Crash! Crash! Crash...

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It seems I have used that word a lot lately. Crash, that is. This time, it occurred at the car wash. You know, one of those places where they drag your car through a tunnel, wash and blow it dry. At the end, a recent immigrant to the country drives the car a few yards to another area where more immigrants swarm over the car with towels and spray bottles, drying and polishing as they go.

The system experienced a slight hiccup Tuesday a week ago. The fellow in charge of driving my car to the finishing area could not operate the gearshift. “Vroom, Vroom,” went the car. It did not move. After a suitable interval, I walked over to help the man. I knocked on the door and gestured toward the gearshift. The driver grinned an ivory-toothed grin and opened the door. I reached in and put the car in gear, motioning him to go ahead and drive. I stepped back.

“Vroom, vroom,” went the car. It did not move.

I returned to the door and was trying to gesture in Spanish that he should take his foot off the brake and drive. At that point, the next car in line arrived.

Bang!

I looked back to see an elderly Lexus climbing my back bumper. The conveyor that moves cars through the tunnel was persistent.

Bang!

The Lexus hit my bumper again, making a kind of grinding noise.

After six or seven hits, I convinced the driver to stop the conveyor before destroying both cars. Frankly, I was surprised to learn the proper Spanish gesture involved bulging the veins in my forehead while shaking a fist in the face of the immigrant. He sprang from the cockpit and rushed to the kill switch. The Lexus settled to the ground a few feet behind my scarred bumper.

With the serial collisions finally ended, I spoke to the manager. He agreed I should get the car repaired and bring him the bill. He agreed to pay immediately. I agreed to his terms and released my grip on his throat.

Here we are, over a week later. The body shop took its sweet time repairing the damage and I picked up my car on Wednesday evening. (Yesterday) I believe they worked harder adding up the invoice than making the repairs. In any event, I plan to visit the car wash, paid invoice in hand, as soon as the snowfall ends.

In Texas, snow is as familiar as flying lobsters. I see no reason to tempt the Fates by venturing out. Still, I cannot wait to see the manager’s face when he sees the cost.  Heh, heh.

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