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“The car wash broke down and I’m stuck inside.” That’s the text I received from my husband Johnny this afternoon.

We had just had a little tiff, a minor thing about him wrecking my gardens with piles of sticks. Then he left to run a few quick errands and I thought, if something happens to him our last conversation would be a fight — about sticks.

A weird amount of time passed and he didn’t come back. Then he texted me, trapped in a death machine.

While the panicked attendant pressed every button, Johnny sat inside his vehicle making lists and sending texts. (He’s never one to waste time.) Finally the attendant asked him to back the truck out, but Johnny was halfway through the car wash and covered with that really sudsy soap. It was all over the track on the ground too. The metal was so slippery the tires just kept spinning, spraying soap everywhere. To get any traction Johnny had to go forward a bit and then throw it in reverse, kinda like rocking a vehicle back and forth when you’re stuck in the snow. So there he was, bopping around, trying to keep the truck in the tracks and trying NOT to hit the car in front that was also stuck. After a few minutes he shot out backwards, like a bar of soap that squibs away from you in the shower, or the phlegmy hairball the cat finally launches.

Not wanting to get stopped for driving while sudsy, Johnny asked the attendant to hose him off. It wasn’t long before he arrived home smiling, as he always does. (And I had picked up the sticks.)

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