Sweet Talker
Three little girls shill passing motorists: "Get your car washed! Send us to Disneyland!"
I think of the two dollar bills tucked into my sock for a cool drink on the return leg of my ride. What the hell, I think. They've got a hose.
"Clean my bike for two bucks?"
The girls eye me warily, looking for the catch.
"Sure", one says. The other two stare me down.
I surrender my muddy bicycle to the gabby one.
At some unseen signal they make for the bucket and sponges, but before starting the job, paint their faces with soapy mustaches and goatees.
"For the lovely senorita!" they ham it up and bow and go to work like dervishes.
I laugh and tell them they look like my uncles in soaked shorts and pastel tank tops; a trio of prepubescent little old men.
They descend on my bike shrieking like macaws as both water and Brittany Spears fill the air.
Their motivation is apparent as they make short work of my bike. I am ready to roll after the final rinse, but they won't have it. They diligently towel dry every inch of the bike, down to the tires.
Their beards have dripped off their faces and one spits out bits of her mustache as they sweet talk me, vying for a much deserved tip. I wish I had twenty dollars instead of two to give them.
My 'Say hi to Mickey for me' falls on deaf ears. They are already sizing up their next customer, a young man with a shaved head and mutton-chop sideburns driving a low-rider pickup truck.
"Get your car washed! Now we need spending money!" rings in my ears and I see one girl paint soapy sideburns on her face. The young man smiles.
Sweet talkers.