//------------------------------// // 263 Car Wash // Story: Tales from a Con // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Car Wash In terms of a low-effort job, it doesn’t come much easier than working at the car wash.  You’re a supervisor, but all you’re supervising is the machines and the customers—who every now and then find a creative way to misuse the car wash. There are very few instructions and very few buttons which need to be pushed, it’s almost impossible to screw it up—but you’ve learned that people are idiots.  A week ago, you were watching a Tom Scott video about bear-proof trash cans for national parks, and the guy who was in charge of testing them out admitted that there was significant overlap between the dumbest humans and smartest bears—he is speaking truth. That’s why your little attendant's stand (the only other thing you supervise) includes a big red ‘STOP’ button, an intercom, and a bevy of cameras monitoring every single nook and cranny of the car wash. You’ve got one earbud in, jamming to your music while your eye scans the soap levels and air blast pressure and brush brushiness—okay, there isn’t a gauge for that—and the steady flow of cars going through the tunnel and emerging out the other side, clean and glistening. As days go, it’s about perfect.  The car wash is busy but not overwhelming, you’ve had plenty of time to make sure that all the machines are in good order, and so far nobody’s done anything dumb. So far. A noise on the intercom gets your attention.  You click to the kiosk cam.  There’s a Chevy Sonic sitting there, a couple cars queued up behind it.  The driver of the car has their hand out the window, pressing the ‘attendant’ button but not saying anything into the box. You frown.  You’ve gotten used to seeing people as blurs through the windshield and maybe an arm out the window, and it’s given you a surprising ability to take the measure of a person just by what you can see of their arm.  This one is short—the car’s pulled up close to the kiosk—and low.  Probably an old lady who doesn’t know how the car wash works. You could tell her to talk into the box, or you could walk outside and see what’s going on. Before you can decide, you hear a strange buzz in the speaker, and then a woman’s voice.  “Hello, I’d like to get a car wash please.” “Pick your wash choice and slide your credit card,” you say automatically. “I only have cash.” This happens sometimes.  You can take cash—you can punch in an override code and let her through.  “Please pull aside to let traffic behind you go through; I’ll be out in a moment.” You watch in the camera as the car awkwardly pulls away from the order kiosk.  Some drivers have trouble if there aren’t lines to guide them. You’ve got a cash box but it’s a pain to carry.  You grab a fistful of dollars out of it—all your prices are in even dollar amounts, which is very convenient.  And then you head out back.  The voice sounded young and had an exotic accent. The Sonic is pulled off to the side as you instructed.  You’re almost up to the car when you catch a reflection in the side mirror—an animal head.  You brain automatically assumes it’s a dog.  Plenty of people cruise around with their dogs, and some of those dogs like sitting on the driver’s lap.  You’re not sure that’s safe. Another part of your brain is wondering why the dog is mulberry colored. As you get closer, one question is answered.  The head in question pops out, and it’s not a dog at all.  It’s a mulberry-colored unicorn.  “Hello, I’m Cinnamon Breeze.” And there’s the exotic accent.  You didn’t really need her name, this isn’t Starbucks.  You falter for a second, unsure how to proceed.  There are a lot of questions suddenly on your mind.  You’d seen ponies around before—there’s a nearby Taco Bell that they visit—but you’d never seen one driving a car. Does she even have a driver’s license? Instead, you ask: “So you don’t have a card, Cinnamon, or it doesn’t work in the machine?” “I don’t have one.  I’m so used to Harper driving through the car wash, I just forgot which one I should bring.  Never paid that much attention to her putting the money in, just which buttons she pushed.” “Harper?” “My girlfriend.  It’s her car.  I thought that there was a money slot like at the spray-it-yourself booth.” “We used to have one.”  That had been fraught with problems—a card swiper was simpler. You look at the car.  For what it is, it’s surprisingly clean.  Some people really do like taking care of their cars, and you’ve seen a few tricked-out Sonics around town. This one is as plain-Jane as they come, a hand-me-down car for a college student or a first car for a young employee taking on the world. It’s clean, but it’s not straight.  There are a few dents in it, a scrape down the side.  Minor body damage on a cheap car doesn’t fit the profile of the vehicles that usually go through the wash, unless they’re really dirty. Not that it should make any difference to you; your job is to attend the car wash, not gatekeep which kinds of vehicles get in and which ones don’t. Well, that’s not entirely true; if it’s something that won’t fit in the car wash or is likely to damage the car wash, you’re permitted to turn it away. No frat boys in an open Jeep, either. [CHOICE] >Something’s fishy, turn her away. (villain) >Her car will fit and she sounds like a regular (hero) [CHOICE A: Villain] Something just seems off about this.  “Does Harper know you’re driving her car?” “She’s out of town,” Cinnamon admits.  “I just wanted to . . . well, I really like the car wash.  It’s a lot of fun to drive through, and since she’s been gone, I haven’t had a chance.” That was weird, but not the weirdest thing you’d ever heard. Then your earlier question resurfaces.  “Do you even have a driver’s license?” She narrows her eyes.  “What are you, a cop?” More and more questions are piling up.  You’ve looked inside the car and it’s unmodified—you’ve seen lots of cars with accessible controls before, but this one doesn’t have them.  How is she even driving it? “No, I’m not a cop,” you tell her.  “But I’d like you to leave before I have to call them.  You present a safety risk to the car wash, and if you really don’t have a driver’s license, a liability risk as well.” [CHOICE B: Hero] Her car will fit and she sounds like she’s been here before, so she probably knows the drill.  “Where’d you learn to drive?” “Oh, I just watched what Harper did, and then we practiced a little in the mall parking lot after hours.  It’s not as complicated as figuring out a Pitco TB-SRTG14 Rethermalizer.” “A what?” “Exactly.”  She reaches down and produces her cash.  You’d expected her to have some kind of purse or maybe a mini saddlebag, possibly a bifold wallet.  You’d never expected her to be a Ridge Wallet type. She slides a twenty off the clip and holds it out for you.  “I’d like the Ultimate, please.” “That’s sixteen,” you say, and hand her four ones.  “If you don’t mind me asking, your car—Harper’s car—looks clean, why are you washing it?” “I just like going through the car wash,” Cinnamon admits.  “It’s fun to ride inside.” You completely understand—one of the perks of being an employee is you can run your car through in the guise of testing the system.  “Did you know that we have a membership?” “You do?” “Yeah, I’ll get a card.  You can go to our website and fill out the form.  You can get The Ultimate for only $30 a month—two car washes and it pays for itself.”  As you’re speaking, you suddenly realize that if she does get a membership, you might be seeing this car daily. Whatever, she’s polite and undemanding.