California is incontrovertibly tied to car culture: the PCH and pleasure cruising, VW vanagons and vanity plates. And yet, the car wash—respite of automobiles everywhere—is oft-ignored or relegated to kitschy curiosity, a relic of a stranger past.
And why wouldn’t it be so? In Southern California, your average car wash is more likely to be googie than bougie.
All that astro-signage fades into the landscape now; but at the height of mid-century suburban sprawl, those curvaceous, brightly colored buildings served to coerce drivers off the thoroughfare, steering them, starry-eyed, into a particular roadside business.
While that splashier heydey of car culture meets space-race aesthetic has been replaced by the realism of the rideshare electric, what remains is the constant driving towards a sleeker, more futuristic version of one’s self.
The car wash is my own amalgamation of self-care and hedonism…
The car wash is my own amalgamation of self-care and hedonism—a weird activity that is mine alone, bringing me genuine pleasure, and requiring nary an unsticking of either butt cheek from my driver’s seat.
Because, for my money, I can not summon a more complete experience of Americana than that particular transformation I order through the convenience of a drive-through window. It’s a spa day for my wayfaring soul. And no matter what ones rides, “AT THE CAR WASH” (cue the disco track) all are equal under the streaky, machine jet sky.
Let me be your guide. Shift into neutral. Recall the psychedelic mantra of Trust, Let Go, Be Open. For a blissful 90 seconds, close your eyes and float down stream.
As is my custom, I play the title track of Burial’s “Untrue,” ordained a decade ago by hip music blogs everywhere as the pinnacle of haunting electronic music, best suited for experiencing anomie, or a casual evening drive.
And while I enjoy spending time with all wonderous humans in my life, I relish my time to recharge, and thus cherish the sanctity of this independent passage.
Outside it is a downpour of recycled rain; but inside, it’s a foam party for one where I can just….STOP and wiggle wit’ it, as I please. As spumes of neon pink, blue, and yellow detergent splash before me in an ecstatic tie-dye, I can both dance myself clean AND let it all come out in the wash. Maybe it’s catharsis or maybe it’s deus ex machina.
My last glimpse is of a plastic astronaut, ascendant in the final buffing station.
As I’m conveyed forward towards my point of egress, my last glimpse is of a plastic astronaut, ascendant in the final buffing station. The astronaut wears only a jetpack and seems untethered to time and space.
Soon enough, the industrial dryers vaporize every last bead of water. Bone-dry, I’m bounced back into the unflinching yellow light of Los Angeles, shifting into gear on Hyperion Avenue.
Still present is a detergent smell so pervasive and even sweet that I run my finger over my own teeth, expecting them to squeak.
Shimmying in situ, my eyes chart forward. After the car wash, I remember it really doesn’t matter what I drive, so long as the windshield is clean.