Since the dawn of history people have performed rituals of cleansing and purification involving water. Just about every religion has some form of ceremonial immersion.The ancient Romans had their grand public baths, and regarded dirt as a mark of barbarism.And here in America we have the car wash.
I am old enough to remember when suburban husbands were expected and required to spend every summer Saturday morning in the driveway, washing their sacred vehicles by hand with sponge and detergent, and finishing off with a hose and leather.
But civilization has moved on, and we don't clean our cars the way we used to. My own weekly ritual declined to an occasional spray with the hose, and later to nothing at all. Usually I just wait for a rain storm to do the job. The same seems to be true of our neighbors. They found better things to do with their Saturday mornings.
But still the family car, or family fleet of cars, is a large and visible symbol of suburban respectability. A really dirty car is an embarrassment. So every spring, almost without fail, I go to a local car wash. Some offer incentives like "Brushless," "Touchless" and "Fully Automatic." But at the end of winter my car needs brushing and touching in a very vigorous way, and "Fully automatic" sounds dangerous.
So I chose a place where young men were visibly wielding cloths in the forecourt, cleaning the old-fashioned way. But that was only the final stage of the process. First came the machine cleaning. If you don't have the car wash habit, the menu of choices in these places can be bewildering. As your car moves inexorably up the line you have only seconds to decide between such exotic and mysterious offerings as SilverWash, GoldWash, the Platinum Wash with soda and large fries, hand wax, weather shield, wheel trim, tire dressing and, most decadent of all, the Full Titanium service that seems to include just about everything except capping your teeth.
This time around I chose the Gold Wash and Wax, which seemed like a bargain at $22.99. It included cleaning the underside, a part of the car which I had never considered cleaning before. This would be quite a challenge, requiring an exceptionally thin and athletic operative.
Before I fully realized it, my car had been sucked into the cleaning machine. There was a glass-walled walkway, so that I could watch its progress: first a foam bath, then great octopus arms flailing from the roof; then through arches of flashing lights saying things like "Rust Inhibitor Being Applied" (a bit late for that) and "Body Luster Being Applied."
The old Honda emerged gleaming and almost beautiful, apart from some strips of decorative plastic that had been ripped off by the giant octopus. At the cash desk I got a card, to be stamped each time I indulged in a car wash at this establishment. Nine stamps would add up to a free wash. I hadn't the heart to tell them that this was a rare event for me, and I won’t be able to claim my free wash until about 2025. By that time, certainly, both the car and its owner will be more than ready for the Full Titanium Service.
Copyright: David Bouchier
