The works

The works, I say to the calm-faced atten­dant, the one who with clear, short-handed motions and just a few words– put it in neu­tral, no foot on the brakes– gets me com­pletely aligned.

It reminds me some­how of the way that ver­te­brae finally popped when I did yoga this morning.

The car moves for­ward on its own.  The latte-skinned man in the grey mus­cle tee smiles at me– a beau­ti­ful smile– and blue-tooth in his ear, swipes his big brush over the worst of spring’s sticky leaf-grease on my car.

Soap, pink, green and yel­low– the works, I sup­pose– spat­ter my wind­shield and win­dows as the track guides me for­ward with­out any hitch in the move­ment.  No paus­ing, no jolts.  The brushes whir, water sprays in mul­ti­di­rec­tional spurts, streams and splat­ters, prob­a­bly all sci­en­tif­i­cally proven to get my car cleaner than the basic $7.99 package.

On the radio, some New Wave-y band’s singing some song I like with some lyrics half-poignant that I can never remem­ber and today can’t bother to ache along to.  I’m too mes­mer­ized by the swirling of brushes and slide-slapping of blue-yellow felt ban­ners cir­cling the car– less like a blan­ket and more like some ring-around-the-rosy coven of blue felted fairies, the spray of extra-gloss coat­ing some magic pro­tec­tion against fur­ther ills.

Or at least against pollen and road grease for up to a week.

When I was lit­tle, we used to go to the car wash and watch from this long-windowed alley, like it was an amuse­ment attrac­tion.  I like the new-fangled way bet­ter.  Inside the car, inside its calm shell as the blue-felted fairies dance after the works are accom­plished, I feel like noth­ing might stick to me, either.