Slice of Key Life Pie
“My suffering bring all the souls to the Lord.“
This thought is the only thing that‘s keeping me regular company. I crawl across this floor like pre-fairy godmother Cinderella, scrubbing the tiles of the dish pit with all of my might. I have been given an assignment, which is to make this floor sparkle. That is my duty, and I am surprisingly fond of it.
Of course that isn’t to say that I do not adore the Zen beauty of being wholly absorbed in the act of washing the single dish before me, but a western, go-get-’em, (dare I say) capitalistic break from the norm is well wanted and appreciated.
Before my supervisor Barb interrupted me with direction for my current mission, I was immersed in the sub-sublime state of two-ness. By this I mean that if the final result of enlightenment is “oneness” and the path to enlightenment is a detachment from everything, then if someone is single-mindedly focused on a single action, then they are just one step away from “oneness”. Therefore that person is in two-ness. It is the act of washing dishes that affords me this glance into Nirvana. I am focusing on the dishes alone apart from time and space the time. But like I said now, I am happy immersed in an activity that has a definite end goal, an activity which will present me with a challenge that will break the monotony and let me get the hell off of my aching feet.
The dish pit is separated from the rest of the kitchen by a poor planning job that places a hallway to the restrooms between the two. The solitude this provides works for and against me. On one hand I am allowed to work at my own pace, savoring Thanksgiving-sized portions of thinking time, unfortunately I have a tendency for those thoughts of mine to slowly transform into passionate monologues delivered to my audience of glass plates and six-pans.
Right now though, I am silent, focused and determined. My tools consist of a green four by ten inch scrubbing pad, two pieces of cardboard for my knees, a pair of aquamarine rubber gloves, and a bucket of too much bleach, too much degreaser and too little cold water.
When I began the cooks came over, stood in the doorway looking down at me scrubbing frantically and said things like, “Looks like Christian’s earning his pay.” or “Man, I wish I could help you out, but, you know.” I responded with a laugh of idle acknowledgement and scrubbed on. The cooks stood there for quite awhile, just looking at the back of my head until they got bored, when they left they shut the door to the hallway. About half way through, the waitresses amassed in the other doorway, the one that leads to the bar. They all stood, much like the cooks saying things like, “OH Christian, it doesn’t seem fair for Barb to make you do this, you’re the dishwasher not a fucking paleontologist.” or “Christian are you okay with doing this?” I took a second to look up and addressed them all saying, “I don’t mind doing it, I’m actually having a lot of fun.” Then they complimented my work by saying that the floor looked amazing and that they had no idea it was actually that color.
After they left I’ve gotten to the point where I am currently, that is, about three-fourths of the way through this room, for the last quarter, since the waitresses left I’ve had a funny feeling like I’ve been viewing myself cleaning from the doorway for some time now. While I was trying to shirk that feeling I began reflecting on exactly why it is that I’m enjoying myself to much. I’m enjoying myself because of the dynamic this situation creates. I’m still alone, my face inches off of the floor, this task is unusual and out of my line of work, and business is slow so everyone has time to come and check on the progress. I am pitied and appreciated. That is why I don’t take a break, slow down, or even ask the my co-workers to keep the doors open. I am the Messiah of dishwashers, the fact that I’m not griping compounds the guilt. Like reading a novel from start to finish in one sitting. This is the only way I know of to gain face. Christian’s my name and inspiring disbelief by extreme politeness and detachment is my game.
Most of the stains came and went as formless blobs, randomly scattered throughout the discolored dish pit floor. Hot downtown digs bustling with the entire population of tipsy 20-somethings that used to keep the neighbors up late in the valley of the dirt people. An entire civilization destroyed, it‘s history and culture wiped away, but I don’t feel too bad since I created it anyway. Now the only stain remaining is the stain whose story stands alone. The others offered no evidence as to their real history, none were of a particular shape or color that might reveal clues the investigator.
This rust colored stain, runs long and narrow, I sit, taking my first break and glance from the stain to the two sinks that overlap directly above the length of the stain and back to the stain again. This stain is a direct result of a close but missed connection, the stain of miscommunication, made of the waste that manages to fall through the narrow divide and take shape far deeper, out of site. Its clear form and distinction from the other stains hints at a revolutionary spirit born out of circumstance, a stain transcending stainhood. I reach for the spray bottle full of bleach and shower the stain. I lean in underneath the sink and start to scrub, it has an overpowering chemical stench so I hold my breath as I finish the stain.
