The wayfarers come on wheels and on foot, pausing their evenings long enough to bring a little sparkle to their lives, before the city goes about sullying them again.

They come at the end of their night, to shake off the grime of a shift spent shepherding charlatans and drunkards and passengers who insist that a taxi must take them to Brooklyn, and they come at the beginning, so their rented Bentleys and BMWs shimmer so brightly that even the nightclub bouncers they will soon encounter cannot help but notice.

They come to use the bathroom, because the line at their party was too long, and they come to bring sandwiches to the washing crew, because the workers’ pay is low and tips were good tonight and why shouldn’t an altruistic limo driver with a pocketful of tips close his evening with his conscience spotless too?

This is the Westside Highway Car Wash, perched at the western boundary of Manhattan’s neon district, on West 46th Street and 12th Avenue, its sign — “CAR WASH,” lighted in white letters and red trim — calling to all those who seek a clean slate, even if it will last only a few minutes.