Dishwasher

by Pete Jordan

  “And what about Skinner’s idea to have the dirty trays first rinsed with milk?!” I asked one woman. The resulting milky slop would then be given to the hogs. “Why milk? Water isn’t good enough for rinsing? Sounds like a waste of resources to me!”

  “I’ve never read the book,” she sighed and then retreated to work a different row of sorghum stalks.

  By the time I cornered Tess—a woman from a different intentional community who was here to help out during the harvest—I was onto the pot issue. Skinner says that Walden Two is largely self-sufficient; its food is mostly produced on its own land or comes from nearby farms. Preparing all that food from scratch—and not taking it out of a can or box—would dirty more than the average number of pots, pans and cooking utensils.

  “Who’s washing all those pots?” I demanded of Tess. “Skinner thinks his pretty girl and his distinguished man are just gonna putz around with glass trays? Somebody’s gotta knock out all those pots!”

  “Man, if you like washing dishes so much,” Tess replied, “then you really should come to my community. We got lotsa dishes and nobody who likes to wash ’em.”

  As opposed to this small farm commune, where washing the dishes was a mere pastime, she said, at her place—with eighty inhabitants—dishwashing was an actual job.

  “Come there and you’ll be loved for going anywhere near the dishes,” she said.

  An appreciated, full-time disher at a large commune? It sounded tempting.

  Life on the sorghum farm—hippies or no hippies—wasn’t really for me. While milking a cow the first time was a novelty, the second time it was a chore. And though riding my bike three miles on dirt and gravel back roads to reach town to mail letters or pick up an ice cream bar was a pleasant change, it didn’t top riding a bike through city streets. And for miles around, there was no public transit to joyride.

  But the main reason why I’d never be able to hack it at the small-time farm was because it counted only seven or eight full-time residents. Living year-round in such close quarters with so few people out in the countryside didn’t seem idyllic; it’d drive me crazy. Though the commune where Tess lived was also not in an urban setting, its population was ten times greater, maybe it wouldn’t feel so isolated.

  A couple weeks later, I arrived at Tess’s community. She promptly gave me a tour of the settlement. It straddled a creek on a thousand acres of mostly forested land in southern Missouri’s Ozark Mountains. While strolling through the main part of the compound—past the sandal-making trailer, the nut-butter processing plant and various residential buildings—we encountered some of her fellow communards.

  “You’re the dishwasher?!” one woman asked. “You sure came to the right place!”

  I was taken aback by her fervor. Word of my arrival had apparently spread fast; others greeted me with equal enthusiasm.

  On the tour, Tess showed me the communal clothing room next to the bathhouse. After a shower, one could grab whatever clothes they chose to wear from the thousands of articles available. Having such a huge stack of shared things to wear could mean never having to endure clothes-shopping again—a comforting thought.

  The one-room library looked like it had enough books to keep a reader busy for years. But it held no books by Philip Roth. So I retrieved nine of his paperbacks from Crescent and donated them to the cause.

  At the facility that produced nut butter—the community’s main income source—Tess jumped in and helped jar some organic peanut butter while I washed the same product from a number of five-gallon buckets. It might sound like a hellacious task but actually just some warm water and a sturdy scrub brush was enough to chase the peanut butter out of the buckets in a hurry.

  Tess explained that according to the commune’s labor arrangement, everyone was free to choose how they’d fulfill the weekly forty-hour work requirement. Some toiled in the fields; others did child care. Some worked in the office; others gave massages. Some made sandals, others produced nut butter. People gravitated to what they preferred to do. Positions—even outhouse cleaning—tended to be filled without problem. There was one exception: dishwashing. Here, my calling was classified as HTA: hard to assign. And since no one chose to do it, everyone was required to do it—just as Skinner had envisioned. Thus, because I wanted to only wash dishes, I’d been received like a savior.

