by Pete Jordan
Maybe I wasn’t so much like Burt Reynolds or Robert Duvall or Richard Gere, I thought. Maybe I was more like Joe Buck—the character from Midnight Cowboy. He’d left his dish job in Texas and caught the bus to New York to follow his dream. When Joe Buck found himself contemplating a “Dishwasher Wanted” sign in the window of a pancake house in Times Square, he said, “Shee-it!” And walked away.
Then again, Joe Buck’s dream was actually to be a male hustler. My dream was just to dish in New York City. And as a matter of fact—formally or informally—I’d already accomplished that. State #18 was done. It was time to move on.
18
Unconquered Territory
While traveling along the West Coast, I drifted back to Portland and did volunteer work at Reading Frenzy—a cozy, downtown book and magazine shop that sold Dishwasher and had even held an exhibition of my mac-n-cheese box collection. The work consisted mostly of sitting around and reading the store’s offerings in between ringing up the occasional customer. Periodically, one of them would ask if there was a new issue of Dishwasher for sale. Feeling too shy to admit to strangers that I was its creator, I usually answered, “I hear number fourteen will be out in a couple weeks.”
But I felt guilty about being so sly. After all, these strangers were fans of my quest. So I decided to make a concerted effort to be more open with them.
The next time the issue arose was when a twenty-year-oldish dude came in and asked, “You have any of that Dishwasher guy’s Dish Master shirts for sale?”
I was finally going to “out” myself to a customer by explaining how, the coming week, I hoped to make a newly designed Dish Master shirt using the hundreds of used T-shirts purchased from the pay-by-the-pound Goodwill warehouse.
But before I had a chance to utter a word, the customer spoke again.
“I sent that guy five bucks for a shirt six months ago,” he moaned. “And I still haven’t gotten it!”
I kept my mouth shut. The pledge about coming clean to the customers was rescinded. Anonymity had its advantages.
A couple days later, a woman strode into the store and immediately grabbed two copies of “Music to Wash Dishes By.” Her good taste caught my eye. The record was my doing. Four bands had each contributed a song about dishing. In between the songs, I added some narrative from the 1960s training film “Mr. Dish Machine Operator.” The result was a seven-inch vinyl record and accompanying booklet.
As the woman continued to browse the shelves, I grew nervous that she might ask me about the record. Sure enough, when she approached the counter, the first words out of her mouth were “What do you think of this record?”
I wanted to give her a noncommittal shrug. But at the same time, after years of discussing this project with Jess, I was proud to have actually completed it and wanted to sing its praises.
So, attempting to be honest, yet remain anonymous, I answered, “I think it’s the best record ever.”
She squinted through her cat-eye glasses and asked, “Are you Dishwasher Pete?”
My instinct was to lie and deny. But she was cute. And that threw me off.
Too flummoxed to fib, I meekly admitted, “Yeah.”
She smiled and introduced herself. She was Lara from Chicago. Not only was she familiar with the zine, she’d even written me a couple letters in the past. Now Lara was returning to Alaska to work another summer as a fisherwoman. She hung around the shop and chatted for an hour until my shift ended. The next night, in the downtown storage room where I was crashing, she helped me silk-screen a hundred Dish Master shirts. When we were done, she didn’t leave. She was scheduled to fly out later that day but—with this sudden turn of events—instead delayed her flight till the end of the week.
Later in the week, at the last minute before Lara left town, I decided to escort her—via the bus—the 125 miles to the Seattle airport. At the airport, as she was checking in, she asked the woman behind the counter how much a second ticket would cost. Upon learning of the amount, Lara counted out a few hundred bucks from her wallet and then said, “Come to Alaska with me.”
“What?” I said. “Right now?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got just enough cash to buy you a ticket.”
I didn’t have much time to answer. Her plane was beginning to board. Alaska?! While it would’ve been romantic and impulsive to have just jumped on the plane with her, I only had the clothes on my back. I hadn’t even locked the storage room door back in Portland. So I felt kind of square to decline her offer.
