America, let me tell you something. Back in the late 90s, running a car wash in Houston and Wharton, Texas was like playing ball in the NBA—everybody was in the game, but only a few knew how to really win. It was hot, hotter than two fat men in a sauna fighting over the last towel. I ain’t lying! The sun beat down on you like it had a personal vendetta, and let me tell you, there was a car wash on every corner.

Competition? Man, it was cutthroat. You’d pull up to a stoplight and see five different dudes with buckets, rags, and that same look in their eyes—hustle or go home hungry. You’d think people were selling gold instead of car washes, the way they tried to snatch up every customer.

But I wasn’t just another kid with a sponge and a dream. Nah. I was detailing cars and aircraft, making that shine so deep you could see your tax problems in the reflection. But even with skills, it was hard to get work most of the time.

By Charles