...and through the wire

What a fucking ordeal this turned out to be.

My wife regularly parks her car in our driveway and I have claimed the spot in front of my house as mine. I remove my trash cans in the specified amount of time after collection. I shovel the snow off my sidewalk within the specified period after the last flake has fallen. I pay a lot of property taxes. So, I feel I am entitled to the small pleasure of having a space for my car on the street. One that is convenient to my house. I will openly admit that I am pretty protective of that space.

Since I take the train to work, my car sits in front of my house at least five days a week. Sometimes, my wife and I will go out in her car, so I don't even move it on weekends. When I do make a quick trip to the dry cleaners on a Saturday morning, nothing pisses me off more than when I return to find someone has taken my spot, especially if they have recklessly left their vehicle illegally close to the apron of my driveway. I have actually kept tabs on a car parked in "my spot" with periodic surveillance out my front window. As soon as the car pulls away, I run out to my car (parked up the street) and re-park in my rightful space.

A month or so ago, when the weather started getting nicer, I noticed some stains scattered across the sidewalk in front of my house. Upon closer inspection, I found large, oily streaks — long vertical drips, if you will — running the length of my car. My roof, windshield, hood and entire passenger's side were covered with this sticky, greasy, mystery substance. After a little procrastination, I took my car to a car wash, but ended up cleaning that crap off the car myself.  I looked around. There are no tree branches within striking distance of my car. I was baffled by a possible source. I did notice a cable or wire or something (I'm not an electrical contractor, so what do I know?) suspended from a utility line above my car and, obviously, stretching the entire length of my street. However, this particular cable was severed right above my car. Putting two and two together, it seemed that something was leaking from this cable and it was landing on my car. I decided to give the power company a call.

"Danger! Danger! High voltage!"

Coincidentally, we were having some work done in our basement (A pipe had broken inside a wall. Here's how that ended.) and the contractor smelled gas. In the Philadelphia suburbs, the gas and electricity are supplied and serviced by the same utility company. So, a call was made and when the gas worker came to check out the smell, my wife pointed out the cut cable, the stained sidewalk and the new drips on my car. He filled out a report and, later that day, several trucks were lining the street. Hard-hatted guys with strange equipment and clipboards were marching around, looking skyward, taking readings and calling headquarters. A cigar-chomping supervisor explained that someone had taken (read: stolen) the cable housing, as the removal was not authorized by the power company. He said that the material has a high lead content and it is valuable to thieves. The housing, which is now obsolete and no longer in service, was filled with mineral oil to keep the cable lubricated. When it was cut, and the weather got warmer, the oil leaked out all over the sidewalk and my car. He was, however, puzzled by the undetected theft, considering the height and awkward placement of the "spoils."

The workers paraded around my street for hours. About ten o'clock at night, a service truck was spanning my driveway and a worker was hoisted up in a cherry-picker. Armed with — what I can only assume was — heavy-duty, industrial-quality electrical tape, the worker bound each open end of the cut cable, taking extra care to secure a tight barrier of tape around any opening. When he was finished, the cable was twisted, but it would (hopefully) not leak anymore. My car was moved to the foot of my driveway to allow the trucks and workers access to the wires and their task at hand. I had full intention of moving my car back into "my spot" the next morning before I headed down to the train station.

"Not my car!"

Wouldn't you know it! Someone was parked in my goddamn parking space!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

working at the car wash

I never wash my car. Never. I know, as a responsible car owner, you're supposed to, but I never do. And here's why...

Because I take the train to work, my car is parked in front of my house all day, five days a week. (Sometimes more, if I don't drive anywhere on weekends.) Day after day, my car rests comfortably by the curb — silent, undisturbed — obediently waiting for my Saturday trip to pick up my dry cleaning and perhaps a stop at the supermarket. 

