.
Flapping. Pointing.
Doing that weird poof with his lips like “Bro, are you even licensed to operate this Car?”
I’m angled slightly left, which to him must be the equivalent of declaring a state of national emergency.
“More to the right!”
“STRAIGHT!”
“More RIGHT!”
Which one is it, Maverick?! I’m not trying to parallel park into the gates of heaven, I’m entering a damn car wash.
He starts flailing like a majestic bird who just realized he’s in a Walmart parking lot. Arms windmilling with the raw intensity of a man who watched Top Gun too many times and thinks foam brushes are aviation-grade turbines.
I swear I saw him whisper, “I got this,” like he was calming a jet mid-crash.
Then.......tragedy, he throws his arms up in dramatic disbelief.
Like, I just insulted his mother.
Or drove over a sacred line invisible to all mortals except him.
He signals frantically. I lowered my window just enough to catch the booming voice of his judgment.
“You want an air freshener?”
Sir.
You looked like you were about to issue a Code Red, and we’re pausing for fragrance selection?
I mutter “Yes” (because my car smells like something died in a fruit roll-up factory), and he THRUSTS a little green tree at me like it’s a Medal of Honor.
Then....(THEN)........As the machine starts pulling my car forward, he panics.
“WINDOW UP! WINDOW UP!”
Now I’m scrambling, rolling up the window as water blasts against the glass, and I’m half-holding the air freshener like a wet dog trophy.
Did I survive a battlefield or get a car wash?
I don’t know.
All I know is that man took me on a journey.
He flapped, he judged, he panicked, and he air-freshened, and somewhere in a world where bubbles meet bravery,
Top Gun (Car Wash Edition lives on), starring the hero we never asked for, but who won’t let your alignment ruin his runway.
Godspeed, Bubble Commander.
You’ve earned your wings.
Add comment
Comments