At the Car Wash
One cool spring morning while waiting for my car to be washed, I loiter on the porch of the carwash and play a little game to pass the time. I’m trying to guess which of the waiting drivers go with the cars that were being toweled off by the crew out on the lot. There are maybe a half-dozen cars and trucks being rubbed down and polished, and I’m matching them up with the half-dozen or so people standing or sitting around, impatiently waiting to go. I hit right on the first two—Tahoe for a forty-something housewife with a kid in a soccer uniform; dark green Mustang for a muscular frat-boy-type in running shorts and a sleeveless shirt. I am encouraged by my score thus far, but one stumps me. It’s a full-sized Escalade, bright blue and fully fitted out with luggage racks and brush guards. I cannot determine who might be driving it. Candidates include a swarthy older fellow in jeans and a sweatshirt, a skinny thirty-something woman in shorts and a bright tee-shirt with a huge diamond on her ring finger, and a heavy-set younger man in a sports coat over jeans. As usual, no one is paying attention to anyone else, and all seem bored as they watch the worker drying and polishing the vehicles in front of them.
As I study the problem, my attention is arrested by a young girl—looks to be in her late teens or early twenties. Although not especially pretty, she is fresh-faced and bright looking. Wearing designer overalls and bright pink flip-flops, she sports a line of precious stone earrings and has a small flower tattooed on her neck. Fingers and toes testify to expensive salon work. She also wears an earbud attached to her telephone that she has clipped to the overalls bib. Her Yorkshire terrier is on a retractable lead and is running around the chair where she sits as she stares idly at the workers. I matched her with a red Toyota convertible, the only car on the lot that seems to fit her.
The door opens and a large but nicely proportioned, middle-aged Hispanic woman in a tailored suit and high-heeled gray suede sandals emerges, donning oversized but fashionable sunglasses against the glare. Her hair is nicely styled, and she wears just a shade too much makeup, has a tasteful manicure and modest jewelry. I figure her for the Prius. She looks for a vacant chair, but none is available, and no one rises to offer one. She pulls an open packet of chewing gum out of her oversized handbag. The girl looks around and smiles at her.
“Could I borrow a piece of that gum?”
The woman glances at a gumball machine in the corner of the porch. “Of course,” she says, extending the pack. There’s only one stick of gum left in it. “It’s cinnamon.”
“That’s okay,” the girl replies, unwrapping the gum. “I just took some sinus medicine. Made my mouth taste funny.” She notices the gumball machine and offers, without apology, “I left my change in the car.”
The woman seems relieved. “It’s okay. I didn’t need it, anyway.” She inspects the cars on the lot. “It’s a beautiful day!”
The girl turns away, and she’s instantly distracted by the dog, which starts running in circles, stretching out the retractable lead. “Yeah. I totally hate doing this,” she says, “but my husband makes me.” She turns again to the woman. “Says it gets me out of the house.” She turns around toward the lot, her head suddenly bobs with the beat of the music in her ear, her mouth smacks the gum. She ignores the dog, which has now wrapped the leash in the chair’s legs. “He says I don’t have enough to do,” she adds.
The woman steps slightly away, speaks generally to everyone. “I like a clean car. Makes a good impression.” She frowns, lowers her tone. “I hope they don’t put that sweet smell in it, this time.” She raises her voice so the workers nearest her can hear. “I told them not to. But sometimes they do it anyway.” She looks around for affirmation. The woman with the ring smiles grimly, the man in the sports coat nods, the swarthy man looks away. I nod. The workers ignore her.
“Yeah,” the girl says. “Don’t you just hate that?” She notices the dog is helplessly entangled, works to free it.
A worker starts waving a towel beside a Lexus, and the man in the sports coat moves off, nearly stepping on the dog, which runs under his feet.
“Pookie!” the girl scolds the dog, which ignores her and races around the man’s feet. He skips, regains his balance and moves on in a hurry. The girl jerks the dog back.
The woman looks at me, then glances down at the dog. “They shouldn’t allow that,” she says softly. I nod. She sighs loudly, looks down at her feet and picks each one up in turn, gingerly, as if they hurt. “I hope they hurry.”
“They work pretty fast here,” the girl says, her head bobbing vigorously, gum snapping. “I come in once a week, rain or shine. My husband says I have to.”
“Well, I hope they hurry today.” She consults her watch. “I have an appointment.”
