Minutiae

As a consumer, I hate to feel like a rube, but that's exactly how I felt today.
With all the snow and ice we've had lately, my car had come to resemble a rolling powdered donut. Even though we're getting more as I write (snow, not donuts), I felt it was necessary to take the car to the local car wash - along with several hundred of my neighbors. That's not the rube part.

The rube part came when I requested the service. They have 3 levels - Regular ($9), Super ($10) and Ultra ($12). Nothing better than ultra, right? The cars were practically bumper-to-bumper rolling through the place, and (the rube) I said, "Ultra", figuring that I should get the wax and the undercarriage wash. Good thinking right? No.
There is no way for the car wash to know which level of service I requested, and with so many people there, and the customers paying at random, how was the attendant to know which car was mine? He didn't - which is where the rube part comes in. There is no special designation given to the level of service, so how does the machine know that I paid for Ultra? Rube. Me.
It rolled through there with all the others, and I really have no idea whether I got hot wax or donut glaze, but I do know that I paid $12 for the privilege. Next time, it's the Regular, trust me.

While I was waiting, and watching the car as I peered through the big pane of glass, the guy in front of me (with the giant Lexus truckster) starts in on me. His issue is with the guy who regularly washes his car. God forbid the joker actually washes it himself.
It began innocently enough...

"This is the first time I've ever taken my car to a car wash," he proclaimed, as if I was supposed to have a special gift for him or something.
"Really?" I wondered, thinking that he must lead a life of privilege, with the Lexus and all. "You always wash it yourself?"
"No, I have a guy who washes it for me." As I realized that I was right about the life of privilege part.
Then, he starts in. See if you can detect the subtle nuances of his monologue...
"And I call the f***ing guy, and he f***ing doesn't call me back."
At this point, he's about 3 inches from my face, and in great danger of violating the man-stranger/me personal space limits.
"I guess the guy doesn't need the work?" I wondered, backing away now and starting to wish I had someone to wash my car.
"No, the f***ing guy doesn't need the f***ing money, I guess. F*** him, the mother f***er."

I'm starting to think that his anger isn't a direct match to the situation.
"So, now, I've got to bring the f***ing thing in here," he said, as though we were in some lower level of Hell. Hey, it's a car wash; and back the f*** up, Chief.
When I told him that I usually take my car to the White Glove, there began another string of "they f***ed my car up", "charged me 28 f***ing dollars" ... etc. You get the picture. And, it occurred to me that maybe this wasn't his first time at a car wash. The f***ing liar.

So, now as we're f*** buddies, and wandering out of the joint, the thought occurs - How does he know that the peppery language doesn't offend me? It doesn't, and I'll use it myself, but I'll never use it to a stranger that I'm standing three inches away from. I wonder what would have happened if I had asked him to stop?
It's probably how he talks all the time, and maybe the guy who washes his f***ing car finally got tired of it, and that's why he didn't call him back?