Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 1: I've Just Seen A Face

For your greater comprehension of events, that was the first time Rob had ever gone to Fort Lauderdale.

While crouching down to clean the rims, I said back, "Yeah, but, dude, we can't. He paid me like, fifty bucks and everything."

"Shit! We take that fifty and buy beers, bro. They'll totally think we're legal when we pull up in that beast."

It did not occur to Max that that was rather illogical, but his absent rationale made much more sense a couple minutes later when we were back inside folding rags.

"Dude," I deadpanned mid-fold. "Were you smoking weed?"

Slanty-eyed and grinning larger than his face, Max snickered, "No."

He reeked terribly.

"Are you an idiot? Rob's going to know you're high."

"Danny. Man. You got to chill, dude. Old Robbie Boy burns all the time. He gets the gange, man. Trust."

Never trust someone who's high; advice I wish I'd taken a little further ahead in life. But I rolled along with it and did not doubt the fact that practically everyone who worked at Superior Carwash got stoned and went to work. I may have been the only one who didn't. Because, you know, hugs not drugs.

Stoned Max and I continued our duties folding the rags coming hot out of the dryer on this cheap wooden worktable that faced a window like a glass portal to the bright and green world outside the carwash.

"Dude," Max blurted out after we went through a silent folding sprint. "Concert's gonna be ill."

With my hands methodically at work, laying each rag precisely in line with the edge of the last, I made an agreeing mumble and then said, "For sure, man."

Suddenly from behind us Rob shouted, "Hey! What did I say about talking?"

At the exact same time, Max and I wheeled our heads around to look at Rob jutting his stocky finger out from across the conveyor belt.

"Dude—I swear that guy has ears like a cat."

"I know, he's like Miss Bergmann."

"She was such a bitch."

"Oh, she was a huge bitch."

Rob boomed Max's name again, and once more we both turned around to see that stocky finger floating in space.

"Max—" Rob said, his voice back at ease. "Go to the back with Joey, seeing as you girls can't shut up."

My automated sarcasm was obliged to remark on Rob's sexism. But, ah. Whatever.

"Dude. Literally Miss Bergmann," Max said as he threw his half-folded rag onto the counter and dragged his feet across a puddle to the back of the garage.

Work was dead to the point where I was able to wash, dry, and fold an entire new collection of rags before another car hovered down the assembly line.

Keeping up with my folding duties, expecting Rob to race up to the register booth, I ignored the woman waiting at the vacant window. But when realizing that the fans were getting louder, and Rob wasn't showing, I soon became aware that I was the only one up front, and so I lunged over the conveyor belt and despite my mathematical limitations, did the dirty work.

With the calculator close at hand, I cashed the woman out (without losing Superior any money...I think), and watched as her van rolled along the assembly line into the digestive system of the carwash.

From the register booth, the woman smiled and said, "My kids wanted to go for the ride."

In my head, I was imagining them going nuts over the brightly colored soap splashing against the windows. And then screaming in harmony after the older boy decided that with the whirling brushes lashing against their car, they were to meet their end.