Nice weather always steers me toward washing, waxing and polishing the cars when time becomes available. We only have one car wash in town. Reliable and pleasant ten years ago, it’s a wreck of a business today. Three of the five stalls don’t work. The other two have issues. It’s often a dice roll as to what’ll happen.

I tried washing the car first on Saturday afternoon. Six other drivers were pursuing the same idea so I went back Sunday. Both stalls were in use. After studying their activities to see which might end first, I chose stall one and pulled up to wait.

A woman was cleaning a Subaru in stall one. A beater, I thought, noting the tells of its narrowness, narrow, small wheels and tires, and elderly design. A beater is a car that’s usually old. Typically missing its wheel covers, as this one was, the car runs sufficiently for local errands but isn’t to be trusted going too far or too fast. It usually has mechanical idiosyncrasies, windows that no longer align, or doors that don’t open and close correctly. Sometimes they’re missing knobs and things like the cigarette lighter. Based on memories of friends’ vehicles, I reckoned her Subaru was a mid-1990s model. She was cleaning out its back with some household cleaner and a rag.

“This is against the roles,” my resident citizen huffed within. “You’re not allowed to use rags to wash the car at this facility.” My indignity climbed. “She doesn’t even have money in the machine!”

Well.

My interior philosopher roused himself. “Relax.”

“Relax?” How dare he suggest that I relax. Rules were being broken. Why, without rules –

“What tangible impact do her actions have on you? You’re going to wait a little longer, that’s all that I know. Do you have somewhere you’re rushing to be? No. Show patience and tolerance.”

Well. His reminder miffed me. Mind you, he was right, but still. It’s the thought, right? She’s breaking the rules. And being intolerant and inconsiderate, right? If she’s breaking these rules, what other rules does she break?

“As if you don’t break rules,” the philosopher said. “Distract yourself. Kill time. Play with your stereo.”

I did as he suggested. After a few minutes, I glanced up. She was spraying her car now, actually washing it.

Well.

Another car had arrived. I glanced at the other stall to see how far they’d advanced. Walls obscured my view. I didn’t know how close they were to ending. They were using the wand again, versus the brush.

Well.

I resumed fiddling with the stereo. Her car’s engine noise drew my attention. She pulled up to the end of the stall.

What the hell?

What was she doing?

She continued cleaning but obviously not with the spray.

Was she finished?

I pulled into the stall. Exiting my car, I called, “Are you done in the stall?”

“Yes. I need to do more but I ran out of quarters.”

The facility has a change machine. I always bring sufficient quarters because the change machine is often broken. I collect them for this purpose. How anal am I? “I have quarters, if you need them,” I said.

She laughed. “No, I think it needs more than quarters. It’s an old beater. My last kid has left the nest. I don’t need a beater any more, so I’m cleaning it to sell it. You know, first impressions.” She laughed again.

“I see.” She was right. The car needed more than a car wash. Wax, polish…paint…rust remover….

“I’m hoping someone else will buy it,” she said.

Well, of course it would need to be someone else, I thought with irritation.

She continued, “Somebody must need a beater.”

I nodded. “Yes. Everyone should own a beater at least once in their life.”

Washing my car, I thought of my beater. That horrible brown Oldsmobile was at the top of the list. What a mess it was but my wife and I were both working, and had needed a second car. Other beaters? None came to mind. The cars I owned in Germany, an Audi, BMW and Merc, were over twenty years old by the time I gained title to them but all were robust and well-maintained vehicles. My wife fondly remembers the BMW 2002 as one of the best cars we ever owned. The newest of the trio was the 1980 Audi 100. It was the one that failed us, throwing a rod while blazing down the Autobahn. Likewise, the Toyotas we owned in Okinawa were more than ten years old but mechanically and cosmetically fine. I didn’t consider them beaters. I trusted all of them. Of course, Okinawa was an island. We couldn’t drive far without running into ocean.

The woman finished. “Have a good day,” she called, getting into her car.

I nodded. “Good luck selling your car.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

I watched her drive away. The car looked okay.

I hoped she sold it. Somebody probably needed a beater.