sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 222 — Explained

Recently I did something that all my life I swore I’d never do. Had been offered many chances to do it before but always gamely resisted, white-knuckling through any and all temptations like a champ. However, over the past few years I’ve found myself growing weaker of body and spirit and mind while the deadly-sweet melody of one particular siren’s song only grew louder and more seductive and last week I finally gave up and gave in. I know there are those who’ll think less of me because of it, people who’ll look askance at me when I walk into the room and whisper and hiss and snicker about me when I walk back out but, oh well. It is what it is. Or was what it was, I suppose. There’s no taking it back now and before rumors started to fly I figured I’d better get ahead of any scandal and admit it outright, admit that I’d gone over to the Dark Side and for the first time ever had my car professionally detailed rather than washing it by hand myself. I hope you were all sitting down.

See, for as long as I can remember I’ve been an anti-detail dude, just like the Oldsmobile Man, the original get-off-yer-lazy-butt-and-wash-yer-own-danged-car guy. He started me off washing our family cars when I was just a kid as part of earning my allowance and it was a big job for me to tackle but I never really minded it as far as my chores went. I’d typically pick a nice sunny day to do it and make it an event. Bring my Panasonic portable radio out to the garage, tune it to KSLG and listen to the scratchy-staticky AM sounds of the ‘70s as I hooked up the hose and fetched the bucket and the soap and the sponge and the bug-rag. Then I’d carefully back out whichever car was the dirtiest from the garage and do a quick check that all the windows were rolled up before cranking the spigot to full-blast for a good first rinse. I’d begin the hand wash after that, working from the roof down to the rockers, and a final rinse and bumper-to-bumper no-streak chamois wipe-down would complete the task. I’d always be tired afterwards, but would feel such a sense of satisfaction when I stepped back and squinted at all the gleam and shine and shimmer. Nothing like a job well done.

Well, that was all fine and dandy but when I bought my first car—my MGB—I was away at college and washing it wasn’t such an easy nor enjoyable proposition. I lived in the dorm at the time and there was no way to hook up a hose so I had to motor over to the local Suds ’n Sidewalls, a touchless spray-only joint out by the four-lane. I’d bring along a baggie full of quarters and feed three dollars of them into the wall-mounted vending machine which in turn would kick in a rattly compressor alongside the building and start the five-minute countdown clock. I’d rush around the ‘B trying to get the biggest bang for my flat-broke college buck but five minutes was never enough, certainly not if I wanted to go through all three cycles—rinse, wash, rinse—and that would mean more quarters. Not exactly the best experience. Sigh.

Things got better my sophomore year when I moved into the fraternity, but not by much. I could use the hose attached to the house but whenever the skies were clear the line of Delta brethren waiting to wash their cars was forever long, so I’d usually just go back to Suds ’n Sidewalls or maybe take a slow putt down sorority row on the chance that all the new perky pledges would be outside in their short-shorts and bikini-tops and flip-flops putting on a car wash to raise money for the local homeless shelter. Or animal shelter. Or food bank. Or thrift store. In the midst of all the wiggling and jiggling and giggling I was never able to remember which. Ahem.

As I look back, I think the best car-washing experiences I ever had were after I’d moved to California in ’87. My apartment in San Pedro was a tidy mid-century hillside two bed/two bath with an underground garage and a wash bay tucked in the far corner of the rear parking lot. The spot had a panoramic view of Long Beach Harbor and the Vincent Thomas Bridge and offered all the sights and sounds and smells of a storybook seaside setting, a true oasis in the midst of the LA madness. It was there I began to enjoy washing my car again. It relaxed me. Centered me. Grounded me.

But that was then and this is now and my interest in car washing has started to wane, mostly because I’ve started to wane. I’ve got a hitch in my get-along I never had before and my various creaks and squeaks have begun cracking and popping. I can’t bend over for long lest my sciatica starts to act up and I can’t squat or kneel like I used to either. Have to take my time on the way down and on the way back up my left knee sometimes plays catch-and-release with me. So this last week when the Audi was desperately in need of a wash, I went ahead and did it—broke down and made the call to a local mobile detailing service recommended to me by a buddy, and a pleasant-sounding guy named Dallas picked up. Told him my name and that I had a 2012 TT that was a pig, inside and out, and needed a good going-over.

He chuckled softly and told me he’d be more than happy to help. Said he could get to it the following Monday morning at eight if that was cool with me and that the service would include a full interior and exterior cleaning and would take about four hours and would cost…

Oof. Gut punch. It was a heckuva lot of money to spend just for a silly car wash, but the ever-wise and immortal words of Dirty Harry Callahan immediately came to mind.

“A man’s got to know his limitations.”

So I punched the button. Gave Dallas my address and said I’d see him Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp and that’s exactly when I did. I’d just backed the Audi into the middle of the driveway when he pulled up in an unmarked, tricked-to-the-max Toyota 4Runner. A choice ride. Black-on-black and even more black after that. Meaty treads on all four corners and one more strapped to the roof rack. A winch on the front and a hitch on the back with all sorts of other outdoorsy gee-gaws and doo-dads tacked on here and there.

He parked curbside and hopped out. Was younger than I’d expected, early twenties I’d say, with closely cropped blonde hair and bright blue eyes and an athletic build, neatly dressed in spotless white shop overalls that complemented a pair of sporty black slip-on galoshes. After a brief introduction and review of requested services I shook his hand and pointed him to the Audi.

Four and a half hours later I heard a soft knock at my kitchen door—Dallas, wanting me to know he’d finished. He asked me to come out and check his work before he packed up so I hustled out onto the drive and there it was. The TT. Looking better than it had in years, maybe even better than when I first bought it. I climbed in. No trace of that mocha stain on the driver’s seat anymore. No more unidentified goo smeared on the passenger-side floor mat either. There was even a faint revival of that ever-pleasing New Car Smell. Ahhh.

I climbed back out. Thanked Dallas for the work. Told him it looked great. He pulled out his charge machine and I pulled out my card and we settled up. Then he asked if I wanted to schedule another appointment. Told me he usually recommended a maintenance detail every four weeks or so.

I paused a moment. Took notice of how sweaty and dirty and grimy and greasy and exhausted he looked compared to when he first arrived and it struck me that that was how sweaty and dirty and grimy and greasy and exhausted I’d be looking (if not more so) if I’d have done the job myself. I chuckled like the old man I’ve evidently become then gave him a grin.

“See you in a month, Dallas.”

Peaceful travels…

sludgo