car washed

my car, the Grand Am my mum bought used knowing she would die and i would inherit, is a filthy sandlot mess. i tune up the engine. i change the oil. the brakes and tires are checked, but the interior, the inside shell of my menstrual red Pontiac, is bad news. it's banged up and bent, the ariel is twisted like a raw nerve, the ac is unable make up its hot or cold mind, the window on the driver's side can only be raised or lowered by a clothes line (my auto body pal said 'it's '300 bucks or a rope job'), dust furs the dash, the back seat is torn loose from it's moorings and crushed down to accommodate my piano, deflated Stop n Shop carry bags lie like discarded toilet paper on the back seat, the screw driver i use to pry open the lid on the gas tank peeks out from underneath a jump cable Putanesca, one of the fog lights is out of it's socket and rolls around like a fake eyeball and the whole interior stinks of garbage. 'don't you ever clean this wreck?' i'm asked. my excuse is the weather. if i wash it, it'll rain or snow, i'll lose the shine and the 15 bucks it cost t run it through. but today is cowboy clear and i've felt guilty long enough. i will drive to my favorite car wash in Brookline, pay the next-to-cheapest option, enjoy the ride-thru and tidy the fucker up. i'd rolled the passenger window down so i could get a breeze in the car and, as i pull in, i reach over to wind it back up and at the same time pay the dude collecting at the gate, a gay frenzy multi-task. he sprays her down, fish hooks the front end, the car lurches forward and off we go. i know that the window on the driver's side will leak so i yank the ropes taut like a champ and that's when it happens. that's when i'm hit in the side of the face by soap and spray. hot soap, hot spray. what th' fuck!? in closing the passenger window i'd actually opened it further, disappearing it down the slot. shit! piss! fuck! cunt! soapy goo frosts me like a money shot, a pearl neckless, a glue gun in the hands of the Terminator. i try to close the window, but, like the driver's side, it's off track. the harder i hernia to lift it, the more it refuses, the more water and suds froth in, the more i'm fighting a Waterloo. a pool of green slime collects on the passenger seat like a toxic pond and i lose it, breaking into cascades of laughter. the spray, the wet, the slime, the entire gizmo is masturbating all over me and i'm deliriously happy. next up, the wind tunnel: vaporizing hot air to blow dry the jizzum. i press against the remaining shard of window so that it won't come flying out of it's slit and slice me in the neck and then it's over. we're through the maze, my car and i, as we regurgitate out the ass-end of the colonic machinery all sparkly and smiling. i round the bend and park next to the vacuum hose so i can suck out the ugliness, but i realize that i must look ridiculous, like the clown who stuck his finger in the socket, hair like Bozo, a failed wet t-shirt contestant. i shake my head. i fire up the vacuum and give liposuction only to realize that the grand dames of Brookline are peering up at me with 50's disdain as they buff their Mercedes and Audi's all high and mighty about my gonzo appearance. of course i love this like the weirdo who crashed the debutante party high on methamphetamines.