After months of neglect, I decided I should wash my car before my parents came to visit last weekend. (Isn’t that the duty of all daughters? I always make sure to dust and clean my car before any parental visit.) I didn’t want them to think that the Jetta was in as bad of shape as they imagined. (For months my Dad has been telling me to get a new car. But why, I ask, when it’s parked by the curb and gets banged up by all of the poor parallel parkers?)
So, there I was at the drive-thru car wash sitting amongst the power washing and high speed whapping rollers. Aahh.. happiness is a clean car. I rolled over the intermittent tire stoppers in the car wash (not knowing I was running over something important), and made my way out into the world again. It wasn’t until later that night, that I noticed something was missing at the front of my car.
Where was my grille? Did someone steal it? Who steals the front of a car? And then it dawned on me. The car wash. I found the number for the Arco station, and found a guy who spoke broken English on the other side of the line. I painfully described what I thought happened (the evil whappers knocked off my grille in the cleaning cycle). He took down my number and promised to call me back. He did. And, he found the grille! I pumped my fist into the air in a very brief moment of hallelujiahs. And then he dropped the bomb. “It’s broken.” Really? How bad? Can I come pick it up? “Oh, no. It’s in a hundred pieces.” Really? And then he repeated himself again. Got it.
So now I’ve been driving around the city grille-less. Not to worry though, the bass is on full blast.