A couple of weeks ago, as I descended my front porch steps on my way to the train station, I noticed a number of long, dark strips of something all over the passenger's side of my car. As I moved closer, I saw that the sidewalk was dotted with a similar discoloration. I looked around. Any overhanging tree branches were too far back to drip any sap (or whatever trees drip) on my car. The spots were too numerous, too spread out and not the right color to be bird droppings. I lightly touched and rubbed my finger on one of the many dried streaks that, upon closer inspection, ran the full length of my car. I didn't know what it was... but, if I stood there any longer, I would miss my train. I decided to continue my investigation when I got home from work. When I got home from work, I completely forgot about the stuff all over my car.

Of course, I saw it again the next morning. "Dammit!," I thought, "I better do something about that." In typical fashion, I let it go a few more days. Then, I remembered and I started checking Google for a self-serve car wash near my house. I figured that, when the weekend rolled around, I'd go to one of those places that offer the general public access to a high-powered hose, thus saving me some money. Then, I realized I'd have to buy a sponge and some sort of car-washing detergent, prompting a subsequent visit to an auto supply store. Then I'd have to find some rags. Shit! This was turning into a project. And I hate projects that don't result in some sort of Disneyland vacation at the end.

I changed my Google search to regular car washes and found one that I pass regularly when I go to my local Target store. I figured that paying someone to get that shit off my car was better that wasting my time (read: I'm lazy.) doing it myself.

So, this morning, I drove down to the nearby car wash and swung my car into the driveway, past an active crew of guys drying off a shiny car that had just emerged from the equipment-filled building. I pulled around to the entrance and slowly drove up to the massive car wash "menu." The prices ranged from "The Basic" for $13 all the way up to thirty-five bucks for something called "The Ultimate," that boasted an enhanced list of services, most of which I could not readily identify. A guy sporting a backwards baseball cap approached my car and I told him I'd be going for "The Basic." He typed something into a small terminal, presented me with a voucher and directed me "inside" to pay. Catching a glimpse of two more guys, with backwards baseball caps, prepping my car for entry into the soap-and-automated-brush tunnel. I walked down the narrow hall alongside the actual car wash. The wall to my right was outfitted with huge viewing windows, allowing car owners to keep tabs on their vehicles during every step of the cleaning process — sort of like the windows in a hospital nursery. At the end of the hall, a guy took my voucher and swiped my credit card. I signed the receipt and stepped outside to wait for my freshly-cleaned car.

A blue Honda was parked outside, dripping wet. A few guys, all with backwards baseball caps perched on their heads, wiped off the excess water. The car's owner got up off the waiting bench, folded up her newspaper, and headed over to her car. A minute later, my car emerged. A swarm of workers, backwards baseball caps firmly fitted on their heads, attacked my Toyota with the fervor of a pack of hyenas pouncing on a helpless zebra. My car was briefly obscured by a blur of hands and chamois. During the advertised "hand towel drying" process, I noticed one of the workers hesitantly touching an oily streak on the back window of my car. He then gingerly scratched the smear with his fingernail. Then he quickly buffed the spot with his towel and moved on to the plastic cover on my spare tire. 

A worker cocked his thumb at me, indicating that the car washing process was now completed. I hopped into the driver's seat, readjusted it to my liking and sped off to my next stop — the supermarket. When I arrived, I got out and grabbed a shopping cart from a nearby corral and saw the passenger side of my car was still covered with those grimy streaks, now even more noticeable with the untouched car finish gleaming around them.

After my grocery shopping, I angrily drove home. I raided my basement closet for paper towels and any spray bottle marked "extra-strength" or "grease-cutting formula." I also grabbed a razor blade scraper and couple of cloths that our twice-a-month cleaning lady uses to dust (or whatever she does with them).

I went outside to my car. I scraped and sprayed and wiped and polished until every last bit of that crap was off my car. The car wash had removed none of it. The only reason I went to the car wash was to have those streaks removed... and I had to remove them myself. 

And I did it without a backwards baseball cap.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com