24-Hour Car Wash

It’s closed now, When You Wash Upon a Car, the car wash over on Lumbarton. Kind of a shame, really. It’s been there since the 70s. It was a dinosaur, for sure, but always a fun experience. I don’t know what it is about going through a car wash that’s so…exciting—maybe it’s moving with your car in Neutral? I suppose it’s kind of like going on a ride in some broken-down church carnival. I guess. And it was so much better than Sir Wash-a-Lot downtown. There were never any lines, the prices were reasonable—and sure, every now and then you’d notice a scratch in your paint or a ding in your fender from one of those monstrous brushes rolling over you; but what do you want for three bucks? The thing was a clunker since 1975.

I have no idea what they’re planning on putting there in its place, but at the moment, it’s just a padlocked garage with a sun-faded sign. An empty parking lot in front with grass poking through the cracks in the pavement and a tall chainlink fence around the whole thing. Some random tatters of yellow ‘DO NOT CROSS’ tape. That’s about it. Personally, I think a coffee shop might be kind of nice, but that’ll never happen. We’re stuck with the Bess Eaton down the street. It’s decent coffee, I suppose—the chocolate crullers are ok—but we could definitely use a coffee shop. Some place comfortable to sit down and read the paper. Like Mister Donut out on Rt. 5. It won’t be another auto mechanic, that’s for sure. Sully’s Auto Repair (and Tires) has been a staple in the neighborhood since—shit, I don’t even know how long, but since way before my time. Everyone takes their car to Sully—Sully’s son, actually. Sully retired a few years back and moved down to the old Sunshine State. Never mind.

Anyway, it’s closed now. It was right when they switched to twenty-four hours that everything went to hell. I don’t know if they just got greedy, or business was slow, or whatever; but it was a bad idea, doomed. I mean, you can’t just leave an unpredictable old monstrosity like When You Wash Upon a Car unattended. And you sure as heck can’t leave the general public to figure it out on their own, Lord, no. No matter how idiot-proof you think you make it. I mean, sometimes it’s kind of tricky to position yourself on that track before putting your car into Neutral, for instance. Sometimes you need an attendant. Stuff happens. Equipment malfunctions. Components wear out. Things break.

And, sometimes, way worse.

Ron was a misanthrope. He didn’t consider himself agoraphobic—which is to say, terrified to leave his house—but he disliked being around people. Intensely. It wasn’t so much that other people made him ‘uncomfortable’ as they made him feel like he was going to explode. Or melt into the ground. Or spontaneously combust. Or something. Other people made him crazy. He couldn’t think around them. They buzzed and hummed and flitted. He found them too distracting. And not because he was interested in what they were doing, Christ no, but afraid that they were planning on doing something to him. Which, of course, they weren’t—people tend to be entirely too focused on themselves to know that anyone else is even there most of the time—but Ron was a misanthrope. And paranoid.

And impatient, for that matter. He considered his town overcrowded and overdeveloped and overrun years ago. Way before the apartments went up on North Street and the gumball factory downtown was converted into condos. Even before the Mexican place opened up on the corner of Fourth and Main—which, according to Ron, was a terrible location. It absolutely backed up traffic all down Fourth Street, just as he had predicted. Now that was mainly due to the fact that Gringo’s Grand Opening was both widely and well advertised, and the fact that there wasn’t a decent Tex-Mex joint in two counties—and the traffic did die down almost immediately after opening weekend—but that isn’t the point. Ron hated waiting. Being inconvenienced. Being out amongst others for one second longer than he absolutely had to.

He liked to go out at night. He took walks around the quiet town, peered into the darkened windows of the closed-up shops, meandered; groaned and crossed the street whenever he saw anyone else walking their dog or otherwise minding their own business. Ron occasionally fantasized about getting some graveyard shift job at Store-24, or as a security guard. The armed guards made more than unarmed, but if you have a job carrying a gun around, chances are you’d be working in some sort of dangerous environment, with responsibilities. So forget it. Either way, the thought of going to bed when the sun was coming up made Ron too uneasy. True, it would be a great way to maximize his non-involvement with other people, but the sun was important. Even a misanthrope knows that. After all, he wasn’t a vampire.

One day, Ron noticed that his car was filthy. There hadn’t been any rain in some time, and he always parked under the tree with all the birds in it, so you can imagine what his beat-up old Ford Galaxie looked like. It was an ordinary, humdrum sort of day, with way too many people out and about for Ron’s liking. Even if he was sitting in his air-conditioned car on the way to Sir Wash-a-Lot, he would still be surrounded by other people in their cars. Trapped, waiting for the light to change or for whoever it was up at the intersection to cross the street and stop holding everybody up. And then stuck in line waiting to get into the car wash. And forced conversation with the attendant. The very thought made him nauseous.

