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Some of my very earliest childhood memories include trips to Octopus Car Wash. I remember pulling up to the gas station when full service was still the norm. The guy at the pumps would fill the tank, regular please, and check the oil and ask what car wash package we wanted. We always chose the option with the fragrance, and that was back when they really sprayed some sort of scent towards the floor mats of your car. I wondered how much our squirt lowered the level in the colorful bottles of potion displayed above the hoses.

After the fill-up, my folks would pull the car around to the wash, and we'd hop out quick so the guys could climb in and start vacuuming the interior. Next stop was to the cashier to pay, and for my sister and I, a chance to check out the gumball machines and pull the knobs and make sure some stray candy wasn't waiting behind the little shiny metal door. Some times the cashier, always a nice looking girl it seems in my memory, would give us a sucker, too. Sometimes we would really hit the jackpot and my parent would buy us a root beer from the vending machine. Then we would race to the steps in front of the windows and wait for our car to cruise by. OK, well, let's be honest, probably most of the time, we would race to the steps and then elbow and jockey our way to the top. And as long as we're being honest, I should probably confess that most time I would probably elbow and push my sister off the steps entirely. I was a bully. So sorry for that, Kimberly.

On good days, we'd take our turn down the row of steps and follow our car through the rinse and wash and rinse and wax cycles, until we walked out to the dryers. It was loud out there, and nobody could hear anybody, and I would always wonder if the car behind would hit the car ahead on the conveyor belt. We'd watch a teen jump into the back seat of our car and spray the windows and wipe them clean. The guys on the outside would dry the bumpers and the lights. Finally, in what seemed like a really long time to wait, someone would wave and we'd hand the guy the stick that showed we paid and climb in again, the damp clean car smell permeating the air.

I still love the car wash. Now I get to pay at a machine by swiping my card. Now I line up my wheels to the belt and follow the sign and put the car in neutral and take my hands off the wheels and wait for the spray. I always think they could give a better effort in cleaning the bugs off my window, and yet, I keep coming back. I always second guess if I have rolled the window all the way up. One day I'll probably really mess up and roll the windows down instead. I wait for the long blue carpet rags to slap the car with suds. I always second guess if I should have paid the couple of dollars extra for the wax that shoots out in colors, and then I always wonder what happens when the wax gets on the windshield... I always get to the end of the tunnel and wait for the blowers to shoot the water droplets off the window, all the while checking the rear view mirror to see if the next car coming from behind is getting too close. I drive around to the free vacuums and get all manner of sand and dirt and organic growth off the floors. I hope not to suck up something that shouldn't be- like the tiny black baby sock that I pulled out of the attachment this week, surely inadvertently lost by a mom trying to regain order in her chariot mini-van.

I almost always hum the chorus to Car Wash, "working at the car wash, yeah."

The car wash- making this customer happy since 1973.