“But we’ll stay in touch,” I said.
Not long afterwards, I floated through the Southwest, dished at a bagel joint in Albuquerque, New Mexico (#19), and then ended up back in New Orleans. After Cheryl picked me up from the bus station, as we drove to her house, she pointed out the restaurants in her new neighborhood.
“There’s an Italian place up on this corner and a Creole place down that street,” she told me. “That restaurant over there doesn’t seem bad….”
I found the tour odd. Cheryl knew damn well that I didn’t like eating in restaurants. But I said nothing and politely looked to wherever she pointed.
Then she said, “I’m not letting you leave New Orleans this time until you get a dishwashing job.”
She did have a point. Louisiana remained unconquered territory. After that failed attempt a couple years earlier, I’d passed through town a number of times without even trying to crack the New Orleanian dish market. But this time around, I was nearly broke. To reach any next destination, I had to drum up some cash by making Louisiana #20.
A few days after my arrival, while ambling along Banks Street, I saw a flyer tacked to a tree:
NOW HIRING:
Food Service Personnel
* Daily Work
* Daily Pay
Daily dishing for daily cash? No waiting weeks while my paycheck was held hostage against me quitting? Ideal! But it sounded eerily similar to Terry’s hiring hall, where I’d tried without success to be the on-call troubleshooting dishman.
The next morning, I set out for the flyer’s Canal Street address. But first I had to find a pecan pie. Not a whole pie, mind you, just one of those tart-sized ones to put me in the right mood for working. Yet, despite its being the height of pecan season, after a thorough search of a dozen corner stores, I was still pieless. Then a woman passed me on the street and asked, “Would you like to buy a pie?”
I took a few steps before I realized what she’d said. She was holding a box full of homemade, tart-sized pecan pies! I saw this as such a good omen about my new job that I spent my last five bucks on three pies.
The pie search set me back timewise; I didn’t reach the hiring hall until midafternoon. I was glad to see it wasn’t Terry’s company but was surprised to find the place already closed for the day.
I sat on the curb and ate my pies. Not wanting to make the same mistake I’d made at Terry’s, I vowed to return early the next morning.
At nine a.m. the next day, I was at the hiring hall, ready to work.
Bring on the dishes, I thought as I stepped inside.
Seeing an empty waiting room, I smugly figured I was the first laborer to arrive. I told the guy behind the caged counter that I was looking for a dish job.
“You late,” he said. “Jobs all taken.”
“Already?” I asked. “It’s only nine o’clock.”
“Guys start getting dispatched outta here at five o’clock,” he said. “Last one left about an hour ago.”
“But all I want is a dishwashing job.”
“We got plenty of those. You just gotta be here at five.”
Five a.m.? Who the hell needed their dishes cleaned that early in the morning? Schools? Hospitals? Restaurants where the previous night’s dirty dishes still awaited washing because the disher had scrammed mid-shift? Aching to find out firsthand, I signed up.
Before leaving, I read the dozens of signs covering the walls of the hiring hall. Employees were warned not to for
ge time cards or paychecks, screw around on the job or sneak off mid-shift. Cursing, drinking and fighting were prohibited in the hall. Bathing, on the other hand, was encouraged. The underlying message was: “We’re on to you.”
I studied every sign and then left determined to return earlier on Monday morning. Five a.m.? That wouldn’t be so tough. After all, I’d risen at five a.m. seven days a week for seven years as a paperboy.
Monday at five a.m. found me still prone on the couch, out of shape from my paperboy days. The same thing happened on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I tried to stay up all night. At five a.m., though, trudging off to the hiring hall to work came in a distant second to trudging over to the couch to sleep.
Later Wednesday morning, Cheryl woke me up and said she’d seen The Sign at a nearby restaurant. She urged me to call the place.
“I’ve already got a job,” I told her, “down at that day-labor place.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed the phone at me. “Call the restaurant.”
