Working At The Wheelchair Wash

Wheelchairs should have their own washing services.

  I was eating breakfast one saturday morning and looking at a car magazine. At sixteen I was already dreaming about having my own vehicle. I knew it would have to be a van to accommodate my wheelchair. 

"Dad, when am I getting a car?" I asked, flipping through the pages of the magazine.

"When you get your license," he answered, "but I'll tell you one thing, if you treat a car the way you treat your wheelchair you won't have it very long."

"What does that mean?" I frowned.

"It means you better be more cautious when you drive, don't let it run on empty and keep it clean. Just look at your wheelchair. I don't think you've ever washed it. You need to do that this afternoon," he said.

  Later, I took my wheelchair outside. I got a bucket of soapy water, a sponge and set to work. I intended to make my purple wheelchair look as shiny as a new car. I scrubbed hard and for what felt like an hour, giving it a good twice over. However, for all of the effort, my wheelchair seemed just as dirty as when I started. My sister offered to help.

"Maybe you should use some kind of cleaner," she suggested after trying to scrub some of the dirt off. 

  I went to the kitchen and looked under the sink where the cleaning products were kept. There was wood furniture polish, glass cleaner, tile scrub, sink and toilet cleanser and oven cleaner.

"Do you think oven cleaner would work?" I asked my sister.

"Seems closer to the stuff the wheelchair's frame is made of," she replied.

"Yeah, I was thinking that too." I grabbed the oven cleaner, two rags and went back out to where my soapy wheelchair was drip drying. 

  I skimmed the directions on the back of the can. 

"It says to let it sit for about thirty minutes before wiping off," I said. "Since this is a wheelchair, not an oven, I'm just gonna give it ten, then scrub and rinse."

  I only sprayed the white foam on the wheelchair's frame. The tires, I'd cleaned successfully with the soapy water. After ten minutes, my sister and I began scrubbing the foam from the frame.

"Oh my god, stop-stop-stop!" I shouted.

"Uh-oh," my sister said at almost the same time.

"Quick, we gotta wash this off," I said, grabbing the hose. My sister turned it on and I sprayed the frame clean of foam.

"Well that was a bad idea," I sighed, examining my wheelchair. 

  The oven cleaner worked a little too well. It removed the dirt, but it also stripped much of the purple paint off, particularly where my sister and I scrubbed. I couldn't hope that my dad wouldn't notice so when he came home later I told him what I'd done. He shook his head and laughed in disbelief.

"It's a good thing for your future car that you can take it to a carwash."