I get out from underneath the sink as quickly as possible, hacking and trying to get a good breath of air. I begin to stand and am once again struck with the out of body feeling, only now the feeling isn’t so direct, I actually just feel warm, a little queasy and perhaps a little drunk.
I walk out to the bar. Barb is sitting at the far end playing video poker and from what I hear as I approach her, half mindedly taking part in a conversation about local politics.
“Well you know what it means to make electric publicly owned?” says the red-faced regular to her left, “It means forcing privately controlled property to be forcibly handed over to the government, that kind of shit belongs in commie China, not here in the freedom-loving United States of America.”
“Don’t give me that ‘freedom loving’ bullshit, you’re the one who thinks gays shouldn’t be allowed to marry,” Barb responds, “besides-”
“Um, Barb?” I blurt out while trying to focus. I immediately realize I had cut her off and say, “Oh, excuse me, sorry.”
“Oh no it’s alright hon, go on.” she says.
“It’s just that I wanted to tell you that I’m done cleaning the floor in the dish pit. And I was wondering if I could grab a book of matches and take a smoke break.” I says.
“Well, let’s just see what it looks like in there.” Barb says.
Barb gets up and walks the long way around the bar, I wait until she’s in the lead and I follow her into the dish pit. “Oh wow Christian, this looks spectacular,” she says slowly as she bends over to get a closer look underneath all of the sinks, the shelves, and the freezer, “when did I have you start?.”
I stand, staring blankly past her, further into my realm of ammonia-bleach cocktail hour. Suddenly her words’ Moses guided the sentence’s twelve word-tribes to the surprisingly fertile Promised Land of my ears and shook the walls of my chemical Jericho.
“Wha…um, I think at about four-thirty, after I had cleared all of the lunch rush dishes.” I say, “What time is it now?”
Barb takes a second and gives me a probing look then says, “It’s about seven-thirty, Christian go take your smoke break and take your time out in the fresh air, you’ve done a great job honey. On your way back though, check with the kitchen and see if they have any dishes they need you to take care of. If they don‘t you can leave, if they do finish those up first”
“Okay, well, thank you.” I say. I walk out through the hallway and out to smoke. I sit down outside, light the cigarette and close my eyes. Even the cigarette isn’t clearing my head, I’m trapped in a daydream. I finish my cigarette, and start walking inside, it is time to bust ass and get out of here.
I open the kitchen door, as I walk through the prep area I heard the cooks talking. Cory is the rail thin cook and the only other employee here that isn’t old enough to drink. I hear him say, “I not sure I know why he went and got all involved in that mess, she’s kinda funny looking but I hear she has a tight puss.”
I round the corner trying to look as normal as possible and acting like I didn’t hear the last comment. I say, “Hey guys, I’m done cleaning that floor, are there any dishes you want me to take care of before I cut out.?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Cory says as he grabs a large one-handled pot grins slyly, “this should do ya.”
He hands me the pot, I say, “Thanks.” and walk back into the dish pit stooping slightly to my right under the weight of the pot.
I set the pot down and look inside, lining the inside is peanut sauce, I’m relieved it’s not something very tough to rinse out. I turn the pot on it’s side and begin rinsing it out when I begin to see black underneath the peanut sauce in the bottom.
“Shit.” I say. Taking a closer look I see that there an entire layer of burnt peanut sauce along the entire bottom of it. Suddenly an image of the pot on the stove top appears to me, the pot has been left over the open flame for too long and seems, without facial expressions to be in great agony. My normal game of imagining different scenes while I wash dishes has undergone a drastic change. The layer of burnt peanut sauce seems unbelievably thick, perhaps the pot is somehow making a last ditch effort to escape the endless cycle of the kitchen. This time the scene and dialogue come and play out naturally on the stage of my mind as I commence cleaning the pot.
“Why is it that you seek to escape the kitchen?” I say to the pot as I rinse all of the loose peanut sauce from the pot.
“I only wish that the circumstance allowing my possible discharge from the confines of the kitchen may not be done away with.” the pot responds meekly.
“You did not answer my question. I inquired as to the reasons behind your desire to be forcibly rejected from the kitchen.” I respond.
“The reason I wish to leave is that I’m having a problem coming to terms with my existence. By that I mean, my existence consists entirely of being put over flames to cook food that I have no desire for and whose consumers I will never see or meet. I suffer to create that which I can never use or enjoy and I will never even have the joy of seeing it enjoyed by anyone. Needless suffering to create that which I will never see grow to fruition is the nature of my current existence and I wish to become something greater that a pot, I wish to change.” Says the pot.