“But the day-labor office is counting on me,” I protested.
She picked up the phone, dialed and stuck the receiver in my face. I could hear the ringing.
“Take it,” she said.
A stern voice answered, “Hello?”
I hesitated, then grabbed the phone.
“I was calling about the dishwashing job.”
“You have any experience?” the voice asked.
“Plenty,” I said.
“Come over this afternoon then.”
That afternoon I walked over. The restaurant was closed so I pounded on the front door. The stern-faced old man who opened the door matched the stern voice on the phone.
“I’m here for the dishwashing job.”
“You have experience?” he asked again.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve washed a lotta dishes.”
He led me inside, showed me to a table and said he’d be right back. I took a seat and surveyed the joint. It looked pretty swank: plush red furniture, chandeliers, wineglasses set out on table-clothed tables. The décor was something else. The wall to my left was covered with military paraphernalia: medals, banners, flags and autographed glossies of generals sporting sadistic, satisfied grins.
Several of the photographs prominently featured the old man in a Marine’s uniform. He must’ve been some sort of career officer who retired from the service to open his own restaurant. I couldn’t help but wonder if the dining room’s military theme carried over into the kitchen. What if he ran the place like a drill sergeant?
“Come on, you stoop-shouldered maggot!” I could hear him screaming. “I want those dishes so shiny I can see my reflection in them!”
I squirmed in my seat.
Then I noticed that the wall to my right was plastered with guns, bayonets and daggers. That was the clincher: I was in the wrong place. Working at five a.m.? Far more appealing than working here.
I stood and made for the side exit, but the door was locked. I turned and headed for the front door, only to run into Colonel Restaurant Owner. He held out an application. I looked down at it.
Broke and still needing to lick the dishes of Louisiana, I hadn’t much choice. Reluctantly, I grabbed the application and returned to the table. This time, though, I sat with my back to the weapons.
When I was finished with the application, I handed it back to the Colonel. Without bothering to take a look-see at anything I’d written, he asked, “So, you have experience?”
His hang-up with “experience” was really beginning to irk me. Sure, I was a Dish Master, but anyone with ten minutes in the suds could claim to be experienced.
“Yeah,” I answered for the third time.
“All right, let me talk to the chef.”
He disappeared through the double doors. In the kitchen, shouting ensued. Someone was upset about something, but I couldn’t quite hear what. Suspecting the argument concerned my application, I inched myself nearer to get a better listen. Before I could decipher anything, the shouting abruptly stopped. Suddenly, the Colonel punched his way through the double doors. His face looked even more stern, like he was going to yell at me.
Instead, he said, “You start in two hours.”
I left, crossed the street to a park and sat on a bench. Getting this New Orleans job had been way too easy. Of course, landing dish jobs was supposed to be easy—it’s why I dished. But I’d begun to believe the naysayers who claimed I was “too white” to find a gig.
A couple hours later, I returned to the restaurant and noticed that the hostess, waiters, waitresses, back-waiters, barbacks, bartender and even the few customers already seated were all white. In the kitchen, too, there were nothing but white faces. As I checked out my accommodations, I wondered why the Colonel skipped the whole white-in-front/black-in-back thing. Maybe the old man flat out refused to hire African Americans in a city whose population at the time was almost 70 percent black.
The dishpit was nestled in an L-shaped alcove: a virtual dishcave. At my disposal were a Hobart machine and, in the back corner, out of view from the rest of the kitchen, three sinks. There was plenty of room, plenty of counter space and plenty of privacy. The setup showed promise. I decided to stick around.
For an hour, no coworker small-talked me or even bothered to ask my name. I kept a low profile and dished in peace until the Colonel sauntered into the dishcave with some dirty glasses. Without so much as a “How ya doing?” or “Atten-shun!” he rattled off a racist joke. Now I knew why he didn’t hire blacks. Before I could react, he turned and left.
