I once had a job cleaning and preparing limousines before they would
leave the hangar and go out. I washed, waxed and vacuumed the
limousines. I cleaned the windows —
I had to use newspapers instead of paper towels or rags. I cleaned the
tires, made them shine and cleaned out the grime that accumulates in
the wheels. I checked the headlights, the turn signals, the brakes and
the windshield wipers. I checked the oil and the windshield wiper
fluid. The insides were full of that tacky decor: neon pink and blue
lights, blinking lights, unnaturally cold leather. They smelled like
bodily fluids ten years removed. I placed colored napkins in champagne
flutes and filled the buckets with ice. I put DVDs in the DVD players.
Everyone thinks being a limousine driver is lowly, but no one thinks of
the person who wipes down the leather and the vinyl and vacuums the
glitter. I only bring all this up because when people ask what kind I
of writer I am, I have a hard time answering this question, even though
I love it. But when people used to ask about cleaning limousines, I
could talk all night about it, even thought I hated it.
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Read TE's "Dressing Down."
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