The Dish Boy’s Aquatic Battle-station

My kingdom was a little room separated from the dining area and the kitchen by a set of swing doors. The right side of the room was my “workspace”, a long, stainless steel counter with three sinks, and a hose dangling over the middle (or “water shower” if you want to get technical.)

Metal bars were used to hold plastic crates stretched above the sink. On the left side of the room, there was another long stretch of stainless steel counters where the clean dishes were kept.

My job was to rack, sort, and push dirty dishes through the machine. I really got to know my machine, a metal box pumped up with chemica;s situated in between two stainless steel counters. The washer washed, dried, and sanitized crates of dishes in about two minutes.

I was a good dish-boy. I was fast. I zipped around the dish room like I owned the place.

A good dish boy orders chaos. Walk into a unmanned station after a lunch mob and it’s utter carnage — stacks and racks of unwashed plates, garbage stuffed in every crevice, trash cans overflowing , chunks of half chewed burger meat on the counters.

A good dish boy knows how the rushes roll. He surfs them like a Malibu wave. He knows when you push a rack of dishes into the stainless steel washing-beast, you gotta set up another rack. He knows to spray hot burning silverware right out of the wash with a gentle spray of cold water the nerve endings in his fingers aren’t completely torched off.

A good dish boy is always armed with his squeegee, his slip resistant shoes, and, most importantly, his noble dish-washing machine. He keeps the balance. He puts out the plates. He buses the tables when the dining area is exploding with old people, family reunions, and misbehaving children.

When the rushes were over, the dishes, and the dish pit was clean, sparkling, reeking of cleaning chemicals, the combat ceased. All was calm.

During these periods, I was pretty fucking bored, but found ways to keep myself entertained.

Friendly’s serves ketchup in metal cups. I had a few laying face down on a flat rack. I was spraying down the inside of a sink and hit one of the metal cups in the crossfire.

A clear tone rang out through the dish-room. I sprayed another: another note. I sprayed with a little bit more pressure, and the note was different. I lined up three cups at the bottom of the sink.

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…

A waitress busted through the swing doors.

“What are you doing, Jon?”

Oh, you know. Just passing the time.