People Watching at the Car Wash
I went to the car wash on the way home. It's a treasure trove of people watching.
Picture this - A young man, around 28, with blond curly hair sporting Banana Republic's finest pleated khakis and coral striped long-sleeve shirt. His brown leather belt match his brown leather loafers. He paces anxiously around his newly purchased black Jetta sedan, glistening in the hazy sun having just emerged from the wash.
Three hard working Latinos armed with wash cloths and spray bottles filled with blue and pink liquids maneuver in and out of said Jetta as the Man continues to pace around his car. He hovers as the workers do the windows and tires. He grinds his hands with worry or greed or concern or social awkwardness (I can't tell.) He can't take how long it's taking to have his car finished. Maybe he paid extra for the high-end wash and so there's much more to do. He looks around. His nervousness makes the workers and everyone around him nervous. Is he hiding drugs in there? Did he just fart and was the wind swirling it around his head? He begins to look around wildly like he's expecting to be Punk'd and wants to get them before they get him.
My car sidles up next to his - of course. The Man spies my little Volvo, clean as the day she was born four years ago. He suddenly wonders if he should have purchased a Volvo. Was his Jetta enough to get him the dame of his dreams? The Volvo and the Jetta silently stand off against one another and the Volvo wins - decidedly. Dread washes over the Man as the sounds of children stuffing dollars into the communal tip case drift over the gang of customers watching the progress on their cars, but NOT hovering. No. Only the Man hovers.
The Man walks up to the Volvo. He looks inside. I can't move because I'll be exposed as the car-mom with the better style (and car negotiating skills.) He peers into the front passenger side. Can he hear the Hairspray soundtrack? His toes don't tap, so no. His inability to act or be cool makes everyone look at him. He's the car wash joke we'll tell our friends about later. He leans to look into the back seat. He's judging me. I resist leaping into the air to tell him to step the hell back and worry about his little dream machine. The back seat is covered in work papers and some trash I missed during vacuuming. He steps back with some pep in his stride. His judgement is that he is better than me.
He returns to his Jetta. The workers continue to wipe, buff, shine and dry like there's a rain cloud above his car alone.
When the Volvo's trunk opens, he dances to take a look inside. It appears to be a disaster, but there is order to the chaos. He doesn't know this as he shakes his head with pleasure. His pleasure was fleeting as he turned his focus to his car again. He rocks back and forth on his heels. Oh, when will his car be done? His glorious clean black Jetta.
One of the workers, who spied I was the Volvo mom, gives me a nod, not the normal holler of "ready." I walk up to claim my car. The Man burns a hole through the back of my head hoping that I would catch his eye. Does he want to confirm his superiority? Does he want me to say, "Cool pants." I ignore him. He doesn't stop trying to get my attention. "Please," his eyes beg. "Please notice and validate me." Not today.
Picture this - A young man, around 28, with blond curly hair sporting Banana Republic's finest pleated khakis and coral striped long-sleeve shirt. His brown leather belt match his brown leather loafers. He paces anxiously around his newly purchased black Jetta sedan, glistening in the hazy sun having just emerged from the wash.
Three hard working Latinos armed with wash cloths and spray bottles filled with blue and pink liquids maneuver in and out of said Jetta as the Man continues to pace around his car. He hovers as the workers do the windows and tires. He grinds his hands with worry or greed or concern or social awkwardness (I can't tell.) He can't take how long it's taking to have his car finished. Maybe he paid extra for the high-end wash and so there's much more to do. He looks around. His nervousness makes the workers and everyone around him nervous. Is he hiding drugs in there? Did he just fart and was the wind swirling it around his head? He begins to look around wildly like he's expecting to be Punk'd and wants to get them before they get him.
My car sidles up next to his - of course. The Man spies my little Volvo, clean as the day she was born four years ago. He suddenly wonders if he should have purchased a Volvo. Was his Jetta enough to get him the dame of his dreams? The Volvo and the Jetta silently stand off against one another and the Volvo wins - decidedly. Dread washes over the Man as the sounds of children stuffing dollars into the communal tip case drift over the gang of customers watching the progress on their cars, but NOT hovering. No. Only the Man hovers.
The Man walks up to the Volvo. He looks inside. I can't move because I'll be exposed as the car-mom with the better style (and car negotiating skills.) He peers into the front passenger side. Can he hear the Hairspray soundtrack? His toes don't tap, so no. His inability to act or be cool makes everyone look at him. He's the car wash joke we'll tell our friends about later. He leans to look into the back seat. He's judging me. I resist leaping into the air to tell him to step the hell back and worry about his little dream machine. The back seat is covered in work papers and some trash I missed during vacuuming. He steps back with some pep in his stride. His judgement is that he is better than me.
He returns to his Jetta. The workers continue to wipe, buff, shine and dry like there's a rain cloud above his car alone.
When the Volvo's trunk opens, he dances to take a look inside. It appears to be a disaster, but there is order to the chaos. He doesn't know this as he shakes his head with pleasure. His pleasure was fleeting as he turned his focus to his car again. He rocks back and forth on his heels. Oh, when will his car be done? His glorious clean black Jetta.
One of the workers, who spied I was the Volvo mom, gives me a nod, not the normal holler of "ready." I walk up to claim my car. The Man burns a hole through the back of my head hoping that I would catch his eye. Does he want to confirm his superiority? Does he want me to say, "Cool pants." I ignore him. He doesn't stop trying to get my attention. "Please," his eyes beg. "Please notice and validate me." Not today.
posted by Cee in SF at 6:47 PM
3 Comments:
He sounds like (as we would purr in our warm, gravelly accents here in the deepest valleys of South Wales); a total Knobber.
xxx
Knobber? I'm going to use that!
Yeah it's a good one is Knobber. It's the kind of word that deserves a capital letter, even mid sentence :)
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