“I don’t,” the girl says. “I never have anything to do.” The dog entangles himself in the chair legs again. “Pookie!” she exclaims, jerking him hard by the lead and then grabbing him up into her lap. “He is so much trouble! But he totally loves to come with me. Every time we get ready to go somewhere, he’s waiting at the door.” She looks around as if for approval. “He seriously loves to go for rides.” She puts him down, and he immediately goes over to the woman, who reaches down to pet him, but he flinches from her hand and backs under the girl’s chair.
“I do like dogs,” the woman says, standing erect again. She looks at me. “In their place.”
“Me, too!” the girl says, feeding out more leash. “That’s why we got him. We can take him anyplace! Even to the movies.”
The woman looks at me again, surprised, then at the girl. “You take a dog to the movies?” She stares at Pookie. “They allow that?”
“Sure!” She turns and looks at the woman. “Just smuggle him in.” She pulls Pookie back into her lap. “He’s very small. He’s also very good.” She ruffles Pookie’s fur. “Aren’t you?”
“I see,” the woman says. She glances at me again when the girl turns back to look at the lot. She shakes her head slightly, disapproving.
“My husband wanted another big dog,” the girl says, “but I didn’t.” She puts Pookie down, and he’s quickly entangled again. “Pookie! Behave! I told him if we were seriously going to take him with us everywhere we went, I absolutely wanted a little dog.” She picks Pookie up once more, gives him a quick pet, then puts him down again. “I don’t like big dogs.”
“We have a—” the woman starts.
“He had one of those wymerangle dogs,” the girl says, smacking her gum.
“Wymerangle?”
“Yeah. Wymerangles. Big dog. Ran around all over the place. Dug up the flower beds. Chewed up everything.” Pookie is running in circles, approaching the woman’s feet again, sniffing. “Big dog.”
The woman watches Pookie, but also glances at her watch. “I see.
“I made him get rid of him. Chewed up my panties, and that was absolutely that!” She shakes her head definitively. “I totally won’t put up with that.”
“No,” the woman, clearly embarrassed, says softly, “I guess not.”
“I don’t like big dogs,” the girl goes on, now staring at the lot. “And panties cost a lot of money.” She nods in affirmation, then looks at the woman almost accusingly, then turns away. “At least the kind I wear do.” The woman glances at me apologetically, then at the swarthy man. He smiles nervously and glances at the woman with the ring who frowns and looks away. The girl sniffs and settles back in her chair. “I buy them at Chez Marie’s, a boutique down in Preston Center, and they’re imported silk, and they just cost too much to have a dog chew them up.”
The woman isn’t sure what to say. She looks around, embarrassed. Then she looks down at Pookie, who is sniffing her stockinged toes.
“He wanted one of those little wiener dogs, you know,” the girl continues, glancing around at the woman to ensure that she’s listening. She’s staring at Pookie, who is now intensely sniffing her feet.
“A dachshund?” I offer, trying to distract her so the woman can move away.
“Yeah.” She glares at me, runs her eyes up and down my form, then shrugs dismissively. “A wiener dog. One of the little ones.” She turns around again, settles back. “They’re so cute, but I didn’t want one. They get stomach problems.” She idly jerks the lead. “So we got Pookie. He’s cute, and he doesn’t chew.” She turns again and looks at me. “I can do his hair.” She twists her fingers in pantomime. “You know, braid it and stuff.” She stares at her own brightly painted toenails. “Sometimes, I do his nails.” She sits back and raises a foot, admiring her pedicure.
Pookie sits back, then turns, hikes a leg and urinates all over the woman’s shoe. For a beat, she stares, disbelieving, then she jerks her foot away, grabs the side of a table to steady herself, but she nearly loses her balance and puts her foot back down into the puddle. She glares helplessly down at the dog, the pooling urine beneath her shoe, soaking into the suede. Her mouth is open in shock. “Uh . . .” She looks at me, then at the woman with the ring and the swarthy man. “Did you see that?” She looks at her foot again. “Did anybody see that?” Everyone stares.
The girl is still settled back in her chair. Her head is bobbing again. “I totally love dogs, don’t I, Pookie!”
“Miss?” the woman says. “Your dog, he—” Helpless for words, she looks at me and the others on the porch, all of whom look away. “He . . .” She points down.
The girl turns around slowly, looks down and sees the puddle under the woman’s foot. Pookie is sniffing it. “Pookie!” She jerks him back. “Stay out of that!” She looks accusingly at the woman and at me. “Did somebody spill something?”
