According to the thermometer  that was conveniently placed in my dash by a thoughtful dash-designer at Toyota, the temperature outside is 35 degrees. Borderline freezing, but just enough that I may be able to sneak an automated car wash in before going to work. The question is where? And with a snow storm coming in three days (according to the woman in the tight suit coat on the weather channel) should I even bother?

Here is why I would consider washing my car before the next snow arrives:

A) Obligation to my gender. This has gotten me in trouble before but there are two types of men: those who wash their car every time they should and those who live in trailer parks and think fishing is better than sex.

B) Salt eats away at your car faster than a ten year old student loan coming out of forbearance eats at your wallet. Salt may not upset you as much, but the student loan will eventually go away. Rust never sleeps. It may nap like a widowed grandmother in Church during a heat wave in late August, but it never sleeps.  

C) I’m flat out lazy and want to spend Saturday afternoon watching westerns on cable while eating ranch dip with taco chips.

The decision to wash has been made. Since I know every inch of the main drag in town, it is now a case of choosing between two car washes. At Car Wash A they will give you an eight dollar car wash for six dollars with an eight gallon fill up.

This sounds good, but going to that car wash means a  lengthy left turn across four lanes of oncoming traffic. And I don’t really need 8 gallons of gas yet. I have four perfectly good gallons left in my tank.

This means I have to take a second look at the new place across the street from Car Wash A. As I approach them I see that there is a bit of activity out front. It looks like a bunch of kids are hanging out. I look up for a sign to see how much a car wash is going to cost and to my surprise, the regular car wash has been replaced. There is a new exterior to the once decayed regular building I knew so well. This new building is bright and colorful and, for some inexplicable reason, I want to go in there.

This new car wash is no longer offering just a wash and wax, they are now, according to the bright pink and blue sign out front,  an EXTREME CAR WASH.

And for this they only want eighteen dollars. Intrigued by the prospect, as well as the site of tattooed twenty three year olds of both genders wearing tank tops and shorts while holding signs pleading for me to visit, I decide to make the right turn into this exciting new place.

Since I am going to be encountering younger people in a public place I immediately turn my winter baseball cap backwards on my head and take my Eagles CD out of the player.  Without thinking (I have done this before), I drop in some P Diddy (the one where he plays Led Zeppelin) and turn it up real loud.

As I approach the pay booth, the EXTREME CAR WASH has it’s own music blaring. I decide to turn down my rap session and take in what I am hearing Over crunchingly-thick speed metal guitars on top of a drummer going at 128 beats per second, the singer seems to be screaming/conveying his displeasure with everything around him. He tells me that he would be a lot better served if a select group of people would die. He calls this select group “everyone”.

I completely understand his frustration. I was once 33 and very rich myself. It only makes sense that he would scream about disenfranchisement when MTV no longer actually plays music. If I was fifteen, I would want this singer as my best friend.

The girl in the booth opens the glass to take my twenty dollar bill. Her hair is sticking every direction possible and as far as I can see, at least three different colors. I can’t help but think that I would do the exact same thing to my hair if I didn’t have this crewcut with a landing strip down the middle. Thank fully I have the balding old man’s compensation for a crewcut, a Van Dyke beard.

As she hands back two dollars and a can of Mountain Dew, she barley utters “Enjoy yourself old dude”. Than, with just a hint of a smile she points at ramp behind her.

Her smile says one thing and one thing only. She knows I could show her a good time. And that good time would include dinner at Red Lobster and eight full hours of sleep afterwards.

Considering I just paid eighteen dollars for an EXTREME CAR WASH I have to say I expected a little more than the ramp that lays before me. Next to the ramp is a young man with a jeans jacket on and a long chain connecting his belt loop to his back pocket. His lip holds six earrings in it and I can only assume he was really drunk when he moved them from his ear to his lip. He waves me up and with a series of hand gestures signals forward and hold, forward and hold. Each time he checks the ground below him for a brace that will lock my tire onto a chain which will drag me into the chamber before me.

He makes a rolling motion with his hand for me to open my window. “Place it in neutral dude. This is going to be a trip. Relax and enjoy the Dew dude, now go”.

I look in front of me and all I see are the same rubber mats hanging from a massive iron rod. This is exactly what the old car wash used to have. The feeling of possibly having been fleeced begins to rise in my heart. As the chains drag me forward, the kid yells out “Roll up your window old dude”. As I begin to see the soap between the rubber curtains, I do as he asks.

And than it starts, my EXTREME CAR WASH. As my car begins to disappear behind the rubber curtains,  seven young, incredibly muscular guys, (I think they are guys) show up out of no where. Each is holding a massive plastic super soaker , wearing a thong bathing suit and with no warning they begin to go to town. They deluge my Toyota with a massive spurts of soapy water as they pump furiously at their big platic guns. Each one of their pumps dropping a flood of soap and water on my car.  I feel like a drunk nineteen year old girl in St. Lauderdale at Spring Break! Unlike her I will remember this tomorrow. As soon as the car is covered in soap and water they run behind a curtain. The guilt of a possible homo-erotic experience begins to replace the fear of having been fleeced.

My heart begins to race! The chain holding my two front tires drags my car willingly to the next round.

