The Life Expectancy of a Dish Washer - Continued

____Being employed as a dishwasher for a full year, I was drifting further away from the crowded median of that particular bell curve. I had reached a point where I knew what I was doing, and I was doing it well enough that I couldn’t bear the idea of starting over at a new job. Not only that, I appreciated the fact that my work schedule never conflicted with school and my checking account was healthy. Reasons to keep my job appeared and became neatly appointed stacks that demanded compliance.

____What kind of job could I get with “Dishwasher: 1Yr3Mo” listed on an application, or even the slightly fancier “Dish Room Attendant: 1 ½ years” on a resume? My options diminished the longer I stayed, and so did my hope of getting out while I still could. I was becoming institutionalized in a way, all the while dragging myself further into outlier status: a lone dot, far removed from the normal dots huddled together in their 6 to 9 month stints as washers of dishes. It was around my one and a half year point that my surroundings began to really affect me. Disorganization in the kitchen had a constant presence from the day I started, and I successfully corrected the bulk of it by this point, but of all its instances, improper stacking of plates could not be remedied.

____Every day when I come to work I walk through a short hallway, past the locker room, freezer and dry storage, temporarily unaware of the state of the dishpit. It’s not until I’m mere feet from it that I can see the amount of dirty dishes waiting for me. It takes another six or so steps until I come to the spot where my fellow employees put their plates. This is where I would regularly see the most harrowing displays of indifference from other staff members. The stacks of plates would be so mind-blowing at times; it's as if they were built from chaos and entropy. Like so many ceramic nuclear warheads, silently daring me to dismantle them without incident. They’re an amazing testament to what laziness can accomplish.There were a few times that the offending departments were told to stack them properly, and they did for a month or two. Then the inevitable slide back to putting a plate wherever would leave more delicate heaps for me to disassemble.

____I don’t know how many times I felt and fought the urge to give a measured tap to those messy stacks, but in all of my employment I never succumbed to that desire. I even managed to make a sort of open-ended game out of it, which I called Creative Dish Stacking. It was nothing more than making structures out of dishes that ranged from simple to exotic, but it was a huge boost to my sanity. Brandon caught on quick, and we were soon seeing who could out build the other. He took it a step farther and would make “stealth builds” behind me as I washed dishes. It’s enjoyably disconcerting to turn around and see a three foot tall building made of black plastic tongs and metal plate covers. As fun as that diversion would be, it just wasn’t enough to stem the tide of oncoming burnout.

____Because I was the only dishwasher, whoever was cooking on my days off would be responsible for the dishes. It wasn’t a problem at first, as the cook on duty would do a majority of the dishes, but the amount done became less and less until only the bare minimum was done. This made having days off a double-edged sword, since I would have to clean whatever was left when I got back. It was difficult to enjoy my time away from the kitchen because I knew the longer I was gone, it would be in even worse shape when I returned. There were times I’d come back and see a mostly bare counter, but they were a rare exception to a depressing rule. Still, it’s understandable, because the dish washing machine is a pain to work with.

____In all honesty, it’s not even a dish washer. It looks and acts likes one, and it might even say it is, but it’s a dirty liar; it is a dish sanitizer, and nothing more. It works by pulling racks through with a set of six evenly spaced hooks while jets of scathing hot water spray the dishes. If any desirable results are to be achieved, each item must be scrubbed clean before being sent through and even that sometimes isn’t enough. Also, one of the hooks will occasionally pop up, preventing the racks from going through. It has to be fixed manually by reaching into the machine full of 180° water, and pushing it down with a finger. It has to be done quickly because that water is constantly dripping in scalding splashes onto the arm being used. Using utensils like tongs or spatulas doesn’t work, and even then the arm is still in there.

____I was once severely burned by the water when I accidentally left the hatch open and started it, and for weeks after I would flinch whenever I flicked the switch to ON. If that wasn’t bad enough, just a few months ago the heating element shorted out, signaled by a loud bang and a puff of smoke. As I was standing next to it in a puddle of water, it’s not a stretch to say that I could have been electrocuted. The machine is a piece of shit. No, I take that back. It was a piece of shit 15 years ago. Now it's a doddering old man with cataracts driving his Buick at freeway speeds through a school zone. That's the kind of dish washer I have to work with.