Hope

Several people inquired into my mental health after I posted "Poverty" a few weeks ago.  Some were even close to checking me in for monitoring and psychological evaluations.  Okay, you were right.  That was dark.

Without trying to convince you that I am not deeply depressed, I do want to say briefly that writing is therapeutic for me.  So, writing those thoughts helps me expunge the emotions that otherwise might take me down.  

Anyhow, I owe it to you, and - more importantly - myself to go in the other direction tonight.  So, here you go.

I got home on Tuesday afternoon in a vibrant mood.  The sun was out, a caressing, uplifting surprise - especially given that a remnant of a serious snow fall still lingered in those places in our roof that escaped solar elimination.  That same snow fall also brought the usual filth and grime that accumulates on curbs and cars.  So, I took the opportunity to take Wyatt over to the local car wash - hoping he would enjoy the chance to spray winter away as much as I would.

I figured there would be a good many cars at the car wash.  There were and there weren't.  The car wash included four bays for manual washing, and one automatic run through.  Each was filled, but there were no other cars waiting anywhere.  Upon turning into the car wash, I faced a probability game, and logically pulled in behind a blue Chevy pick-up that I felt was far cleaner than most others.  

I've been to the car wash enough this season to know that each car typically requires seven or so minutes of washing.  By the looks of the Chevy, I figured there was maybe two minutes left of quarters.  Playing Mr. Cool and Super Dad altogether, I leisurely put the parking break on, got out of the car, went around to the other side and cradled Wyatt out of his protective shell of a car seat.  

I then took him over to the coin machine, and deposited three singles into the slender opening - trying to explain the absurd and magical wonder of how one dollar equals four quarters.  After I had multiplied three to make twelve, I strolled back to my car, expecting the Chevy to be gone.  

Instead, I found the woman who also had a small girl with her applying a soapy foam with a brush, a technique which meant there were many more minutes of waiting ahead of me.  Sure enough, as the woman continued to cleanse her truck, other bays began to empty.  I contemplated trying to maneuver my car such that I could steal the opening - much like we all do at the grocery store.  Then, I thought better.

Parking my need for expediency, I simply sat watching the woman thoroughly extinguish the dirt, from inside the deep caverns of the wheel, off the bumper.  Meanwhile, I also began to watch the small community of folk who were now going about their own rhythms with efficient anonymity:  the young "Jack and Dianne" couple in the Ford Probe, the Latino brothers or cousins in the ark-like American cruiser, the blue collar man digging in his car for quarters.

 

A car pulled up even behind me, setting the deepest queue at two.  And still the woman continued to spray her Chevy as though it would never see a speck of dirt again.  By this time, I had given up on my need for progress and had settled into the pleasant confines of release.  Wyatt lay comfortably on my chest.  I had been calming and soothing him of his fear of the whirling brush in the automatic vacuum that looked somewhat like a Sesame street character in a tornado.  His initial fear turning into a soothing posture of dependency and trust.  

Maybe that is what won the woman over.  I do not know.  I never saw her take a long look at me and my child.  Her attention was perpetually upon the sole duty of cleansing, so much so that I began to wonder if she would ever break the cycle.  The blue paint on her truck sparkled brilliantly, and she even took a solid minute to spray away the dirt that lingered at the based of her freshly groomed industrial horse - an act I took as both economically stupid and immeasurably centered.  I was doing much more than waiting by now.  I was watching, learning even.  Which is precisely why I was more awed than aghast when I saw her reaching into her jeans for what I already knew contained a wellspring of quarters.  

She headed over to a small panel that looked something like the display of a pay-phone, and, just out of line of my vision, began to eliminate the bundle in her hand.  

I was mystified by this point, ready to expect anything.  But, somehow, I knew precisely what she was doing, and I couldn't do anything except just accept it for what it was:  grace.

And that is what I found as I rolled our little car into the washing bay:  eight minutes and twenty three seconds of grace put into my life's clock.  That's probably just about the same amount of time I sat there with my son watching the world go by, and enjoying the beautiful day.  That's what she bought me.  Not a free car wash.  She bought me time, the very thing I am working against so often, the very thing I seek to wrestle into my own terms and hopes.

That's quite a gift.  I'm just sorry I could only leave five minutes and twenty eight seconds for the next guy.  

Wes