Spare a thought for the common dishwasher. When one goes into a restaurant, the first thought is of food, it’s flavor and it’s price and how much is to be consumed, and never of the means by which the food is presented, except to complain that some vessel is impure for the food which is on it. Chefs get TV shows, books, their names on restaurants. Yet what is there for the one who ensures those glamorous chefs’ succulent morsels musn’t be consumd with bare hands like an animal? Let us examine their case.
The first seemingly simple question is what a dishwasher is. For some people, a dishwasher is a machine one inserts plates into and which spits out clean ones. This is typical of capitalist attempts to erase from the consumers’ mind the existence of “unskilled labor.” Others imagine a dishwasher somewhat more correctly as a man (they are almost invariably men. Why this is we can only speculate) who by hand washes each dish and utensil in the restaurant. In establishments like a bakery where the only implements which must be washed are the ones for cooking, this might be the case. Not so in any proper restaurant. Well then what is a dishwasher if not these things? We will return to this question.
To understand the work of a restaurant, it might do to imagine the work of a submarine for they are indeed comparable. Uncomfortably close quarters, constant moisture, strict hierarchy, occasional states of panic and chaos, and the constant threat of a largely unseen enemy are characteristic of both. And if a manager is then the captain, then the dishwasher is the first officer in fact if not in name. He exists in a state of separateness from all his comrades engaged in food preparation. Cooks, elbow to elbow and in constant cooperation and contest form either bitter rivalries or become brothers and sisters in arms the likes of which rarely exist outside of war time. In contrast, the dishwasher stands alone, and exists in a different rhythm from his coworkers. For when the rest of the crew is in a panic, the dishwasher is on his break, and when the rest of the crew can relax, the dishwasher is rushing like a madman. His life sense of time is like that of an owl or a bat in miniature, living in an opposite timeline from the rest of life but not so separate as to not be dependent on those existing in another way.
Managers and fellow workers alike can sometimes stand in awe of the dishwasher if indeed he is a proper one. His work is his own, and it is load bearing. Managers, dreaded and despised by common workers, speak softly and with respect to a skilled dishwasher in a way that they do not with simple cooks, cashiers, and waiters who may be treated as mere cannon fodder. But if the dishwasher should be a sloth or a fool, then all is lost and chaos reigns. One dares not detail the madness and rage a dishwasher must bear the brunt of if his job is not done speedily enough. True enough we all live such lives, needing rent paid, food consumed, sleep obtained in a timely fashion if we are not to lose ourselves to the great nothing. But for the dishwasher this demand of time is particularly acute and felt on a near constant basis.
But if we now understand a bit of what the dishwasher’s social status is, we still do not understand what actual work he does. It may surprise the uninitiated to know that the act of washing dishes is only one small part of it, but it is worth examining first since it is the duty that is his namesake. One odd aspect of a dishwashing, is how much of it is done invisibly even to the dishwasher themselves. Most work is not done by simple scrubbing, towel in hand. Most work is more mathematical and high minded, done by arranging the dishes on washing racks in the most space efficient manner possible, and shoving them into a large machine, slamming it shut, and waiting while god knows what happens inside. Never open the machine while it works. Curiosity is not the dishwasher’s friend. When the washing is finished and the plates cleaned, the dishwasher must remove them. A fairly simple process, to be repeated ad inifinitum until the day is done and there are no more dishes to conquer. It might seem odd that so much labor is performed invisibly and without explicit knowledge from the dishwasher. But consider your own life. Do you know the mechanics of the central banks that put money in your hand and take it back out? Where does the rain come from that waters the crops that become your food? What does the face of the delivery man who brings you your trinkets look like? Indeed the machinations that turn our world every day are only visible in a keyhole to even the most powerful and worldly. Do not turn your eye askance at the dishwasher’s ignorance, for it is no more than your own or mine.
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What, this simple? A trained monkey could do this labor, you might be scoffing, wrongly. For it is not so simple, indeed what is in this world? Reason might lead you to recognize that certain objects are too long or oddly shaped to fit easily into any dishwasher machine and must be washed by hand. This is true of course, and at the end of the day objects that your average diner would never consider the existence of, such as long cutting boards and tea dispensers must be washed with delicacy and by hand like dishwashers of yore would have done. Yet this is still monkey work is it not, could not any fool be trained in minutes to hold a towel and move back and forth? In asking this you only expose your own ignorance.