I fill the pot with a detergent and industrial strength dissolving agent. As I do this I say, “I understand your frustration, but what you seem to be missing is that you fulfill a role, in this kitchen. Without a pot the kitchen would be brought to it’s knees. You serve, even as simply a pot, an integral role that is unique and special. Why do you believe you need to be something more when you play a fundamental role in keeping this kitchen a working, functioning kitchen.
“Well, I mean, I suppose that’s true, but the difference between, say for example, myself and you, is that you made the choice to come here and play your role, you had that power.” the pot says becoming slightly subdued by the warm liquid.
I take a large kitchen spoon and slowly start to make cracks in the burnt peanut sauce, saying, “That difference is correct, but what you’ve missed and cannot fully realize, is that I would be so lucky to be in your place, you have always known what your purpose was, and that you were part of a larger system. You’ve never had to face the feeling of fundamental abandonment, an overload of dynamic choices each without any certain guarantee of value or meaning. There was once a day when I wished to be a painter, I would paint and paint, worrying about whether I would succeed or if my efforts were worth anything.” I manage to dislodge the majority of the burnt peanut sauce and pour the carbonized sauce out with the cleaning solution, continuing, “The day I quit was the day I realized I was just being selfish. I wanted to become something I was not, something I had no assurance was my niche or for that matter that I had the right to become it. You see, I’ve found my place in the world because I stopped struggling. Accept your destiny, your special place right here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I have a place in this kitchen and by extension the world, I am special because although I may fulfill the same role as another I am still doing that job my own distinctive way.” says the pot in what seems like a mantra.
I finish cleaning the last bits of the burnt peanut sauce out of the pot with some steel wool. As I slide the pot into the dishwasher I say, “Goodbye my pot.”
The pot must not hear me because it continues to recite the chant. As I’m sliding the sides of the dishwasher shut the pot continues, “…and as long as I allow my self worth and the justification of my existence to be based upon my relationship to a larger entity and not based upon my actual self worth or happiness I will forever be-” the stainless steel dishwasher walls shuts as I start the dishwasher, when the panel of the dishwasher closed my view of the pot was replaced by my own reflection and the daydream world quickly fades away.
#
This thought is the only thing that‘s keeping me regular company. I crawl across this floor like pre-fairy godmother Cinderella, scrubbing the tiles of the dish pit with all of my might. I have been given an assignment, which is to make this floor sparkle. That is my duty, and I am surprisingly fond of it.
Of course that isn’t to say that I do not adore the Zen beauty of being wholly absorbed in the act of washing the single dish before me, but a western, go-get-’em, (dare I say) capitalistic break from the norm is well wanted and appreciated.
Before my supervisor Barb interrupted me with direction for my current mission, I was immersed in the sub-sublime state of two-ness. By this I mean that if the final result of enlightenment is “oneness” and the path to enlightenment is a detachment from everything, then if someone is single-mindedly focused on a single action, then they are just one step away from “oneness”. Therefore that person is in two-ness. It is the act of washing dishes that affords me this glance into Nirvana. I am focusing on the dishes alone apart from time and space the time. But like I said now, I am happy immersed in an activity that has a definite end goal, an activity which will present me with a challenge that will break the monotony and let me get the hell off of my aching feet.
The dish pit is separated from the rest of the kitchen by a poor planning job that places a hallway to the restrooms between the two. The solitude this provides works for and against me. On one hand I am allowed to work at my own pace, savoring Thanksgiving-sized portions of thinking time, unfortunately I have a tendency for those thoughts of mine to slowly transform into passionate monologues delivered to my audience of glass plates and six-pans.
Right now though, I am silent, focused and determined. My tools consist of a green four by ten inch scrubbing pad, two pieces of cardboard for my knees, a pair of aquamarine rubber gloves, and a bucket of too much bleach, too much degreaser and too little cold water.
When I began the cooks came over, stood in the doorway looking down at me scrubbing frantically and said things like, “Looks like Christian’s earning his pay.” or “Man, I wish I could help you out, but, you know.” I responded with a laugh of idle acknowledgement and scrubbed on. The cooks stood there for quite awhile, just looking at the back of my head until they got bored, when they left they shut the door to the hallway. About half way through, the waitresses amassed in the other doorway, the one that leads to the bar. They all stood, much like the cooks saying things like, “OH Christian, it doesn’t seem fair for Barb to make you do this, you’re the dishwasher not a fucking paleontologist.” or “Christian are you okay with doing this?” I took a second to look up and addressed them all saying, “I don’t mind doing it, I’m actually having a lot of fun.” Then they complimented my work by saying that the floor looked amazing and that they had no idea it was actually that color.
