Off the Wall
Of car washes and TV hunks
“He looked at her …,” I say breathily.
“She looked at him …,” Max growls.
“And those chamois strips started shakin’ …,” Leila says, doing a little shimmy.
Last night on “Ally McBeal,” Ally did it with a total stranger at a car wash.
“Eeeeee!” we squeal like a bunch of schoolgirls. You can smear on Retin-A until the cows come home, but nothing turns back time like basking in the glory of someone else’s sex life.
Dropping a Corningware bowl of nuked Snickers in the middle of the table, Max passes out the spoons. No doubt the Snickers are left over from Halloween it’s the year that’s in question.
“I’ve always dreamed of doing it in a car wash,” Leila says, “… and an elevator … and a corn silo …”
Underneath the style and sophistication, Leila’s just a country girl at heart.
Scrutinizing the crud on her spoon, Rosie carefully slides it out of harm’s way and wipes her hands on her pressed chinos. “What was the man doing at the car wash?” she asks.
“I think he works there,” Max says as she dumps a pint of Haagen-Dazs on the Snickers and tops the whole mess with whipped cream. It’s like watching an artist at work. Max is the Picasso of junk food.
Rosie stares at us in disbelief.
“Ally did it with a man who works at a car wash?” she asks incredulously.
Judging by the look on Rosie’s face, you’d think the guy made a living manufacturing fur toilet seats.
“I think he’s the manager,” Max says, sprinkling on the nuts. Mouths full, Leila and I confirm this with a nod.
Somewhat pacified, Rosie pours herself a cup of hot water.
“How much do you suppose a car wash manager makes?” she ponders as she bobs an herbal tea bag up and down in her cup.
Tossing a cherry into her mouth, Max gives his some thought.
“Well,” she says, rolling the stem from one side of her mouth to the other, “if it’s a high-volume car wash, and he has an employee stock option plan …”
I don’t believe this. We can’t even fantasize about a fictional television character without analyzing the long-term financial ramifications.
“We’re pathetic!” I huff with disdain. “Back in the old days, we’d be talking about what we did last night.”
Shamed silence falls over the room.
“Ladies,” I say solemnly, “instead of just talking about it, I say we just do it at the car wash.”
“At the car wash!!” Leila and Max thunder, stomping the floor and pounding their spoons on the table.
Smugly stirring her tea, Rosie stares at us like the Grinch who stole Christmas. No one can ruin the mood like Rosie. The woman’s like nonsurgical neutering.
“I have one little word for you,” she says, tinging her spoon dry. “Husbands.”
That pretty much takes the shimmy out of our chamois. After years in captivity, the only way our boys would roar at the car wash is if the brushes scratched the paint. (Copyright 1999 P.S. Wall. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate.)