The Grim Reaper at the Car Wash

Last week, I took my Chevy Colorado to get emission tested, a Texas requirement for registration. Since the car wash here does the testing, I decided to double up and get a fresh shine on the truck. In the lounge area, because it’s 105 outside, I awaited Sequoia’s run through the sudsy conveyer. She inched past the glass partition, gleaming in her crimson brilliance. Following close behind was a stately, black hearse. Gold trim on the side and the familiar long bed, the hearse slid through and sidled up behind Sequoia in the drying section.

The sight of the funeral vehicle brought a song to mind–Will the Circle Be Unbroken (check it–a great version by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and their all-star friends). I’d heard the old gospel song but never really paid attention. I just blithely sang along with the chorus. Seemed like an upbeat song, packed with fiddles and banjos and guitars. Then one day I really heard all the lyrics. Holy cats, what a sad song! Spoiler: it’s a plea to the undertaker to drive slowly as the singer is following his mother to the cemetery.

That tune was the my first thought at the car wash, and I couldn’t shake it from my head. Curious, I scanned the waiting area, an easy task since it was just me and a dowdy middle-aged woman in a red t-shirt and shorts. She wasn’t cradling a scythe or dressed in an oversized black hoodie. I meandered to the bathroom but couldn’t even detect a faint aroma of lilies when I passed by. Pretty crafty disguise, methinks.

I know, I know. The driver of a hearse isn’t necessarily the Grim Reaper. I’ve driven a bus and that doesn’t make me a greyhound. But what if? On this day, I just wanted a clean truck, not a chaperone from this life to the Great Beyond.

I gave up my subtle surveillance of the waiting area and turned back to the parking lot where overheated workers were putting the finishing touches on Sequoia (and yes, I left a tip for the overheated laboring souls). But I knew she was behind me, watching and waiting. I turned. She was seated in the corner, tapping away on her phone, her flip-flops bobbing in rhythm, probably to Will the Circle Be Unbroken. She felt my gaze, lowered her bifocals, and raised her eyes to meet mine. She smiled broadly.

Sure, it could have been just a friendly gesture so common in Texas. Strangers greet each other all the time. It also could have been my devastating good looks (ya know, for 63 I’m not bad). Could be an overreaction on my part, but I took it as an invite to hitch a ride to the Pearly Gates. Not yet, Ms. Death! I’m not ready to be your newest tenant in the marble orchard. I turned away.

I finally received a wave from a worker; my vehicle was ready. Crossing the pavement to be reunited with my truck, I passed two young women drying the death wagon. The taller one gestured to the other, and they both stuck their faces close to the back window. I couldn’t understand their Spanish, but I heard the word “morte.” I veered close enough to see the long, dark-colored rectangular box in the back. Extended gold handles on the outside and, no doubt, silk-lined on the inside. I did not see a vacancy sign.

I hustled past the ebony cab. From the door of my Colorado, I saw the pale rider ambling toward her vehicle. She paused at her eternal carriage and gave me a little wave and another smile. Emily Dickenson’s line replayed in brain (call it the curse of being an English teacher):

Because I could not stop for Death

He kindly stopped for me.

This was no time to be philosophical or meditative. I jumped in Sequoia and hit the gas. Satchel Paige said, “Don’t look back, somebody might be gaining on you.” Seemed like a good time to heed his words. I spun my tires on the soapy sidewalk and cut off a Camry, blended into traffic, and hightailed it home.

Now, Sequoia needs another bath. What do I do?