At the Shell gas station

I am sitting in the front seat, leaning forward as my skin soaks in the sunlight bouncing off the windshield. I am experiencing feelings of nostalgia. I have always enjoyed being a passenger. Driving about, Jake and I are running errands, our final goal being a carwash. I am presently quivering with anticipation, for it has been a long time since I had rode through one of those automatic, coin-operated, conveyor belt washes. I can only remember the experience was like being trapped in an aquarium, except all the water was on the outside. I am determined not to forget a second time what it means to be in a carwash.

I am sitting quite impatiently, with my hands tucked under my thighs. All I want is see the inside of the car wash. Jake is pulling up to the pay-machine and he slips in seven single dollar bills. He is wanting to get quarters and so he slips in the extra dollar bill. The carwash is only six dollars. The pay-machine is spitting out too many quarters. Jake and I are staring in shock. We are in awe. Jake pulls two handfuls of quarters out of the change tub. I am counting the change by picking the quarters up for at a time into my left hand. I count six dollars and my hands are gritty from the dirt gathered to the silver money. The car wash is only costing Jake one dollar.

            A harshly feminine computer animated voice from the pay-machine is yelling instructions at us, “Shift car into neutral! Do not steer the wheel; let the conveyor belt guide your car through the wash! Press the Start button! Roll up your window! Press the Start button!”

            Jake is yelling at the machine lady to shut up. I am resting back in my seat, waiting for the memory to come back to me through my present experience. I am allowing the machines in front of me to drown out the argument now being had with Jake and the pay-machine girl. We begin forward.

Blue soap is spitting at us. The car is floating through the carwash like a ghost. My vision is obscured by the soap. Giant buffers are rubbing against the sides and windshield of the car. I am feeling much like one who is stuck in an aquarium with the water on the outside. Large tentacles that look much like old t-shirts cut into browned strips, are swashing about the windshield in a fury. Everything is slipping smoothly over the surface of the chrome vehicle and we firmly press on.

I am wondering who it was that invented the conveyor belt car wash. It must have been simple I am not so sure I believe it is necessary. I am comparing a different memory in which I am hand washing the car with my father and the process is longer and more effective. I am swiping a soft, pillow white terry cloth in circles on the windows. I am calm because I am working diligently without thinking. My brain is shifted out of focus.

With Jake, the car now removes itself from the conveyor belt, not much cleaner than it was on entrance. I decide that I will never need to drive through a car wash again. Jake is wanting to come back, he is wishing for more change from the pay machine. I however am only glad to find peace in remembering. We are pulling down the road again and I am happy to be a passenger today.