From no where I hear screams. Cries of  “Kowabunga”, “Let’s Roll” and “No Rules” dominate what I hear. I notice long chutes hanging down each side of the car wash. The chutes open into ramps. And as the cries get louder I see what must be thirty young people  flying down, each one on a snow board. Some are boys, some are girls. Most are wearing ripped jeans or army pants hanging past the bottom of their bottom. A few others are wearing brightly colored plastic ski suits with yellow-lensed goggles.

As they begin to fly across the roof of my car I instinctively duck . To my amazement, each one of their snow boards has a fluffy J C Penny bath-sized towel strapped to the bottom of their board. They ride over the top of my car with the deft skill of the man who cut the razor-thin roast beef at my company’s last banquet. 

The skill of these boarders is amazing. Not once do they dent my roof. As several of them slide past each side of my car, a few turn sideways, defying gravity as they wipe the salt from around my tire wells and off of the sides of my four door. One or two manage to throw in a complete 360 for my amusement. One stops, pops his board into his arms and gives me a thumbs up. I feel as if I am becoming one of them. If only I could fly like they do I would know what real freedom meant. 

Like so many of the reality shows I see on MTV, there are a few midgets hanging around. Only these short people are much more than jokes or attachments to a rapper’s ego. They are clearly athletes.

As the snow boarders leave the midgets run out and do cartwheels as they attack each one of my tires. Some do back flips and than jump right back into the tire. Each one attired in the same high class outfits that the snow boarders wore as they flew over and along my car.

I can feel the rubber begin to glow as they tumble past each tire, effortlessly wiping a week’s accumulation of grime and dirt. Like a synchronized swimming team, these short people move in harmony. Each with a specific task at hand. When done, they  pull away from the tire they are responsible for and stand in unison. Each flipping me the bird just like my fourteen year old son did the last time I asked him to mow the lawn. Unlike him, they than bow as a gesture of respect.

The only thing left for the EXTREME CAR WASH to do is to apply the wax and dry the car off. I can’t possibly imagine what they are going to do to top what I have just seen.

And than it happens. Six of the most scantily clad men and women allowable by public law in the state of Maryland stand before me. Each one is of a different race, it is like a living fashion ad. On one end stands a young man who’s stomach is so flat and developed that it could serve as a cutting board for a professional chef. He has a tattoo of an eagle across his chest. One claw is holding thirteen arrows, the other is holding what I believe to be thirteen marijuana cigarettes. He is wearing a loin cloth and looking me straight in the eyes. I think I once saw this man in a perfume ad inside an issue of W that I picked up while waiting for my wife at Barnes and Noble.

On the other end is a young woman who has what appears to be the identical tattoo across her chest, only the eagle’s talons are obscured by what I think are postage stamps held in place by thin silk threads. . Between these two are four other young people with colored hair, tattoos and barely anything on. They stare at me straight in the eyes. Puritanical shame makes me want to hide from their purposeful glare, but I can’t bring my self to look away. They are beautiful.

Without a word, they begin to rub my car. Their bodies move and writhe in the same direction as each pass they make over the car. Each of their hands holds a shammy cloth. I am not sure but these could be the very same ShamWow magic towells that I have seen advertised on TV lately.

Slowly and with maximum effort for each stroke, each of the six  move across my car’s hood and on to my windshield. Not one of them takes their eyes off of me. A young oriental woman takes her wet cloth, leans back and begins to squeeze it so the water rolls down her chest. The Latino man to her left than takes his ShamWow and begins to dry her. I am a little upset that he is paying so much attention to her, after all this is my car wash, but I am transfixed at their professionalism. I begin to find my self wondering if one of them would like an entry level position in my company’s mailroom. Preferably the young girl with the full tattoo of a Japanese toy robot on her back.

In a twinkling they are gone and the memory of their groans as they moved across the roof of my car is a memory that will serve me well later that evening.

I see daylight ahead of me and I realize that I have completely forgotten about my complementary Mountain Dew. Slowly I pull it to my lips and begin to drink. The rubber mats blocking my entrance back into the real world are opening in front of me of me. I find myself with a burning desire to drink the entire can of Mountain Dew non-stop but I am not sure if I have an extra Prilosec. The one I do have I need for lunch in case I eat a tuna on rye.

As the curtain opens and the flood of bright daylight fills my eyes I drag the last drops of my Dew from the can. I feel like I would like to open my door and jump out of the car, maybe even do a kick in the air. But I notice a tip jar and if I open the door I am compelled by social grace to put something in it.  I really need the two dollars in change for a snack at my ten fifteen break.

And so my EXTEME CAR WASH ends. Daylight surrounds me and my car truly shines. They did a terrific job. My car glows.

Will I do an EXTREME CAR WASH again? Possibly. I did find the energy of the young people exhilarating, but I do believe they skipped on the wax portion of the wash. This leaves me a bit concerned and I briefly consider stopping my car and asking to speak to the manager. I might be able to get a partial refund. But I notice that the right turn lane on York Road is open and figure they can just apply what they missed to the tip jar.

I need to get back to work. And the Mountain Dew has made me feel bloated. If there is an EXTREME CAR WASH in your town I can only say that it is something you may want to try out once. However, I think next time I will wait until I need eight gallons and go for the savings of the regular six dollar wash at Car Wash A.