I was too young to experience those old carnival rides. The ones I’ve seen in movies where the young couples settle down into their boats shaped like a swan and go into the beautiful dark to do god-knows-what for a few short minutes. It’s something that I‘ve only seen in old movies, since theme parks stomped it out long ago, but I don’t think the spirit behind the ride left Americana completely. It’s as if The Tunnel of Love adapted itself for a more serious, less fanciful generation, and somehow through all the changes turned into something its creators probably never expected it to become; with rides called “Autobell’s Car Wash,” “The Drive and Wash” and the one I’m driving to, “Larry’s Wash N’ Go”..

I show the attendant my crumpled coupon, pay the admission, and drive to where he tells me to go, putting it in neutral when the car is set on the track. Me and my new companion smile at each other as we enter the dark, as if preparing for the ride. It starts with florescent-looking lights on the side, which always makes me wonder whether they really do anything or if they’re just there to bring a carnival feel. The radio softly plays some horrible pop music that I’m too lazy to turn off. We turn away and watch with vague delight as the car is sprayed with water from huge hoses on the sides. He turns to me to smile and share his amusement, but seems to linger a bit too long as he does it, unconsciously warping the tone of the car ride. His smile falters a little and eventually falls with indecision, only making it more obvious that it wasn’t my imagination or my own expectations. Playing along, I lean a little bit more in my seat and keep eye contact with him, biting my lip a little bit for good measure. Luckily for me, this makes him look at my lips instead of my eyes; I’ve never been able to fake timidity with my eyes, they always seem to give the sport away. Luckily the lip biting maneuver is all he needs.

He leans in towards me with a look of pure insecurity and I just drink it in. The nervous distance between us makes me want to smile, though I resist the urge to as soon as it comes on. The game is too much fun to end now. Watching him linger there with no passion, just hesitance, goes down cool in my gut and I’m pleased by the fact that there is no poorly-hidden romanticism or one night stand apathy in his body language. As blue and red foam covers the car in stripes and tints the inside with surreal neon light, I meet him for what can only be described as a stutter-kiss; not separate kisses, but a single kiss that falters, flinches, and comes back in to make up for it’s lack of confidence.

I love how he holds me, not around my neck or my hip, but loosely on my arms. He doesn’t try to keep me there, but more like he isn’t really sure where to put his hands. The second rinse rains over our car and I watch it through his side window while he falters and returns back to my mouth. There’s something about this game that’s so addictive, I just love the tension of it. It’s not sexual tension, or even built up adoring passion, but something completely outside of it. The sensation of flat, meaningless tension between two people feels like it’s never happened before every time I start one of these rounds. The track moves forward again towards the loud drying jets at the end of the tunnel, making him jerk a short ways away from my lips. For a moment, he keeps his hands on my arms, unmoving, and I keep one of my hands on the stick shift, the other on his knee.

Moments later, he won’t look at me, but I know he wants to. Instead he stares at the cloth wiping off my squeaky clean car as if this was also a part of the ride, but I know better. The way his head slightly twitches in my direction, as if he wants to look my way but forces himself not to, he gives himself away. I’m perfectly fine, but for the sake of the act I start tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and glancing everywhere around the car. As soon as I think the awkwardness is at its peak, I mention nonchalantly “You know, we have two free washes with a purchase of one”.

His head stops following the cloth and instead focuses on one place on the window. Slowly he replies in an unnatural way, “Rain-ex or body gloss?”

I pause and cock my head as if I’m actually taking the question seriously, and reply in a light tone, “I was thinking body gloss.” I pull back toward the attendant, show him my receipt, and drive back slowly into the dark.