The Dishwasher

The dish machine stands alone. Silent. Open mawed.

The locus of the station. An instrument, edifice, tool.

The steel unstained, by promise, not to count untended grunge.

Bathed in fluorescent light refracted by vinyl walls.

It awaits the rush.

 

The dishwashers step up, in plurals or in ones.

With their locks shorn or lengthy. Few sport in-between.

Their guts apron-girded, and in their cheapest duds.

This damp-tummed contingent whose job it is to clean

from four o’ clock until the bitter end.

 

Silverware and spatulas are in their jurisdiction.

The salad bowls and ramekins expect their tender scour.

Crusty pots and full pans are in line for interdiction.

Platters, peelers, blenders make the job description tower.

 

The floor is damp. The mats, they stink.

The dishwasher takes pause to think.

Over the bass drum of the soak-scrub sink,

and the treble of the machine-drain ‘tink’.

The tide will flow from pan to dish, then back again,

from four o’ clock until the bitter end.

 

The tale is told of Andy Tongs, the dish room’s only sage.

Any load of dishes he would crush.

He had a strength and stoicism born of unknown age.

He dined on double-shifts and fairly dug the rush.

 

He would come to work directly from places high and low,

but Andy Tongs e’er promptly came along

when the time clock’s warning minute was finally letting go.

And, when he didn’t, those waiting didn’t long.

‘Cause if the bar was out of coffee, a dram of grounds he’d chew.

He’d use rinse additive to cauterize a cut.

He’d make a dumpster run with the trash in his belt-loop through

to have both hands free for sparking up a butt.

 

His cologne, which was only staling dish-mist

wafted ‘bout him like some rare Moloccan mace.

Many in the shop had him on their wish-list,

and they rue the payroll slot he previously graced.

 

He could scrub the rock-hard resin from a neglected syrup vat

using just his hoared asbestos hands.

“Procter? Gamble?” he would ask, “Who is that?”

Dish detergent coursed through his veins. Welled from his very glands.

 

Waitstaff with their orders up would even bide their time,

watch him bare-hand a searing sheet pan with feral growl sublime,

then, saucer-eyed, they’d behold as he, wrapped within a glow,

with the other arm, to the line a stack of platters towed.

 

But, upon things corporeal one cannot long depend.

Like the coursing of a shooting star, the legend has to end.

One evening came a dish-slide, an event that’s not so rare.

Despite the crew’s opinion, Andy wasn’t made of oak.

A stem glass laying wait struck the man precisely there,

and Andy Tongs expired in a pool of silver-soak.

 

But some say that our Andy hasn’t traveled far.

And that the dishalanche brought not our hero’s end.

They claim sometimes they’ve seen him at the far end of the bar.

He nods a “’zup”, which they return, and then they look again…

 

These tales of dishing-do are forgotten in the jumble.

At times performed, but tonight, most actions are mundane.

Pans and flatware come into the dish-pit with a tumble.

The dish machine disgorges clouds and orders start to rain.

 

Sautés flash and sheet pans thunder.

Leaving no thought-space to ponder.

By what method, through that maw,

the pans emerge so clean somehow.

Throughout the line is heard the cry:

“Corned beef’s walking in on rye!

Nineteen open! Fries all day!

The grilled cheese is deluxe, I say!”

 

Observe the dish-pit, chaos gods.

Gravy’s flying ‘round in clods.

Where staff regroups, palm to forehead pressed.

All are mistakenly soak-slop blessed.

“Side dishes needed, pantry sector!”

This call from the line is not to hector.

O’er the music now that’s playing.

The Bluetooth stream- the beat they’re laying.

 

There’s a load of crusty pans building to the right, now.

A stack of slippy platters growin’ to the left, now.

Silver in the bus tub. Watch it as it fills, now.

Resting in, a rattlin’ in, a soakin’ as it chills, now.

Takin’ dishes to the line, and ain’t got time to whine, now.

Around, beside, behind, comin’ through the line, now.

Rush past the waitress, all the tables in her head.

Slip past the fry cook, he’s butterin’ the bread.

You planned to juke right, but you’re gliding left instead.

Back to the pit for another load to get.

 

Business-boarded, the galley is awash with orders.

A gleaming spatula is raised with the call, and joins the fray.

And later, as with all utensils, it must be clean of all food

and sanitized before the doors open tomorrow

per the County Health Department.

From four o’ clock until the bitter end.

 

Suddenly, they note the even load.

With terminal velocity, they’ve reached a calm plateau.

The crew can finally find the space to sigh.

The main burden of the dinner rush is kindly passing by.

 

The dish station now is flocked with juicy flecks.

Dishwashers find them on their arms and sticking to their necks.

The hose ain’t just for dishes, don’tcha know.

You can turn it ‘round and spritz off all the skin that is exposed.

 

There will be no rest until each polyblighted dish is seen.

Cooks swing through with grimy loads and commiserating mien.

Serving bowls and casseroles are standing in the wake.

Forks and spoons are swimming in solution now opaque.

A dastardly concoction no sane scientist would make.

To grab them is like noodling inside a brackish lake.

 

The dishwasher stands resolute before this scummy wrath,

when some would flee the sight of this food service aftermath.

With experience and fortitude is born a second wind.

By their troth: From four o’ clock until the bitter end.

 

They tunnel through the slimy hoard. There is no choice but to.

There is so much foodquipment to secure and to send through.

To leave the dish room fresh, from the tile to the caulk.

Sanitize above. Below, a tidy path to walk.

A final glance, and, indeed, everything is neat.

But what about tomorrow? This end is bittersweet.

 

The breeze receives the dishwasher who’s finally gotten out

and into an empty beater or a clown-car full of louts.

An appointment with their sweetie, or a fond and filial ride.

Others punch the time clock and get on their bike and glide.

Toward rest, choice refreshment, and a desired hosing down.

They enjoy the free sensation, flying through the twilit town.