The other day I did something I had not done in a long time: I washed the car. I hadn’t simonized our little vehicle since before our pandemic adventure across half the country. It felt great. Goodbye Missouri dust, Tennessee dirt.
I used a spray-and-wash booth (word choice?) in Carteret, New Jersey. That I had not done since I was a Midwestern teenager. I used to love washing my car, a black Honda Civic, with that big spray gun. The device is an alternative reality version of the flamethrower. The place in Jersey looked just like the one in south Kansas City. I was high on nostalgia but it could have just been the fumes from the nearby refineries.