So he did nothing.

Two days later, it still hadn’t rained. Ron still parked under the tree. His car still looked filthy.

But on the third day, even though it still hadn’t rained—according to Channel 5, the rainfall for this time of year was at an all-time low—Ron noticed When You Wash Upon a Car and its new sign that said, ‘NOW OPEN 24 HRS.’ He just happened to be forced out of doors that afternoon on an errand to the post office when Ron drove past the 70s relic. He slowed down. It looked like there were a few cars in line now. Three of them, to be exact. Cars in the lot. People standing at the vending machine. Laughing. What the hell were they laughing at? Ron noticed two people—strangers, assumedly—vacuuming their cars next to each other and making small talk. This was all far too social for Ron, so he sped off, vowing to come again much, much later.

Around 1:30 the following morning, Ron switched off his television and looked at the five empty cans of Miller on the coffee table in front of him. Was he ok to drive to When You Wash Upon a Car? Of course he was. Besides, there was no one around for him to crash into at this hour. Ron laughed. He grabbed his keys, thought for a moment, then went into the kitchen to get his last Miller from the fridge. Then he left the house, whistling, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.

Just as he had suspected, the streets were empty. It was wonderful. Not only were there no people around for him to run over (Ron was more intoxicated than he thought), but there would be no traffic, no lines, and no waiting. Ron drove down the street in his shit-covered Galaxie with the window open, sipping his beer, and singing along to Don’t Fear the Reaper on WNHU. Hell, Ron thought, stopping at a red light, I don’t even need to stop for this light! He started to laugh, but a police car sped through the intersection just then. Ron stopped laughing. He lit a Viceroy and took a sip of beer while he waited. The light changed. Ron sped off.

Hooking a left down Lumbarton, he came quickly up to the car wash, and sure enough, the lights were on in the empty parking lot. Ron drove in. He drove around back to the open bay door. The green neon light inside both displayed the prices for the various washes and add-ons—foam glaze, wheel bright, undercarriage wash, rust inhibitor, poly sealant, and so on and so forth—and gave an unsettling appearance. The open bay resembled the maw of some gaping demon with scrubber-lined jaws, emitting a green glow and casting twisted shadows on the soap stained walls.

Yeah, or a funhouse ride at a carnival, Ron thought. He chuckled to himself, pitched his half-smoked Viceroy out the window, and pulled up to the maw.

Ron chose ‘basic wash,’ grumbled at the price as he fed a crumpled five-dollar bill into the machine three times before it was accepted, and drove up onto the track. He put the Galaxie into Neutral. It was a bit off-putting not being greeted by some grinning attendant brandishing a foam brush and pointing right or left. Not altogether unpleasant, mind you—it was better than an attendant actually being there—but just a little weird. What if I get stuck on this conveyor belt? Ron thought. An alarm sounded from somewhere out in the green glowing recesses of the bay, his car lurched forward, and Ron shrugged. Oh well, too late now. He took another sip of his beer as he rolled up the window. Ron switched off his headlights to soak in the unsettling neon green ambiance. Time for the show.

The pre-rinse went according to plan. Jets of water doused Ron’s Galaxie, top, sides, and back; then the shampoo came blasting out of hitherto unseen nozzles and obscured the windows with violet sludge tinged sickly yellow by the neon sign behind him.

“Looks like puke,” Ron exclaimed. He belched. The car lurched to a stop.

“What the hell?” Ron took a sip of his beer. “This ain’t part of the ride.” He waited for a minute to see if the car would start moving again. Maybe the thing was on a timer. The soap had to settle or something. Clumps of shampoo slid down the windows, leaving opalescent smears on the glass. The conveyor belt didn’t start up again.

What now? Ron honked the horn. Ordinarily, and during regular office hours, this would have summoned an attendant. In Ron’s case, and at this ungodly hour, beyond the muffled sound of the horn startling him in the closeness of the bay, it had no effect at all.

Naturally, Ron laid on the horn again. He pumped it, one, two, threeeeee times. The conveyor belt didn’t start. No one came. A clump of shampoo slid down the passenger-side window. Ron switched on the wipers, but all that did was smear soap across the surface of the windshield, obscuring the view further.

