I've discovered the one thing that turns me into a rabid screaming psycho nut.
--
In a hurry to clean the MR2 for pavillions car show.
Figured I'd just do one of those quick drive-thru automatic car washes.
Never done one of these in this car before, but not too worried. Maybe a drip of water or two could leak through the t-tops, right? No big deal.
The operator hands me a Vanilla scent tree, ensures that I leave the car in neutral and roll up my window. I do both. He pats my roof and signals to another worker, who hits a switch.
The hungry car wash machine thunks and groans, inching me and the MR2 into its throat.
'Everything's gonna be okay', I tell the dash, petting it.
The first section of pressure water hits me-- right in the face. I gasp at the sudden cold, wiping my cheek in disbelief. What the?
I peek up and discover there’s a good inch of space from the top of the window glass and the surrounding rubber seal- which has apparently rotted away with age. So it's like my windows aren't even closed.
Ohhh no.
Can they stop this thing? Please stop it. Oh God. But it’s too late. No one cares.
A freezing tidal wave of soapy slush sprays me in the face. Pumping, throbbing, heartless waves of slimy soap, wax, and dirt come pouring into the windows and above my head through the t-tops on both sides.
Panicking, I take off my shirt and shove it into the top of the driver's side window, trying to muffle some of the onslaught.
It's no use. The shirt soaks through in seconds. More soapy hell pours down the windows, onto my head, onto the seats, invading the carpets and raping every innocent electronic bit.
I spit soap from my mouth and frantically wipe my hands over the dash and door electronics, trying to prevent the water from flooding them.
The heavy bristles slap and fwomp all over my car, ripping apart my aged exterior plastics. I hear bits of trim tear and snap.
I can't see, I'm soaked and freezing. I’ve resorted to yelling and sputtering.
Then the high-pressure spray attacks the car. I scream a wall of obscenities, rubbing soap out of my eyes.
“GAH I I hate you! I hate y-“
PFFFFSSSHHH!!! The machine shuts me up, forcing more water into my face again, harder and colder.
I paid $12 for this. I gave someone $12 to ruin my life.
I’m helpless. Hopeless. I’ve failed my poor MR2.
I slump into my seat, which is now like an overfed sponge.
Waiting for the end. I'm not even trying to fight it anymore. Doomed. Ruined. Letting the cold water spray all over me, the dash, everything.
A tornado of cold air blasts me in conclusion. A final 'fuck you', then the machine coughs up what remains of me and the MR2.
A little green light blinks and waves Thank you, Come Again!
That did it. I exploded into the biggest Italian rage in history.
I bring the MR2 over to the self-service vacuums. Open the door, scream at everything, completely drenched. My shoes slop and slush water with each step. It looks like I just took a shower in my clothes.
Not an employee in sight. They all scattered.
It looks like my car is crying from the inside out. My quarter window plastics are dangling from one corner. The trim around the back window has been pulled out and bent upward. The front bumper's indicator lights have been pulled out and dangle from their electrical cords.
I cursed every single thing I could think of- from each blade of grass, to the sky, to the sidewalk, that stupid bird in the tree, the vacuum hose - everything in existence all in one slobbering string of incoherent fucks and shits.
I wring out my shirt and wipe out what I can, still yelling fucks and shits, then use the pressurized air all over my interior. But it’s useless. My seats and carpet squish with soapy stinkwater.
Still screaming out the window at everything and everyone, I punch the gas and burn rubber out of the lot, as the MR2 vomits water through the door sills.
I'm so sorry MR2. I'll never, ever do this to you again.
(Now I'm dried off, and the car is basking in the sun, drying off as well. See you at pavillions car show!)