  That night, after dinner in the main dining hall, Tess and I stuck around while the others slowly drifted out. In return for the hospitality I was receiving, I hoped to donate my skills. But not wanting to step on anyone’s toes, I sat and waited for the arrival of the three people who were signed up for that night’s dish duty so I could ask to join in.

  After a fruitless hour of sitting, I got impatient and went to check out the facilities. I was shocked by the sight. While this community was following Skinner’s call for egalitarian dish shifts, it utterly failed to live up to his—and Thoreau’s—call for simplification through less dishware. Countless dishes were strewn across the counters. The sinks were filled with the pots that were so conveniently absent at Walden Two. The pit was so disorganized and everything was so squalid, I couldn’t distinguish between what was waiting to be washed and what already had been washed!

  Reading the astonishment in my face, Tess said, “I told you people here don’t like washing dishes.”

  Thankfully no transparent glass trays were in sight. Unmissable, though, were the country cockroaches. From wee young’uns to fat grannies, they strutted back and forth along the counters and walls. They must’ve been spared harm by the commune’s back-to-the-woods pacifists because the pests roamed the dishwashery with the same impunity that allowed sacred cows to roam the streets of Calcutta.

  Now, of course, I’d toiled alongside roaches in grubby pits plenty of times. But those were all places where the diners weren’t privy to the secrets of the kitchen. On the other hand, here—owing to the HTA rule—all diners knew firsthand exactly the sad state of the dishwashery. Judging by the fact that they could willingly consume food produced in a kitchen so obscene, the eighty residents must not have cared about the conditions in the dishwashery.

  Since so much work needed to be done, I decided to give that night’s crew a head start. I began by tackling the pots. Tess took the initiative to run some dishes through the machine.

  As I scrubbed, I considered the prospects of settling there.

  What was needed was someone to take charge—not a head dishwasher, mind you, but a stable disher to coordinate the operation and organize the pit. I immediately saw the advantages of taking on such a position myself. It’d provide me with a place to live, clothes and books. I could set my own hours. I could be boss-free.

  While a cook may go on to own his own restaurant one day, there isn’t an equivalent for a dishwasher who wants to be his own boss. Quite possibly this was one of the only—if not the only—positions in the country where a dishwasher could be his own boss.

  After I’d spent an hour in the pit, a messenger arrived. He informed Tess that the scheduled dishers wouldn’t be filling their shifts. They’d heard a celebrity Dish Master was on the scene so they were using the occasion to chill in the sandal-making trailer and get blitzed.

  The next day, I hiked through the woods and along the river. Then, that night I returned to the dishroom. Again, the night’s scheduled dish-duty communards were no-shows.

  As I dished solo, I envisioned possible changes. Having only ever passed through dishpits, I’d never had a chance to personalize any of them. But if I remained in this one, I could make some cosmetic alterations. A fresh coat of paint could go on the walls. And they could be adorned with some of my artifacts, like the vintage 1950s “Dishwasher Wanted” signs or the dozens of sketches and paintings and photos of dishes and dishers that readers had sent me over the years. Better yet, I could use the wall space for a permanent exhibition of the mac-n-cheese box collection.

  Despite working by myself, I enjoyed envisioning the utopian dishwashery.


  The third night, I dished alone again. This time, though, one of the no-shows actually showed up.

  “Thanks, bro,” the dreadlocked white boy said as he stood beside me at the sinks.

  After the previous nights of absent dishers, I was grateful for the gratitude.

  “Dude, you’re one brave amigo,” he said. “I hate washing dishes.”

  From my hunched position, I looked over at him. He smiled back at me and said, “Thanks again for covering my shift.”

  As I watched White-Boy Dreads turn and leave, my blood began to boil. I’d only wanted to help out, to be an extra hand. I’d never intended to cover his—or any goldbricker’s—assigned shifts. Nor had I even offered!