After they left I’ve gotten to the point where I am currently, that is, about three-fourths of the way through this room, for the last quarter, since the waitresses left I’ve had a funny feeling like I’ve been viewing myself cleaning from the doorway for some time now. While I was trying to shirk that feeling I began reflecting on exactly why it is that I’m enjoying myself to much. I’m enjoying myself because of the dynamic this situation creates. I’m still alone, my face inches off of the floor, this task is unusual and out of my line of work, and business is slow so everyone has time to come and check on the progress. I am pitied and appreciated. That is why I don’t take a break, slow down, or even ask the my co-workers to keep the doors open. I am the Messiah of dishwashers, the fact that I’m not griping compounds the guilt. Like reading a novel from start to finish in one sitting. This is the only way I know of to gain face. Christian’s my name and inspiring disbelief by extreme politeness and detachment is my game.
Most of the stains came and went as formless blobs, randomly scattered throughout the discolored dish pit floor. Hot downtown digs bustling with the entire population of tipsy 20-somethings that used to keep the neighbors up late in the valley of the dirt people. An entire civilization destroyed, it‘s history and culture wiped away, but I don’t feel too bad since I created it anyway. Now the only stain remaining is the stain whose story stands alone. The others offered no evidence as to their real history, none were of a particular shape or color that might reveal clues the investigator.
This rust colored stain, runs long and narrow, I sit, taking my first break and glance from the stain to the two sinks that overlap directly above the length of the stain and back to the stain again. This stain is a direct result of a close but missed connection, the stain of miscommunication, made of the waste that manages to fall through the narrow divide and take shape far deeper, out of site. Its clear form and distinction from the other stains hints at a revolutionary spirit born out of circumstance, a stain transcending stainhood. I reach for the spray bottle full of bleach and shower the stain. I lean in underneath the sink and start to scrub, it has an overpowering chemical stench so I hold my breath as I finish the stain.
I get out from underneath the sink as quickly as possible, hacking and trying to get a good breath of air. I begin to stand and am once again struck with the out of body feeling, only now the feeling isn’t so direct, I actually just feel warm, a little queasy and perhaps a little drunk.
I walk out to the bar. Barb is sitting at the far end playing video poker and from what I hear as I approach her, half mindedly taking part in a conversation about local politics.
“Well you know what it means to make electric publicly owned?” says the red-faced regular to her left, “It means forcing privately controlled property to be forcibly handed over to the government, that kind of shit belongs in commie China, not here in the freedom-loving United States of America.”
“Don’t give me that ‘freedom loving’ bullshit, you’re the one who thinks gays shouldn’t be allowed to marry,” Barb responds, “besides-”
“Um, Barb?” I blurt out while trying to focus. I immediately realize I had cut her off and say, “Oh, excuse me, sorry.”
“Oh no it’s alright hon, go on.” she says.
“It’s just that I wanted to tell you that I’m done cleaning the floor in the dish pit. And I was wondering if I could grab a book of matches and take a smoke break.” I says.
“Well, let’s just see what it looks like in there.” Barb says.
Barb gets up and walks the long way around the bar, I wait until she’s in the lead and I follow her into the dish pit. “Oh wow Christian, this looks spectacular,” she says slowly as she bends over to get a closer look underneath all of the sinks, the shelves, and the freezer, “when did I have you start?.”
I stand, staring blankly past her, further into my realm of ammonia-bleach cocktail hour. Suddenly her words’ Moses guided the sentence’s twelve word-tribes to the surprisingly fertile Promised Land of my ears and shook the walls of my chemical Jericho.
“Wha…um, I think at about four-thirty, after I had cleared all of the lunch rush dishes.” I say, “What time is it now?”
Barb takes a second and gives me a probing look then says, “It’s about seven-thirty, Christian go take your smoke break and take your time out in the fresh air, you’ve done a great job honey. On your way back though, check with the kitchen and see if they have any dishes they need you to take care of. If they don‘t you can leave, if they do finish those up first”
“Okay, well, thank you.” I say. I walk out through the hallway and out to smoke. I sit down outside, light the cigarette and close my eyes. Even the cigarette isn’t clearing my head, I’m trapped in a daydream. I finish my cigarette, and start walking inside, it is time to bust ass and get out of here.
