Justice at the Carwash

Justice at the Car Wash

750 words inspired by a trip to the car wash this afternoon. © 2025 to the author.

You see all kinds at the car wash.

There's a blonde with a Benz and a frozen face who comes in every Thursday. Botox Barbie always gets the deluxe package and she never tips. She wears a Cartier watch, has a Louis Vuitton bag, and why she brings the car herself is a mystery to me. Oh, well. She comes, she goes. I admire her tits and don't envy her husband.

Then there's Linda. Sixty-five if she's a day, drives a ten-year-old Kia and always gives me a crisp five-dollar bill, like it's Christmas and I'm her favorite nephew. But she has the sweetest smile and brings me homemade cookies, so I charge her like it's still 2007 and we both pretend not to notice the price board. I'm no saint, but I believe in watching out for the Lindas of the world.

The dudes are the dudes. Some act like regular guys, some always have a new joke and a smile, and some are - not nice. Like Bruce the Bruiser.

Bruce and Nancy come in every other Saturday with their Land Rover. Nice vehicle - too good for him, kind of like his wife. Nancy's a pretty redhead, always pays with a smile; meanwhile, he struts around like his pecker's so big he can't walk normally. You know - that fucking guy.

Bruce loves to watch me clean his car. Most people hang in the waiting room, but he ignores the "staff only" sign so he can tell me, "scrub harder" or "you missed a spot, so no tip this time, loser!"

Again, that fucking guy.

So I was surprised when Bruiser brought in the Land Rover on a Tuesday morning, and ordered the deluxe detailing service, the one that takes half a day. It's a pain in my ass, but it's a money maker, so I keep it on the menu.

I climbed down the ladder, glad to stop trying to fix the security camera in the service bay. Damn thing's always breaking down.

"Where's the wife?" I asked, swiping his credit card.

"Just wash the fucking car, inside and out," he growled. "It better look like new when I get back."

"Any trouble spots?"

He shrugged.

"Yeah, I hit a dog yesterday. She made me put it in the back and go to the vet. It bled out. Huge fucking mess."

Sighing, I nodded, not looking forward to the job.

"Stupid bitch," he added. "She shoulda seen it wouldn't live. But she always had a thing for goldies, whatcha gonna do?"

His phone's text alert buzzed. Pretty blonde, huge tits. He smirked.

I frowned.

"I charge extra for blood."

He sneered, then shrugged.

"Figures." Taking out his wallet, he peeled five hundred bucks off a wad of bills and shoved them at me. "It better be showroom ready when I get back."

I nodded.

"You waiting here?" I asked.

"In this shithole? Nah, I'll call a buddy. Text me a pic when you're done so I know you did the job right."

Not exactly the way to ensure good service, but I liked his wife, so once he left, I drove the Landy into the bay and got to work.

The front of the car looked clean; the back was a nightmare. In the car wash, you learn to tune out smells, but even I couldn't ignore the metallic tang of blood. Warm as it was, the flies would move in soon, so that was priority one.

I reached for the hose, then stopped, perplexed.

I'm no genius but I ain't dumb, either. Something seemed - off. I scratched my head. Bruiser had mentioned a goldie - but I didn't see any light dog fur. My Uncle Petey had one and it shed all over everything, all the time. I'd swear on a stack that the Landy had never seen a goldie.

I got the flashlight and climbed in. Still no dog fur - but some red hairs smushed into the bloody carpet glinted in the light.

Red hair, I thought, and sat up so suddenly I banged my head on the roof.

Nancy - who Bruce talked about in the past tense.

I thought very hard.

Later, I told the cops Bruiser ignored the "staff only" sign like he always did when he walked in to check up on me, and slipped and fell into the grease pit. Musta hit his head. Yeah, the security camera broke again Monday, so no footage. Sorry.

Like I said, I'm no saint. But Nancy was.