I couldn’t believe it when I walked out of work and into the parking lot. Sitting next to my car was this stunning black vehicle, freshly waxed and glistening in the sun. It had the shimmer of unrefined oil — spotless, smooth, nearly perfect. It was like staring into a cosmos devoid of stars.
“WOW!” I remarked, and then turned to my car. Pollen and dirt and filth (even dog hair!) emanated from it like Pigpen in “Peanuts.” A little pollen tornado raced up the windshield. And there on the hood, it seemed a drunken gang of birds figured it would be hysterical to “let loose” on my sad vehicle. Maybe they were trying to spell: “Hey buddy, wash your car!”
What a disgrace. (I thought about sprinkling a pinch of dirt on the other car’s side view mirror, but couldn’t bring myself to destroy perfection.)
“How?!?” I wondered to myself. I don’t care if that car sleeps in the garage. I don’t care if its owner just washed and waxed it that morning. I don’t care if it was sprayed with some top secret, military-grade repellant that is used for warding off missiles. It’s March in Florida and a car can’t sit for 5 minutes without being covered in a 2-inch thick crust of pollen. That’s the rule!
Some states dig out from snow this time of year. We dig out from pollen.
So how was this possible? Who were these people? How did they do it? Are they just impeccably neat? Do they have super powers? Why is it some people never seem to fall victim to the pollen? Or the rain streaks. Or the devious birds. Their cars always sparkle and shine.
Mine don’t even sparkle after I wash them. Inevitably I miss a whole quarter panel or drive out of the car wash into a giant mud puddle. Or I park beneath a conference for pelicans.
If car manufacturers came out with a color called “slightly dusty,” I would pay extra for it. It would save me the futility of trying to get back that factory-grade finish.
But some people do it, even this time of year. I picture a team of auto detailers who travel around behind them like NASCAR pit crews. “A leaf in the grill!!! Exterminate it NOW!!!” they yell while jumping into action. My car has so many leaves, it was once mistaken for an oak tree and trimmed by the power company.
I want perfection, too, but somehow it always escapes me. What am I doing wrong?
“I’m not dirty,” I reassured myself as I drove home, dust following me like Pigpen. “It’s just pollen season, and that band of drunken birds out to get me.”