  If this was what it was like as a short-term guest, then what could I expect if I were to settle down as the commune’s resident Dish Master? My presence would enable work-shy residents to shirk their dish duty. In fact, as dishroom coordinator, I’d probably be stuck working far more than forty hours a week in order to cover all the laggards’ shifts. And I wouldn’t be appreciated for doing it; I’d be expected to do it.

  The communards would abuse my position.

  Hell, I realized, standing there alone in the dishwashery, the fucking hippies are already taking advantage of me!

  I pulled my arms from the suds and let be the rest of the pots and dishes. I didn’t know who was responsible for them. I just knew it wasn’t me. Then I kissed the machine, wiped my lips with my sleeve and dropped out.

  26

  Dude Wants His Free Meal

  After realizing communal life wouldn’t suit me, I skipped around the state and raked in some cash dishing at a café in Columbia, Missouri. Then I gravitated to Branson—the self-proclaimed “Live Music Show Capital of the World” in the Missouri Ozarks. With dozens of dinner theaters devoted to acts like Dolly Parton, the Osmonds and Andy Williams, the town was crowded with restaurants to service the busloads of music aficionados that flocked there from throughout the South and the Midwest. And where all those folks went, a great deal of dirty dishes were left behind.

  With so many dish gigs packed into an area so small, it sounded like an ideal place for a postquest settled dishman. If I lived there, the notion to quit could run wild. I could discard jobs left and right yet always have plenty of other jobs at my disposal. In fact, I could even sample the dozens of dinner theaters and then settle into whichever one was the best in town.

  Arriving in Branson, I found in the local newspaper evidence to prove my theory. In a town of only about five thousand inhabitants, the classifieds listed a dozen “Dishwasher Wanted” ads. I felt even more wanted than at that last commune.

  Also in the newspaper, I noticed a listing for a $200-a-month room for rent. Two hundred bucks was far more expensive than it cost to live in the van or at a job site or on a friend’s couch. But heck—with $373 in my pocket, I felt rich enough to do something self-indulgent like rent my own room.

  At the rental’s address, I found a country gift shop that sold porcelain angel figurines, wooden duck cut-outs and the like. Each crafty product was covered in ribbons and lace. When I stepped inside, the place smelled like someone had shat out a dozen scented candles.

  “I think I’ve got the wrong address,” I told the woman behind the counter. “I was looking for a room to rent.”

  She told me I had the right place, and that the building was an old house converted into a shop.

  “The rent is two hundred and the deposit is another hundred,” she said as she led me through the store and up the stairs.

  Filled with more lacy and ribbony crap, the room appeared almost to be an extension of the sales floor. Fake dried flowers hung from the red felt wallpaper. Above the bed hung a painting of two swans facing each other (their necks forming a heart shape). And strands of red shag carpeting hung over the tops of my shoes.

  While I was trying to think of how to jokingly ask if the place had ever been a bordello, she gave the top of the bed a nudge. In response, the dozen crimson pillows bobbed up and down like buoys.

  “Room comes with a waterbed.” She smiled.

  I hadn’t reckoned renting a room would be this decadent. Did my dough really need to be blown on luxuries so vulgar?

  Well, since she asked for no credit references or personal references or even for any evidence of income, I told her I’d take the place…mostly just because I could.

  I handed her three hundred bucks.

  Now that I had a place to crash, there was the matter of a job. After throwing my duffel bag on the waterbed, I reviewed the twelve dish ads. The one for the Remember When Theater stood out because it sounded like a dinner theater. If I was going to work in a town devoted to live entertainment, then dinner-theater dishing needed to be on the agenda.

  On my way there, I passed a marquee sign whose foot-high letters shouted:

  DISHWASHER WANTED

  I pulled over.

  This place—Golden Corral—wasn’t even one of the twelve ads listed in the newspaper. It was an all-you-can-eat chain restaurant, and chain restaurants weren’t really my thing. They lacked local character and soul. They required donning the ubiquitous company clothing. And they had too much hierarchy: assistant managers, store managers, district managers, general managers, etc. It was bad enough having one boss without having to answer to a whole nationwide string of command.

