You can always tell when spring arrives in New England. Daffodils pop
up, snowbanks are hard to find, and car freaks invade the shopping
mall parking lots with their weekend car shows. These auto exhibitionists
have switched their convertibles into topless mode, throwing
open their hoods to expose their gleaming engines to onlookers.
Some passersby will sneak a peek. Others don’t get it. To them, well polished
carburetors and shiny spark plug wires are a temptation
It’s a disturbed mind that spends an entire afternoon with Q-tips,
polishing the car’s dashboard instrument cluster. For anyone to dedicate
his or her life to detailing greasy engines and simonizing bumpers
and rear axles is sick! Auto engines are filthy. They are meant to
be filthy! God never intended these engines to be scrubbed so clean
you could eat off them. You want your scrambled eggs and bacon?
Get a dinner plate. You want the grime and mud off your car? Drop
a few coins in the ScrubaDub Car Wash. Leave your hood down to
cover up your motor—because normal people don’t need to know,
don’t even care, about that muck accumulating on your engine’s cylinder
block. No engine police inspectors are checking to see if
the valve cover has gunk on it.
Onlookers might be fooled into thinking they
are seeing exquisite motorcars far superior to their rust buckets.
Little do they realize they are witnessing something much darker.
In reality, what they are looking at is the wasted lives of guys
with troubled minds and far too much free time. I know this because
I am one of those troubled guys.
What we do is compulsive. We’ve got an out-of-control obsession
that is not normal. We squander countless hours fussing over
our cars like a mother orangutan grooms her young.
There is no single diagnosis that explains why my fraternity of
troubled individuals wastes their lives with rags in hand, polishing.
According to one theory, some of us have this peculiar mindset:
our cars are material extensions of our egos. If you kick our bumpers
or fenders, we feel as though you’ve kicked us in the kneecaps.
Alternatively, when we see people gathered around our shiny, vision-of-
perfection roadsters, our egos soar to euphoric highs.
For other distraught guys, a day spent scrubbing and wiping
is a therapeutic thing. According to this thesis, washing all those
splotches of tar, grime, and bug splats down the drain is like purging
the mind of its torment. Polishing our cars provides the same self-realization
fulfillment as we would get spending an hour with our
psychotherapists—at a price we can afford.
For still others, this is a transformational, Zen moment.
Remember the Karate Kid movie where Japanese Master Miyagi
helps the young man realize his quest to become a martial arts
champ? The kid is promised that if he waxes the master’s pickup
truck, the inner mysteries of karate will be revealed to him. The kid
keeps scouring and polishing. After weeks of scrubbing, he not only
wins his championship and the pretty girl; he also becomes one with
the universe—and Miyagi’s old truck. All of us car-washing guys
should be so lucky. (I’m still waiting.)
Then some guys are more difficult to diagnose. They
are called to the chamois skin and car wax by some inexplicable,
higher force of nature.
Car guys feel an imperative primal urge—a bit like the wildebeest migrating
across the Serengeti. He gets the call. He doesn’t think
about it. He just ups and goes.
When the first sunny day of spring arrives, I pay homage to this
car cleansing force. Once the warmer
weather arrives, my roadster must sparkle! That higher power calls
down, “Grab the chamois, the soap, and the hose!”
Who am I to contradict a thundering voice like that?
Is that a scratch in the wheel well?
Are there pebbles stuck in the tire tread?
Is that a fingerprint on the windshield?
All must be whisked away.
By the end of the day, I’ve had more than enough. With
sunburn, sweat on my brow, and an ache in my shoulders, I stand
back to admire the immaculate results of my labors. The garage is
a pigsty of mud puddles, filthy paper towels, and overpriced squirt
cans. My body feels crippled, and my wife’s weekend chore list hasn’t
But not to worry. Sitting there, gleaming like a movie star on the
red carpet, is my roadster. My mind is torment-free, and I’m at one
with the universe. What could be better?
That’s not crazy, is it?