I open the kitchen door, as I walk through the prep area I heard the cooks talking. Cory is the rail thin cook and the only other employee here that isn’t old enough to drink. I hear him say, “I not sure I know why he went and got all involved in that mess, she’s kinda funny looking but I hear she has a tight puss.”
I round the corner trying to look as normal as possible and acting like I didn’t hear the last comment. I say, “Hey guys, I’m done cleaning that floor, are there any dishes you want me to take care of before I cut out.?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Cory says as he grabs a large one-handled pot grins slyly, “this should do ya.”
He hands me the pot, I say, “Thanks.” and walk back into the dish pit stooping slightly to my right under the weight of the pot.
I set the pot down and look inside, lining the inside is peanut sauce, I’m relieved it’s not something very tough to rinse out. I turn the pot on it’s side and begin rinsing it out when I begin to see black underneath the peanut sauce in the bottom.
“Shit.” I say. Taking a closer look I see that there an entire layer of burnt peanut sauce along the entire bottom of it. Suddenly an image of the pot on the stove top appears to me, the pot has been left over the open flame for too long and seems, without facial expressions to be in great agony. My normal game of imagining different scenes while I wash dishes has undergone a drastic change. The layer of burnt peanut sauce seems unbelievably thick, perhaps the pot is somehow making a last ditch effort to escape the endless cycle of the kitchen. This time the scene and dialogue come and play out naturally on the stage of my mind as I commence cleaning the pot.
“Why is it that you seek to escape the kitchen?” I say to the pot as I rinse all of the loose peanut sauce from the pot.
“I only wish that the circumstance allowing my possible discharge from the confines of the kitchen may not be done away with.” the pot responds meekly.
“You did not answer my question. I inquired as to the reasons behind your desire to be forcibly rejected from the kitchen.” I respond.
“The reason I wish to leave is that I’m having a problem coming to terms with my existence. By that I mean, my existence consists entirely of being put over flames to cook food that I have no desire for and whose consumers I will never see or meet. I suffer to create that which I can never use or enjoy and I will never even have the joy of seeing it enjoyed by anyone. Needless suffering to create that which I will never see grow to fruition is the nature of my current existence and I wish to become something greater that a pot, I wish to change.” Says the pot.
I fill the pot with a detergent and industrial strength dissolving agent. As I do this I say, “I understand your frustration, but what you seem to be missing is that you fulfill a role, in this kitchen. Without a pot the kitchen would be brought to it’s knees. You serve, even as simply a pot, an integral role that is unique and special. Why do you believe you need to be something more when you play a fundamental role in keeping this kitchen a working, functioning kitchen.
“Well, I mean, I suppose that’s true, but the difference between, say for example, myself and you, is that you made the choice to come here and play your role, you had that power.” the pot says becoming slightly subdued by the warm liquid.
I take a large kitchen spoon and slowly start to make cracks in the burnt peanut sauce, saying, “That difference is correct, but what you’ve missed and cannot fully realize, is that I would be so lucky to be in your place, you have always known what your purpose was, and that you were part of a larger system. You’ve never had to face the feeling of fundamental abandonment, an overload of dynamic choices each without any certain guarantee of value or meaning. There was once a day when I wished to be a painter, I would paint and paint, worrying about whether I would succeed or if my efforts were worth anything.” I manage to dislodge the majority of the burnt peanut sauce and pour the carbonized sauce out with the cleaning solution, continuing, “The day I quit was the day I realized I was just being selfish. I wanted to become something I was not, something I had no assurance was my niche or for that matter that I had the right to become it. You see, I’ve found my place in the world because I stopped struggling. Accept your destiny, your special place right here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I have a place in this kitchen and by extension the world, I am special because although I may fulfill the same role as another I am still doing that job my own distinctive way.” says the pot in what seems like a mantra.
I finish cleaning the last bits of the burnt peanut sauce out of the pot with some steel wool. As I slide the pot into the dishwasher I say, “Goodbye my pot.”
The pot must not hear me because it continues to recite the chant. As I’m sliding the sides of the dishwasher shut the pot continues, “…and as long as I allow my self worth and the justification of my existence to be based upon my relationship to a larger entity and not based upon my actual self worth or happiness I will forever be-” the stainless steel dishwasher walls shuts as I start the dishwasher, when the panel of the dishwasher closed my view of the pot was replaced by my own reflection and the daydream world quickly fades away.
#