I'm a fucking dishwasher. (or how I stopped worrying & learned to love my own total lack of professional ambition.)
posted by jeremy on December 25, 2003
I unlock the door & make a dash for the alarm. I then change into grimy pants, slip on even dirtier shoes. I make a pot of coffee & as I'm waiting I just look at the compressed kitchen & consider the task ahead of me. The myriad details could overwhelm one but I've done this many a time before; Just start in one spot & work your way outwards. Don't think, just do... or as the mafia-boss in Reservoir Dogs put it "Crap your pants first then dive right in." Or something like that.
Two & half hours later, I'm finished with the range & the grill. I've also cleaned the grease buildup off the stainless steel walls. My hair is spiky with kitchen slime & Simple Green. Another hour goes by & I've finished cleaning out the fridge & the sandwich table. Two more hours go by & I've defeated the floors...
I'm a fucking winner.
I step outside & treat myself to a cigarette & another cup of coffee. A crescent moon hangs heavy above the lights of downtown & laugh if you want, I know that I've accomplished something, however mundane.
I got my first dishwashing job at age 15. I was forced into it by my parents & trust me, it was hellish. The withering steam. The unending filth. The long long hours. The mean-ass dog-fuck of an owner. It reduced me to tears. I hated working from the very first & as a general rule, I still do. I've just learned to accept the necessity of it, over time. Honestly, I hardly cry at all any more. Of course, I've had over sixty jobs at this point in my life, if you count all the temp gigs.
Still, I think it's key that my very first employment experience consisted of scrubbing innumerable food receptacles... Kind of like how most people's fetishes come into existence, that initial introduction, be it to sex or work, it's going to haunt you for the rest of your life... But I say so be it.
We've all got our ugly little ghost.
Some people have asked me recently why I don't want to "do something more with my life?" & that question, everytime, it baffles my goddam Pabst-struck brain. I have a hard time composing any answer besides just a deep desire to shake them until their teeth rattle. Though usually I manage to cough out something along the lines of "Look, amigo, unless you're one of the lucky few, a job is what you do to pay your rent... Your life... is something else altogether & my job, as it happens, is to wash dishes."
& yes, it's menial maybe, but not demanding, not overwhelming & it pays surprisingly well. Enough for me to get by & do what it is that I do with my life; Which right at the moment consist of drinking too much beer, smoking too many cigarettes, writing, reading & hanging out with a beautiful if exceedingly intelligent girl.
It's fucking heaven, really.
& sometimes, sometimes I think about school. Mostly in the sense that I am still so unbelievably filled with a furious bursting joy that I opted to not go. If I had continued with my collegiate education, I would be the proud owner of a BA in philosophy & probably about 20-60 grand of debt & I bet you my last can of Hamms I would still be working somewhere in the food service industry. (Everyone else I know with a degree is.)
As it was, it took me six months to figure out that college was just about the same as that intellectual nursery we call high school. At which junction, well, like Gary Snyder wrote... Fuck you, sang coyote & ran away..
& so I seek the path of least resistance, at least when it come to earning a buck. Call it apathy if you like, I call it commitment to myself, this shunning of stress, disavowal of financial craving. This job doesn't bother me at all. I work four nights a week. My bosses are as cool as hell. I eat well. I break when I want to. I get a free beer at the end of the night.
I wash dishes... & I survive.