“Goddammit.” Ron didn’t know if he should open the door and get out. What if the jets started up again? Or those huge scrubbers came down? Ron also didn’t know if he should try putting the car into gear and driving forward or backing out. He couldn’t see in either direction, so that also didn’t seem like a good idea. Maybe he should try the horn again.

A shadow passed by the shampoo-covered driver’s side window then, a dark shape, and was gone. Like a fin cutting over the surface of the water before disappearing beneath the waves. Now you see it, now you don’t. In fact, Ron wasn’t sure that he saw it at all. He didn’t have time to consider whether there was an attendant lurking around out there because, with a sudden roar and Ron’s accompanying cry of surprise, a motor started up somewhere; the scrubbers descended from where they were perched in the darkness.

The rollers came down into position next, spinning, reminding Ron of saw blades, and made their way slowly over the Galaxie, front to back, then back to front. The shampoo still clinging to the glass lathered into a sudsy froth.

“Finally,” Ron said. “I was ready to blast through this sideshow.” Which, of course, he was not about to do. Ron laughed and finished his beer. Making one final sweep back and forth, the scrubbers retreated back to their hiding places in the roof. Another alarm sounded from out in the bay, and the Galaxie started forward again. Ron cheered.

The jets came on again. Water shot out on either side and began moving down the length of the car. The water washed the lather away on the hood, then moved on to the windshield and the windows. Ron turned his head and was greeted by a monstrous face peering in at him through the newly-cleared driver’s side window, inches from the dripping glass. It was not the face of an attendant, no sir—or of any human on this green earth, no siree. It looked like a kind of half-frog, half-lizard man, covered in grayish-green scales. A big circular mouth jammed with rows of hook-like teeth salivated under two small, flaring holes which may have been a nose. Black eyes glittered dully on the sides of its oddly-sloped amphibious head instead of in the front, so its head was tilted to one side as it examined Ron. Leathery skin glistened with water from the jets.

Then it was gone. Not because the creature disappeared amongst the scrubbers and brushes, but because the power, including the lights, went out. The conveyor belt halted. Everything shut down.

Ron, in total blackness now, screamed and slammed his hand down on the door lock. Then he flailed his arms in both the front and the back of the car until he was sure that all four doors were locked. He held his breath and listened.

“This ride sucks,” Ron whispered through gritted teeth. Then he remembered his headlights, which he had switched off when he pulled into When You Wash. Ron switched them back on, half-expecting to see the frog-monster in front of his car or squatting on the hood; thankfully, it was not. Instead, the mitter curtains had managed to mostly descend before the power went out, and were now hanging in front of the windshield like tentacles, partially blocking the view. They looked like a tattered stage curtain suspended just over the hood. Peering through the strips, Ron could detect no movement in front of the car.

But then a sound, a sharp scratching from behind the Galaxie. A screwdriver being dragged against the chrome. Or a set of twisted, dripping claws. And then the car started to rock, not so subtly at first, then violently. Ron sprang into action, the inebriating effects of all six beers having simply disappeared as if he had been drinking water all night.

“Later, Kermit,” Ron said. He threw the Galaxie into Drive and stepped on the gas pedal. If the bay door was closed, he would plow right through it. “And guess who’s paying for the repairs to my car?” he said.

The car started forward, then jerked to a stop. Ron pressed harder on the gas. Wheels spun on the wet ground, sending a haze of water droplets, steam, and car exhaust throughout the bay and across the narrow field of vision offered by the Galaxie’s headlights. The car swerved and jerked from side to side, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, but the car didn’t move forward. The mitter curtains still dangled in front of him. He was caught on something. Or tied to something, more likely.

Ron lifted his foot off the gas pedal and let the car idle in Drive. The scratching and rocking did not resume, at least for the moment. Ron had a minute to think. What now? He would have to get out of the car to see if he could unhook himself from whatever that thing out there had tied his car to. But maybe that was what it was counting on. No, he had to stay put. Wasn’t there a flashlight in his glove box he could use?

He was about to open the glove compartment and start fishing around in the darkness when the scratching sound came again, this time along the back windshield. Nails on a chalkboard. Then a crunch. A crackling sound indicated that the glass was splintering.

Ron put the car into Reverse this time. He floored it. The Galaxie flew backwards, and Ron felt a thump as his car collided with a body that yielded and gave way. He hit the brakes. “Got you now,” he growled. Ron put the car into Park and listened. All was quiet. Ron reached into the open glove box and his hand came over the cold metal grip of a mag-lite. He pulled it out and toggled the switch, half-expecting either the batteries or the bulb to be dead. The flashlight worked.

