We pull to the back of the truck. It's rear is different. In place of the usual double doors, to the right a solid wall, to the left a chain and drawbridge. As the wash begins to buffet we pull left and use the draft to begin our pass. The car slows when the benefit of moment succumbs to inertia of pressure. To the right, in slow motion, I gaze into the sad brown eyes with their Clairol lashes, each heading to their destiny in Brooks, on their journey to plate and palette.
