The Car Wash: A true horror story

I suppose I could use the excuse of having been born blonde though it’s not much of an excuse since I haven’t been a natural blonde for 20 years.

Since there is no excuse for the horror that took place, I’ll just have to admit that this story is where a new blog was born.

I innocently went to get gas one day.

I succumbed to the tantalizing offer of a carwash for a discounted $10. My car was even dirtier than usual and figured I’d give it a gift. Finished filling the spry little Toyota RAV4 with gas, I cruise along into the car-washing cubby.

I pull in carefully. I feel my tires move onto the…tire-holding…clamp-thingy. The light was still green so I think I must not be seated properly. It’s happened before. An improperly seated-seat can cause trouble you wish you hadn’t signed up for. So, I move up, just a little, to where I’m feeling comfortable.

The red light flashes and I brace for impact.

The car-washing Decepticon starts, its violent machinations octopussing its vinyl tentacles up to my car, spitting and grinding giant pipe cleaners towards the sides. I locked my doors because it still makes me nervous.

In the review mirror, I watch, it’s coming, inching up behind me, creeping, taunting me…and it’s…going back! It’s going all the way back. It’s washing the hell out of the air behind me. I sit there for a full five minutes, watching through my review mirrors, as the angry carwash robot vigorously washes the area where my car is supposed to be.     

It finally stops, little spurts of water dripping out of it spent. A light turns green, a violent siren blares, and the sign is telling me, quite unforgivingly, to move forward into the air dryer. Which I sheepishly do. Confused, I sit under the dryer for about 15 seconds before I realized how stupid it is to dry an already dry yet still dirty car.

Pulling out slowly, praying no one sees me do this, I notice there is a guy watching me. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or laughing or just concerned. He and I make eye contact until I panic, peeling out long seconds, violently speeding in the wrong direction, dying to get the Hell out of there.

After driving North for about 10 miles at about 85 mph (even though I was headed South), I’m wiping tears from my eyes from the laughter I can’t control, dust flying from my side panels. I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to move to a new city and establish a new identity. In time, my family would find a way to forgive me.

I know it’s been said that women are terrible drivers. I’ve always thought of myself as the exception, but after paying ten dollars to watch sprinklers wash the inside of a garage while I sat, dry and helpless, makes me think: I’m more of the rule.

Eventually, I did return home but kept my misstep to myself for about 20 minutes. It proved too much to keep inside.

20 minutes later, the No Toast Zone was born.

True, awkward, and truly awkward=The No Toast Zone.