The real work of a dishwasher is not the work of towels, soaps, sinks, and machines. The real work is mental, a work of balance, preparation, mental mapping of what is where and who needs what when. Without going into the dining area to grab stacks of dirty plates, the dishwasher must have a bone deep sense for how many dishes are out there, and whether precious is time is better spent at the sink or retrieving more work for himself. He must operate with triage, like a surgeon in an army hospital, knowing whether his comrades preparing food will need bowls more than plates, or utensils more than sauce pans. Is this “unskilled labor” in your eyes still?
Yet this still only speaks of one duty, for the dishwasher must be a jack of all trades. In addition to dishes, every miscellaneous and ignoble task you can imagine and many more that you can’t will fall on his shoulders. Wiping tables (the most hated duty), taking out trash, retrieving needed items from the feared walk in freezer, these are but a handful of his jobs within a job.
So the dishwasher is not an unskilled monkey, you concede, he is not simply the peon stepped on by all, he is a fool, given a unique status but made to work like a dog. Is it really so bad as this, and if so what could drive a man to labor this way? As with all things, the answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no, and the why is known only to themselves.
You can easily imagine the dregs of a dishwasher’s existence. The dishes never stop, and the more you wash the more will simply come back later. This cycle can drive some to nihilistic madness and it’s not few dishwashers who have utterly destroyed themselves for one reason or another. It can drive others to a zen like state of oneness with the dishes and acceptance of fate. But the emotional weight of knowing that your life is cleaning slobber off of plates that they might be slobbered upon again later can crush even the strongest of souls. Such daily humiliation can be compounded by sharp incidents, like an unnoticed napkin clogging the pipes in the machine, only to be removed by sticking a hand into water hot to the point of scalding. For God’s sake my friends, think of the poor devil washing your dishes and be mindful of your napkins!
Then what are the highs of this life seemingly full of lows? For some the high is literal, and they enjoy a job where one can be intoxicated with any substance at any time and all that matters is getting the work done. But the wisest of them face the job stoically and carve out small spaces of freedom. As I mentioned, there is a degree of independence for the dishwasher not possible for others. Taking out trash allows moments of reprieve through smoking and hiding from responsibility, for most people don’t really know how long taking out trash takes. I even once knew a comrade who constructed a small hut from boxes next to the dumpster that he used as shelter to smoke cigarettes in when the weather was too rainy or too cold. Others would rebel in the oldest way known to the oppressed, simple thievery. Managers would wonder why we always seemed to be short of utensils. The dishwashers knew. Those who were scoundrels (most are) knew those utensils had been pilfered one at a time to complete a whole dining set at home, but a kind of dishwasher omerta code of silence kept them safe. At the end of the night, my favorite moment was always to suck down each of the unsqueezed lemon slices which sat in the bowl by the tea dispensers. Everyone in the life finds such small moments of joy and revolt to interrupt the pervading drudgery where they can.
Then for all that, who are these dishwashers? Where do they come from? They come from everywhere and nowhere, like all of us on this wandering Earth. They are men recently out of prison or on their way to prison. They are immigrants, they are children, they are old men past retirement but too impoverished to ever enjoy golden years. They are piloting school instructors picking up extra money, they are directors and they are musicians, artists with a poetry in them of every kind. They are losers, bums, thieves, bastards. But they are men for all this. They are us and we are they.
Do you still say there is no honor in dishwashing? You say this, conjuring an image of a hunched over man with a cracked and aged face or a drug addled teenager, you say it imaging it alongside “unskilled” jobs like street sweepers, janitors, farm hands. If you persist in such thoughts, then you are more hopeless and crass than the most ignorant and devious dishwasher I ever served with. For they are called, they serve, and we consume only at their willingness. No honor in dishwashing? Then there is no honor in life itself, for what is this noble, unsung profession but a microcosm for all of us? Apart, unthanked, looked down upon by some, respected by others, yet able to find small treasures regardless, who among us does not live such a life?