  Still, the enormous sign beckoned me.

  I stepped out of the van, went in and filled out an application.

  “Dishwashing, huh?” the manager said when he glanced at my completed application. “Can you start right now?”

  The lunch rush was in full swing. The dishes were piling up.

  “Sure.” I shrugged.

  I threw on an apron and was led to the pit, where another guy was too busy scrubbing to properly welcome me to the fold. So I sorted silverware for a while.

  “And?” my new coworker finally said a couple minutes later. “How you like the job?”

  I looked down at the silverware and said, “It’s not bad.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t bad, is it?”

  Actually, with all the openings in town, odds were that there was a better place to work.

  “You think this is the best dish job in town?” I asked.

  He answered with only a nervous laugh. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? I had no idea.

  Over the next couple hours both my coworker and the manager eagerly asked for my opinion of the job. It seemed to give them the sought-after reassurances when I’d provide them with rather neutral answers like “It’s all right” or “I’ve worked in worse places.”

  At four o’clock, the afternoon lull set in. Action in the dishroom died down. The boss told me to take a couple hours off but to be back at six o’clock for the dinner rush.

  With time to kill, I drove over to my original destination—the Remember When Theater. It was between the Shoji Tabuchi Theater (featuring a Japanese country music star) and the Country Tonight Theater (featuring, apparently, a night of country music). On the Remember When’s marquee, the lettering for the star of the show—Jimmie Rodgers—was smaller than the names of his hit songs from decades prior—“Honeycomb” and “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine.”

  While making quick work of the application, I paused to reread the part that stated that if I didn’t provide two weeks’ notice before quitting, my pay would be docked. I’d never before heard of that rule. And it worried me. The notion to quit never provided me with two weeks’ notice, so how was I supposed to know when to give notice?

  I’d just have to take my chances.

  When I handed the application to the boss-guy, he asked, “When can you start?”

  “Well—” I began. There was the petty matter of already being employed.

  “Start now?” he asked.

  I wasn’t due back at Golden Corral for another hour.

  “Aw right,” I said.

  I’d give Jimmie Rodgers’ a one-hour audition. If the place
seemed like a better deal, I’d stay. If not, I’d split and head back to Golden Corral.

  The boss-guy led me down to the dishpit. From the four guys in their twenties standing there—all with backwards baseball caps, Metallica/Pantera T-shirts, ponytails and goatees—the boss singled out one in particular to show me around. Since he—Jason—appeared to be the dishroom’s most senior employee, I asked him how long he’d been working there.

  “Shit, man,” he said as he did the calculations in his head. “Um…almost two months. Man, I can’t believe I’ve been here so long!”

  First, Jason showed me around the dishroom and kitchen. Then he led me out back, past a loading dock where a couple other suds busters were lounging. Finally, we rounded a corner to the backside of a dumpster.

  “This is where you go when you wanna hide,” he said.

  Jason pinched his thumb and forefinger together, put them to his lips and inhaled. His eyebrows wiggled up and down.

  “Know what I mean?” he asked.

  Back in the dishpit, I asked Jason where else he’d dished in town.

  “Just before I came here, I was over at Grand Country Buffet with Dom and Phil,” he said, pointing at the two guys at the pot sinks. Then he added, “I came over here first and those fruits couldn’t stay away from me.”

  He asked about me. I told him I’d been hired over at Golden Corral and was due back at six o’clock.

  “You’re splitting?!” he asked. Heads turned in my direction. Upon hearing that I was already on the verge of becoming their ex-coworker, concern filled the room.

  “There’s supposed to be seven dishwashers here,” Jason said. “With you, this was gonna be the first night since I’ve been here that we’d have a full crew.”

  “Well, I don’t have to go back,” I said.

  One of the other dishers—Heath—said he used to work at Golden Corral.