Opening the car door with deliberate caution and quiet, Ron directed the mag-lite beam through the swirling mist toward the back of the car. He wondered if the small metal object was heavy enough to do any damage if he had to use it to clunk the creature on the head. Recalling the size of the thing’s mouth, Ron decided with a shudder that the flashlight would be less than useless in such a situation, and shook his head to drive the thought from his mind.

Other than the sound of water dripping into puddles and the random clicking and ticking of the Galaxie’s engine cooling down, the steamy bay was quiet. Ron took a few cautious steps toward the back of the car, holding the mag-lite in front of him like a lightsaber. As he approached the back of the car, swinging the beam back and forth, Ron caught sight of a lump sprawled out on the ground directly behind the newly-dented Ford. It was mostly hidden by swirling mist. “Ha!” Ron chortled in triumph. “Frog legs for dinner!” He kicked the lump. It shifted under the blow, but did not otherwise move. Dead as a doornail.

Ron swung the mag-lite beam from the dead creature to the chain which had been hooked around something under the Galaxie’s rear bumper. The chain ran from the car off into the front of the bay, where the other end had been attached to something strong enough to anchor the car where it was. Ron crouched down and reached under the bumper to feel around. He could feel the moisture in the air in his clothes now, and his shirt clung to him. Water and sweat beaded on his brow, dripped from his hands. The sound of a broom or a mop falling to the ground behind him caused Ron to stop what he was doing and turn abruptly, focusing the beam of light in the direction of the sound.

Squinting in the gloom, Ron saw movement. But the steam and water droplets continued to mingle with the dissipating exhaust, swirling and dancing like dust devils, so it could have been anything. Unfortunately for Ron, it was not anything, but the thing. It lumbered out of the darkness, disproportionally long arms stretched out in front as it reached out through the mist. Ron flew backwards, tripped over his foot, and found himself on the ground beside the fallen roller that had been broken off when the Galaxie backed over it. The beam from the mag-lite passed over it as it flew out of Ron’s hand. He had time to curse his folly before the frog-thing was upon him. In the end, it was more merciful to meet his end in darkness, to be spared the ghastly shape of the horror, and its jawless, spindly-toothed, gaping maw.

And they closed up shop right after. The emergency vehicles came, the police, the coroner; the tow truck dragging out the beat-up old Ford Galaxie with the dented rear and the broken rear windshield. There were big dents all down one side, and they looked a lot like handprints pushed into the metal—or claw marks, to be more precise—but no one ever mentioned that. “Nah,” they said, “it was from the roller.” Yeah, the roller. Even a 1970s car wash roller couldn’t do damage like that. Channel 5 showed up, but they weren’t allowed inside. Rachel Fiandaca threw a fit about freedom of the Press and all that, but, alas, to no avail. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill story about an accident at the local car wash, you know. Now I heard that the military came sniffing around at some point early on, but that’s hearsay, so I can’t be sure.

The yellow police tape went up next, then the chainlink fence. And here we are, sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting to see what’s going to go into the vacant space. It’ll probably end up being a used car dealership or a Jiffy Lube or something like that. Hell, maybe another car wash. Too bad. You know what would be nice to have there? A video store. We only have West Main Video across town, and their horror selection is terrible. Maybe a video store that specializes in horror. Now that would be a great idea.

In the end, When You Wash Upon a Car was just another business that got bought or sold or went under or simply vanished off the face of the Earth. Here today, gone tomorrow. Another business that pulled the old vanishing act. It happens all the time. No explanation needed.

The car wash across town, Sir Wash-a-Lot, is the only game in town at the moment. And, like all businesses, in the name of evolving and staying organic, they have decided to extend their services to 24-hours. It was wise from a business owner’s standpoint—there would be a guaranteed influx of customers from the other side of town now that the competition was gone. Why not open yourself up to accommodate them? Yes, it was very wise from a business standpoint.

I’ll be visiting Sir Wash-a-Lot late tonight. My car hasn’t been washed in quite some time, and we’re not supposed to get any rain for at least another week. At least, according to Channel 5. Like Ron, I’d rather go at night. I love the quiet. It feels like the whole world is yours.

But unlike Ron, I do have my license to carry. I’ll be bringing along both my .44 and my semi-automatic. Don’t worry about how I got them. Like I might have said, I’ve been here a while. I’ve seen places come and go. And I know people. You kind of can’t help knowing people when you’ve been around as long as I have. I’ve lived here my whole life. I have a relationship with this town. It’s looked after me, and I look after it. I’ll be paying a visit to Sir Wash-a-Lot tonight, you bet. Just to clean my car and check things out. You know, just in case.