My Friend Marco

Marco is a round latino man who works in a carwash. Not washing, but writing up the slip. Marco’s job is taking your order, asking what kind of air freshener you want, and scribbling something in grease pencil on your window. He is also charged with trying to upsell. If you want a regular wash and wax, he’ll try to get you to spring for the deluxe.
He sold me on a hand-wax job.
When I got out of the car, I had in my hand a book by John Irving. Marco sees it, and comments on it. “Good book” he says. “Oh, you read this”? I ask. And so the conversation begins. We both like Michael Connolly, John Grisham. He's read Scott Turow, James Patterson, Jeffrey Deaver.He asks if I like Dean Koontz. “Sure”, I say even though it is a lie.
“He was my pen-pal when I was in prison.” Marco is really proud of this. Lots of time to read in prison, I'm thinking.
“He used to slip some money into the books he sent, so I could buy some stuff. He even used my name in one of his books.” Marco is fairly beaming now, telling me about his celebrity pen pal.
This is approximately when he makes the hand-wax sale. Because I am a literary type, like him, Marco will give me the hand wax for only $20 additional. Normally it would be $30. I decide to splurge. My car will look really nice. And besides, Marco here is my friend. We’re readers. We both like mystery writers. We’re of a kindred spirit. Not only that, but he's Dean Koontz's pen pal.
I like Marco. It’s a good feeling to make a new friend, to connect on a human level. This is very rare in LA. Everyone here is so obsessed with celebrity and status. I wonder what Marco was in for. What was his crime? I should have asked him, I think,as I walk into the carwash to pay the bill.