The Adventures of Sly Danny
Volume One, Number Five
The moment I saw the line of cars, I sort of froze. I clutched my bags of tacos stiffly, my jaw paused mid-bite, and I stood there at the corner for a good eight seconds, the events of the last few weeks replaying themselves in my mind.
First, the kid with the caucasian afro throws that psych journal at me with the quotes about the Van, the T-shirts, and my appearance, and it claimed I was suffering from T-shirt separation anxiety (TSA).
Then as I was getting to know the guys at the car wash a little better, they started calling me Goldilocks and cracking jokes about me and my sunglasses, which didn't bother me all that much.
Some days later, Ramon and Lucky decided to reduce their own hours, which caused me to step up and act as a manager when they weren't around -- no one else was going to do it, plus I had the Van.
Then Stupidity Day came. That day, we all went to Taco Trophy for some tacos in my van, then we realized it was No Tax Wax Day, and we needed dry towels to be ready for the rush. We had left Ert in charge of the place, and he was too Stupid to get the morning's towels in the dryer. (Note I capitaliize Stupid; Ert was not merely stupid. No, in fact he was Stupid.)
With the remaining 87 tacos in hand, I reached the back of the line and walked forward. I passed car after car after car. The first few in the back were not exuding any detectable negative emotions. But as I made my way forward, I started seeing signs that these people had been here a while. A bald guy rolls down his window and sticks his head out, trying to see what's going on up ahead; his head turns redder and redder with each step I take. A well dressed businesswoman talks on her cell phone, arguing with someone; as I pass by, I catch "It's not my fault I'm late, it's these... these..." A woman who looks eleven months pregnant is huffing and puffing in the passenger seat of a VW Rabbit, while her husband bangs his head on the steering wheel. If not for the bag of tacos in my hand, I might have thought this was all a nightmare.
I approached the front of the line, and the people were livid, screaming, almost riotous. Horns were honking. Obscenities flew through the air between car wash staff and customer, each more vulgar and insolent than the last. Ronnie and Ert had hoses on the first few cars so they wouldn't open their doors and come after them, for fear of getting their car interiors wet. Someone must have put them up to that, I thought to myself; they weren't smart enoough to think of that alone.
Finally I made it inside, only to find Ramon arguing with his brother again in Spanish. After his brother flipped him the bird and made a few more obscene gestures, he saw me coming towards them. He took two handfuls of tacos and stomped off. I never saw the guy again. "Ramon, what's the deal?"
"Just like we thought, no towels," he spat, his glaring eyes following his brother down the block.
"Oh man." I put the tacos down and scratched my chin, finding an abandoned strand of taco lettuce by chance. "Hold on, I'll be right back."
I ran out to The Van, pulled open the sliding door, crawled in on my hands and knees, and started rummaging through my most treasured belongings: an unsealed half-empty box of corn flakes, five pounds of hamster feed, a bathmat, a bookcase I never put together, two and a half weeks of dirty laundry, a case of Mentos, a pair of sunglasses I lost last Christmas, a two dollar bill, some junk mail, a jar of grape preserves that had spilled all over the junk mail, a stuffed parrot, a suitcase full of pencils (got those really cheap), another pair of sunglasses, "K-9 Cop" (that I never returned to Blockbuster), a cage containing a deceased hamster, a left-hander's softball glove, a pack of water balloons, my shampoo bottle collection. Blast! I couldn't find anything useful, at least not for this moment.
I sat just inside the open door of The Van for a moment and closed my eyes. The sounds of the carwash seemed to drift farther and farther away. The demanding screams gave way to the calls of gentle gulls, the horn-honking was transformed to the smooth silence of muted waves. I looked within, and found my own voice speaking to me. The T-shirts, we can use the T-shirts, yes...
Yes. Yes! With a newfound vigor, I opened my eyes. I drew a deep breath, gathering my strength to confront the task at hand. I reached for the backseat and jerked it forward, revealing a box labeled "Custom T-Shirts" that was soon in my eager hands. My feet were running. My heart raced. "Ramon! Help me with this box! Ert! Ronnie! Stop just spraying those cars -- WASH THEM! Wash those cars, boys! Ayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
Ramon got out the box cutter and took a mighty swipe at the seam. I reached in and pulled out an armload of T-shirts: green, navy, short-sleeve, long-sleeve. Our resident Armor All man Ned pulled one of the shirts out of the clump in my arms. He squinted narrowly at the logo on the chest. "SUFFL? What's that mean?"
I didn't have time to explain. We had cars to wash.
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