Pressure Washing Down Memory Lane
I wouldn’t call pressure washing the most stressful or emotive job in the world. I usually get to clean long-neglected backyards, oily driveways, the occasional rusty fence or a construction site in the finishing stages of development. But once in a while, I get a case to remind me why I love what I am doing.
It was in the middle of October, and I was preparing for a football night with a few friends. The Chiefs were playing the Bills on Sunday afternoon. It was expected to be the regular game of the season – Josh Allen was one of the few quarterbacks that could give us trouble, and the Bills defence was legit. So I had my keg of Bud Light, some nachos with cheese, chips, and freshly roasted ribs, and I was getting ready to watch Patrick Mahomes and my boys dismantle Buffalo.
Then, the one thing I hate the most happened – my work phone started buzzing. I work until noon on Sundays, and my regular customers know that, so I assumed it was a new one. I looked at the screen and saw an unknown number, but the code was local. I was strongly tempted to disregard the call, but my professionalism kicked in, and I answered.
The woman on the other side of the line was audibly agitated. She began describing the damage done to her property. Apparently, a bunch of hooligans had channeled their “creative energy” on her restaurant’s front. The whole facade from top to bottom, windows included, was covered in graffiti. “We tried anything to remove them, but they just won’t come off. They fade a bit, but it would take us a week to make the place look respectable. I got your number from a friend who highly recommended you. Would it be possible to come tomorrow and see what you can do about it?”
I only had one job booked for Monday, so I asked the woman to give me the address and her opening hours. When she did, my jaw almost hit the floor – I knew the place! It was one of the best-known barbecue joints in Springfield, and I couldn’t imagine any local doing anything so stupid.
Let me take that back – to say I know the place is quite an understatement. When I was a little kid, my Dad took me and my brother for a barbecue lunch every Sunday. It was a men-only affair (Mom had her book club friends come to the house for brunch), and as time passed by, it almost felt like a right of passage into adulthood. The Sunday lunches were easily the highlight of the week – we loved the rowdy yet friendly atmosphere of the place, the spicy jokes that would never be tolerated at home, the talk of football, local politics, and work. I might have been ten at the time, but I felt like a real man when the waitress would unload the ribs, french fries and sides on the table, and we would listen to the grown men talk. The worst punishment for not doing our homework, chores, or any other mischief would be Mom taking us to our grandparents on Sunday and missing the barbecue feast.
To make a long story short – this job felt a lot more personal. The next day, I headed towards the barbecue to evaluate the situation. I was in a belligerent mood (the Bills had beaten the Chiefs with a late 4th-quarter touchdown) and felt like unloading my pent-up anger on the graffiti. Arriving at the place, I could see why the restaurant manager had been so upset. Large black and dark blue graffiti covered the entire front side. The anonymous artists had not discriminated between glass and concrete. Not that the graffiti was obscene or insulting – it was just ugly and ruining the cozy atmosphere of the restaurant.
The restaurant manager turned out to be a spry and welcoming lady in her fifties. She told me that she had already contacted the police, but even if they caught the hooligans, it wouldn’t make an immediate difference. “We tried every detergent in our store room, but nothing seems to work. We have powerful degreasers, but I am not sure it is a good idea to use them on concrete.”
“It isn’t. Besides, kitchen detergents are not meant to deal with permanent spray. But I guarantee we will have your facade sparkling in no time!”
She didn’t look particularly convinced, but I knew better – even the most resistant spray had no chance. I had to split the job into two stages – working on the concrete first and then treating the windows. I set my pressure washing jet level at 3000 PSI and started blasting the spray. It began to come off immediately in dark streaks down the facade. Twenty minutes later, half of the barbecue front looked as if it had been repainted yesterday.
I knew working on the windows would be a bit more tricky. I changed the nozzle and started at 1300 PSI, but the pressure was insufficient. Going over 1700 was not a choice, so I kept my fingers crossed that 1500 would be enough – otherwise, I would have to use additional detergents. At first, nothing happened – the spray obstinately clung to the glass surface. But a colleague had mentioned a trick – do not keep the nozzle straight at the area you treat; instead, start moving it in a circular motion clockwise. It worked! Slowly but steadily, the window graffiti became unglued and started disintegrating. It did take me another forty minutes to clean the four large front windows, but the effort was worth it. By the end of the job, not a single square inch of spray had remained on the barbecue facade.
“You are as good as advertised!” the restaurant manager exclaimed when she saw the results. Her face was beaming with delight.
“Thank you, Ma’am! There was no way I was leaving before getting the job done. I’ve got to tell you, I’ve destroyed more than one tray of ribs in your fine establishment!”
“Well then, the next one is on the house!”