I put down the dishes. There were better uses of my time and energy than by providing them to some racist asshole. I made up my mind to go. While I was untying my apron, in walked the other pearl diver—Bernard. He was black. His presence wrecked my argument that the Colonel was too racist to hire blacks. I retied my apron and decided to stay. It took a few more minutes of dishing before it hit me: the lone black man was washing dishes, which only confirmed the original claim of institutionalized white-in-front/black-in-back racism. I was untying my apron again when Bernard sidled up to me and said, “I wanna show you something.”
He led me to the rear of the dishcave and pointed to a bucket in the corner. He’d filled it with ice cubes and cans of beer. The scales tipped again. I retied my apron and then broke my own rule about not drinking until the second half of a shift by opening a beer.
Since this was my first night and Bernard’s first week on the job, I was suspicious about why the Colonel seemed to have trouble holding on to dishwashers. It felt like at any minute, the Colonel would run us through boot-camp drills or slam us with dishes. But after that one joke, the boss said nothing more to us. In fact, the dishing was so breezy, Bernard and I had ample time to hide out and drink our beers. So the Colonel’s lack of long-term dishers was just chalked up to our profession’s penchant for quitting.
The next night, everything changed. The dining room was seething with dish-defilers; the kitchen was packed with pot-burners. From the start, Bernard and I were swamped. The previous night’s luxurious beer breaks were a distant memory.
When a ruckus erupted out in the kitchen, I stepped up to the front of the dishcave to see what was going on. Not surprisingly, the disturbance was caused by the head chef. By that time in my “career,” I’d witnessed dozens of temperamental cooks throw hundreds of tantrums. But this sorehead was in a class of his own. Over the course of several hours, he put on an impressive performance. While a lot of cooks were only good for one or two outbursts per shift, the relentless Chef Tantrum unleashed one tirade after another. He snipped at his cooks. He snapped at the wait staff. The guy never let up.
Later, when a waitress had the audacity to claim Chef Tantrum had screwed up her order, he flipped his wig. Everyone—Bernard and me included—stopped working to watch him yell and scream. He threw spatulas on the floor. He hurled whisks across the kitchen. Then Chef Tantrum came around from behind the line, marched up to the waitress and shouted i
n her face, “It’s all your fault!!”
The waitress burst into tears and fled into the dining room.
“Don’t talk to her!” Chef Tantrum screamed at us onlookers. “Nobody fucking talk to her!!”
“Man,” Bernard whispered to me, “I need a beer.”
Bernard wrapped a couple beers in his apron and hotfooted it upstairs to the bathroom. Having seen enough myself, I retreated to the far recesses of the dishcave and started knocking out the mess that’d been piling up.
Now I finally understood why dishers didn’t stay. It wasn’t the Colonel—it was Chef Tantrum. Who’d want to stick around for all that yelling? And more important, why hadn’t the Colonel court-martialed that knucklehead? I’d seen other tantrum-y cooks keep their jobs because they were indispensable to the restaurant. But Chef Tantrum was anything but indispensable. He’d surely chased off a slew of competent employees. Those who stayed were forced to tiptoe around him. And from what I’d sampled from the Bus Tub Buffet, his cooking wasn’t all that great.
It was almost closing time when Bernard returned drunk from his break. Desperate to finish up and leave, I surveyed our mess and said to Bernard, “Let’s take care of this.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Let’s bust ’em out.”
With a valiant effort, we put a dent in the stacks. But that mattered little—at closing time, we were hit by a tidal wave. The cooks brought us all their cookware from the kitchen. The busboys brought us all the dishes from the dining room. Everything came at us at once. When the counters reached capacity, stacks sprouted on the floor around our feet. Mounds of dishes grew into hills, and hills grew into mountains. The dishes only stopped coming at us when all the other employees finally went home.
As Chef Tantrum was leaving, he called across the kitchen, “Good night, Dad!” My ears perked up and I turned around. The farewell was directed at the Colonel. Aha! Now it all made sense! Chef Tantrum could scream at the employees with impunity because dear old daddy was the owner.