Don’t Tell John

So John came over last weekend.

Travolta?

No, but that would have been cool.

It was John, the car detailer, and star of my story, R-Rated Car.

Two years ago, John detailed my 2005 Honda Pilot. The numerous dents, hanging bumper, and make-up covered steering wheel nearly destroyed him.

But John was a survivor, and here he was, in my driveway, ready to take on my latest car; a 2013 Mazda, with only minor dents, a fully intact bumper, and a visible steering wheel.

I don’t want to brag, but she was a beaut!

“It’s a lot better than my last car,” I said to John.

“The Honda Pilot…” John said, trailing off.

Was that a tear?

I opened the passenger door. “Look how clean this car is.”

John stepped forward and leaned inside. He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

“Uh, I may have spilled some coffee, once or twice…”

…a week.

John sighed.

I opened the back door and took a whiff. 

Honestly, I don’t know what the problem was. It smelled like coffee. Coffee = Good.

“Don’t you worry,” John said. “When I’m done, you won’t even recognize it.”

And he wasn’t kidding.

Two hours later, the windows sparkled, the hubcaps gleamed, and the smell…

I leaned into the front seat and inhaled deeply. “It’s like fresh pine.”

“It’s called clean,” John said.

John was right. Clean is better than old coffee.

“Hopefully it stays that way.” 

We’ll see.

“It will,” I promised.

“Remember, I know where you live,” John joked.

Or was he joking? He did know where I lived. What if he dropped by a month from now, just to see if I was taking good care of the car? Are follow-up car inspections a thing?

That afternoon, we took my car to a Rams game. Like a pretty girl on a Saturday night, she deserved to be shown off.

“Wow,” my friend Lisa commented, when she hopped in the back seat. “It looks great, and it smells like…”

“A field of lavender?” I said.

“I was going to say, better than usual,” she replied. “But, sure.”

“And it’s going to stay that way, right?” My husband said, raising an eyebrow.

We’ll see.

“Of course,” I said.

I could feel eyes rolling. Apparently, I have a reputation. But that was going to change. This new heavenly aroma was here to stay.

And it did…

…For the first 10 minutes of our tailgating. That’s when someone spilled the beans (not figuratively). Beans and bean juice were literally spilled all over the back bumper.

But it didn’t end there. A short while later, someone overturned a bag of chips, and despite our best efforts, smashed chips decorated the trunk.

We may have been able to remove the chips, but because someone knocked over a beer in the same spot, the chips had soaked into the upholstery. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a fruity ale, with hints of citrus. But it wasn’t.

It was a crappy Coors Light. (Pardon the redundancy.)

We all stared at the carnage.

Goodbye, Fresh Pine.

Farewell, Fields of Lavender.

Hello, Taco Bell and Frat House.

All eyes turned to someone, who was surveying the damage.

“Sorry,” my husband said, finishing what was left of his Coors Light. 

He turned to me. “Please don’t tell John.”

We’ll see.