On (Not) Washing Your Car

I often walk in the early mornings, around sunrise. Sometimes I see the following remarkable phenomenon: a man out washing his car. (Yes, always a man.)

What's so remarkable about this? For one thing, the car is always clean before it is washed, already the cleanest in the neighborhood. No doubt a certain type of eye could have found an imperfection of dirt in it somewhere, though who but this man himself would inspect his car so closely? Maybe washing it again gives is a special sheen? Well, maybe so! -- but the difference is at most incremental and brief, thin pay for his labor.

Does he enjoy washing his car? Probably he does; and it gets him out in the morning air. But why should one enjoy washing a car more than washing dishes, or going for a walk, or lingering over the newspaper, or gardening, or any of the many other things a man could do in the morning for profit, pleasure, kindness, or self-maintenance? Surely he's not simply bored?

No, he loves his car. In washing, he caresses it. He spins the shammy cloth with a flourish. He takes comfort in the ritual. He tells himself it's only a chore, that he doesn't want to do it but he should -- that those of us who wash our cars at more moderate intervals are slovenly. Is his car a production of his hands to be proud of, a rebuilt 1932 Ford, maybe? No, it's an ordinary 2005 Lexus -- a "prestige" car. Is he proud of that? He is, of course, in his secret heart (and why not?), but also -- perhaps more -- he delights in the car itself, in its shine, its smooth surfaces, its power.

My father drove his cars into the ground. He never washed them. Following my father, I used to be proud, too, in my own perverse way -- proud that I drove a dirty 1985 Corolla rather than a two-year-old Lexus, proud precisely because it was an old and dirty car, and so -- I thought -- it said something about where my values, time, and money were: somewhere other than my car!

That pride was misplaced, though. I would never say the same about having an unwashed body and clothes. I would never sport them proudly as evidence that I have better things to do with my time and resources than take a shower and use a washing-machine! The Corolla is gone; I wash my two-year-old Honda, though not as often as I should.

My father always lived next-door to car-washers. He was always friendly with them, and them with him; but they could never entirely understand each other.

(Revised August 30.)