steve garside artist & writer
I am currently writing a novel and intend posting samples of the book as it progresses on my blogsite.
Drive-Through
I'm waiting in the queue for the car wash. I come here almost every week. There are four wash options on offer here. The one-seventy; which amounts to a sharp blast of water over your wheels, and a fat manky brush across your screens before the main wash. The two sixty, which is roughly the same as the one seventy, and the other two - which I never use - because I think at four quid and five twenty, they are a bit pricey for me.
Besides, all they seem to include above the other two cheaper options are more suds and more lackadaisical elbow from the lads who work the wash. And they are always, always supervised by the sharp lingering hint of skunk.
As far as I know, this drive-through has been here for about ten years and owned by the world's biggest car wash company.
On the road side of the wash, about midway down its length is an obelisk shaped, placed stone which juts up from the ground about three and a half feet. The mounted legend records this as the site where the wartime singer and actress Gracie Fields once lived.
The first time I ever went through a car wash was with my stepdad in his bronze coloured Vauxhall Viva. I remember the soft nudge of the thick chain loop as it lugged in behind the front tyre. With the handbrake off, gear in neutral - and the engine killed at the key - the deliberate ride began; filling me with all the anticipation of the fairground as the soft brushes surrounded the car, scuffing and buffing the enclosed Viva back to cleanliness, back to shininess, back as far as when it was almost new.
He loved that cigarette smelling car. As a family, we drove everywhere in it, conquered steep hills in Devon and figured through mist in Scotland. But the car, the age, the man are all gone now, and I am left here in my own car, with my tunes on, at the mercy of the tug of the chain as it draws me on inexorably, through the first smudge of suds and the brushes whipping up into their preset frenzy, as I pass through the parlour of Dame Gracie Fields, one more time.
© Steve Garside. Permission must be obtained before reproducing.
This story has been published online at Rainy City Stories