The woman with the ring chuckles. “This isn’t funny!” the Hispanic woman snaps at her. “I, uh . . . I—” She looks at me and at the swarthy man, who steps away and lights a cigarette, and then again at the woman with the ring, who has covered her mouth and pretends to cough. She lifts her foot from the puddle.
“People need to be more careful,” the girl says, pulling Pookie close to her. “Dogs can’t just drink anything.”
The woman opens her handbag, fishes out a tissue, and bends down to wipe her foot. “These cost nearly two hundred dollars,” she says, rubbing furiously at her foot and the shoe straps. “My God, it reeks!” She looks up helplessly. “I have an appointment in ten minutes!”
The girl scoops Pookie up into her lap. “He’ll get into anything if I don’t watch him every minute.” She holds Pookie up like a doll and speaks directly to him. “He can be such a bad boy, can’t he?” She notices the woman jabbing the tissue at her foot. “Did you spill a Coke or something?”
The woman looks up, shocked. “What? Me?! No! The dog—”
The girl smiles. “Isn’t he awesome?” She kisses Pookie and speaks to him again, “He’s such a good boy! Yes he is!”
A worker is waving a towel beside a minivan, and the woman with the ring rises, smiles broadly at the Hispanic woman, who is still wiping her foot. “Good luck!” she says. She starts off a few steps, then stops, turns and says in an apologetic tone, “There’s a bathroom inside.”
The woman stares at her, her mouth agape. “I—” She glares at me, then at the swarthy man, who stares off into the distance, smoking. “This shouldn’t be allowed! I have an appointment!” Incensed, she turns and hobbles through the door into the building, limping on the soused foot.
The girl stares after her. “What crawled into her shorts?”
I gesture to the puddle. “He peed on her foot.”
The girl looks around, mystified. “Who did?”
“Pookie,” I say, nodding at the dog.
“Oh, he did not!” she protests, shocked. I nod to affirm. “Seriously?” She looks at the swarthy man, who sees a worker waving his towel by the red sports car and ignores her, moving off quickly to his vehicle. “He totally wouldn’t do that!” the girl says. She picks up Pookie and holds his face close to hers. “Would you?” She looks at me again. “Seriously?” I nod, and she stands, pulling Pookie into her arms. “He totally wouldn’t do that!” She spins around, stares at the vehicles, then into the glass doors of the office, Pookie under her arm like a hairy football. “Where did she go?”
“Restroom,” I say. She looks at me, then down at the puddle. “To clean up, I guess. Said she had an appointment. Those shoes are probably ruined. You—”
“Well, it’s not my fault!” the girl says. She glares at me, then swings around to stare at the vehicles still in the lot. “It’s totally not my fault!” She spins around to face me again. “I am so sorry!” She holds up Pookie and shakes him lightly. “You are such a bad boy!” She swats him on the back, lightly. “You have to watch them every minute!” She swats him again, harder.
“Don’t hit the dog,” I say.
She stares at me, her mouth open in astonishment. “It’s my dog.” She swats him again, but lighter.
“He doesn’t know why you’re hitting him,” I say. She raises her hand once more. “Don’t hit the dog,” I say. “I’m serious.”
She spins around and races to the Escalade, which is not yet ready. “You just tell her I’m sorry,” she flings back over her shoulder. “You tell her I’m so sorry, okay?”
“You really should wait,” I call after her.
“I don’t have time. Lots to do! I am so stressed!”
She goes to the open door of the Escalade and flings Pookie inside. “Gotta go! Seriously!” she tells the confused workers, waving them away. She jumps in and drives off without looking back.
The workers watch her go, then turn to me, questions in their eyes. I shrug.
The Hispanic woman reemerges in stocking feet, her shoes in her hand. She stares at the empty chair, then looks at me. “She’s gone?” I nod. She holds up her shoes. “These cost nearly two hundred dollars.” She shakes them slightly. “They’re ruined. Stained. They reek!” She sits down in the chair the girl vacated, nearly crying. “I have an appointment.” She looks up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s an interview.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’d seen what he was about to do, I’d have warned you.”
She shakes her head, stares out at the lot. “I gave her my last damn piece of gum.” I nod again. “That shouldn’t be allowed,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My pickup is ready, so I step off.
“Young girl like that,” I hear the woman say, talking to no one, since the porch is now empty. “That really shouldn’t be allowed.”