When Strangers Attack

Here's a photo of my car wash, located right down the block from my home.  Usually, my visits there every two weeks or so are fairly innocuous.  Pay your dough, select your air freshener, and make sure they haven't vacuumed up your coin receptacle (that happened once). 

Every so often, there's a celebrity in the midst.  Ellen Degeneres with a really crappy Toyota Corolla.  Diane Lane working hard not to make eye contact.  Greg Kinnear working very hard to get recognized.  And Della Reese advising some Mexican on how to correctly wipe down her church bus.

This car wash also got some screen time many years ago.  Located virtually next door to the 20th Century-Fox lot, it was used for a major slapstick scene in the Doris Day movie "Move Over Darling."  Back in 1963, the car wash looks eerily like it does today.  Except, as far as I know, Doris Day is no longer covered with soap suds.

But, even with these Hollywood connections, my car wash visits are usually nondescript.  In and out.  Quiet time for me, even if I am trying to make eye contact with Diane Lane.

Except last Saturday.  

It all started so innocently.  My Toyota Highlander had gone through the machine.  The super-short illegal immigrant had moved my seat as far up as possible as he drove it to the spot where he would be performing all his post-car wash obligations.  I was standing quietly alongside a wall.  Sipping a Diet Pepsi.  And, then.....

"So, what kind of gas mileage you get out of that Highlander Hybrid?"

A STRANGER WAS TRYING TO ENGAGE ME IN CONVERSATION.

I probably should have gone into Marlee Matlin mode and feigned deafness.  But, in one of my life's mistakes, I didn't.  I told him that a hybrid isn't everything it's cracked up to be.  

The floodgates opened.

"I have a car that's twelve years old and it's still running like a top."

"My mechanic has all the parts for my car and he says I could keep driving it for years."

"I'd never buy anything that didn't have at least eight cylinders."

"I like to hear my engine when I'm driving.  Those Hybrids don't make noise."

I had yet to even turn to my right to look at this guy.  I was afraid to.  The eye contact that Diane Lane had so carefully avoided would be devastating here.

"My wife likes the subcompacts.  I won't drive one.  My legs are too long."

"Boy, September sure does get hot in Los Angeles."

Ah, a subject change.

"How does the AC work in your Hybrid?"

Okay, not quite.

"They say the heat wave will break by the end of next week, but those guys on TV are just guessing."

"Probably start up a bunch of fires.  Most of them are arson."

As if on cue, a fire truck sped by.

"Those trucks are beautiful.  I once got to watch them take one apart."

"Those engines are something else.  Amazing piece of machinery."

"I bet they'll be electrically powered at some point."

The conversation was making a complete circle.  He was making a point with all his pointlessness.  Meanwhile, I kept staring at the kid wiping down my car and I wondered if somebody with a chamois cloth could work any slower.

"We've got some big elections coming up."

Okay, the aforementioned circle was not unbroken.

"It will be interesting to see how the tea party does.  People are really fed up with Obama."

Pedro, come on, there's no need to empty out the ash trays.  I don't smoke.

"I think it's going to be close between Meg Whitman and Jerry Brown for Governor."

Where are you, Lord?!

At last, a wave of the towel.  My car was pronounced fit to leave.  And I was none too ready.

"Okay, nice talking with you."

I had said less than two sentences to the man.  He has a very low threshold on how he defines a conversation.

I waved politely.  Walking away, I knew exactly how Diane Lane felt.  Please don't look at me.  And definitely don't say a word.

Dinner last night:  Barbecue pork ribs and cole slaw.