Chapter Three
Ben sat at the polished wooden bar in the middle of the empty restaurant, drinking a glass of iced tea. Next to him sat Reggie, an enormously fat man with a pink, chubby face. Reggie ran his sausage-link fingers left-to-right over Ben’s resume.
“Do you have any experience as a waiter?”
“I don’t want to be a waiter. I want to wash dishes.”
Reggie looked up at him and narrowed his eyebrows.
“Are you serious?”
Ben nodded.
“Why do you want to wash dishes? You can make more money as a waiter.”
“It’s not about the money. I want to feel what it’s like to work at the very bottom. I want to feel the sweat on my brow and the whip on my back.”
“Actually I treat everyone here pretty well.”
Ben nodded. His throat was very dry and his tongue felt swollen. When he got nervous, he got thirsty. He tried to take a sip through the straw but there was no iced tea left, only ice. It made the slurping sound of air being sucked through a cluster of ice cubes. Now he wouldn’t get the job. Reggie would think he was rude for making that noise.
On top of that, he drank it too fast: the whole glass in less than a minute. He should have paced himself. Reggie probably thought he was dehydrated from a long night of drinking—that he was an alcoholic in need of an intervention. He’d think Ben would always be showing up to work late or taking breaks to get a glass of iced tea, that the dishes would never get washed.
“Do you want some more?” Reggie asked pleasantly.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So you want to wash dishes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any experience washing dishes?”
“I did chores.”
Reggie glanced at the resume.
“It’s not on here.”
Ben didn’t think to put that on his resume. His parents wouldn’t have given him a good recommendation anyway.
“Are you allergic to any kind of soap?” Reggie asked.
“No.”
Reggie sighed. “Well, it’s against my better judgment, but I’ll give you a shot. I’ll hire you on a trial basis.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Ben pressed his lips together to conceal his giddiness. He was finally a member of the working class. Everything was going according to plan.
Reggie leaned back and his chair creaked.
“Do you have any questions, Ben?”
“What are the benefits?”
“Five dollars an hour.”
“Do you offer a retirement plan?”
“No. Were you planning to make a career of this?”
“How about health insurance?”
“No.”
“How many weeks of paid vacation do I get?”
“None.”
“Are the dishwashers unionized?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“There’s no union?”
“No.”
Ben grinned. There would be a union soon enough. He would unionize the dishwashers
and then lead a strike. They would demand better working conditions, better hours, overtime, and to be treated like decent human beings.
The dishes would go unwashed until all the demands were met. They would just stack up in the sink, mold growing and fruit flies buzzing around, like the sink of an alcoholic who got drunk every night and showed up to work dehydrated.
“Okay,” Reggie said. “Let’s get you a hairnet.”
Tyrone was a skinny black man with tightly braided hair. His purple shirt was unbuttoned half the way down revealing a thick patch of chest hair. Ben thought Tyrone might have put gel in his chest hair, but he didn’t say anything.
They were waiting for an elevator in a lobby filled with dusty artificial plants and cloudy mirrors. The tart tang of rancid garbage hung in the air. Ben inhaled with great vigor, like he was smelling the fresh morning air.
“So this is where the working people live,” Ben mused aloud.
“Naw man,” Tyrone said. “Deez people don’ work.”
“Oh.” Ben was disappointed. “But they’re downtrodden, right?”
“Oh yeah, dey way downtrodden.” Tyrone looked at him. “You gotta job?”
“I’m a dishwasher.”
“Dey got machines can do dat now”
“Well, I’m really a poet.”
“Dat’s good, cause you be needin somefin to do when de machine take yo job.”
Ben nodded. Poetry was his fallback option now. Just in case he didn’t make it big in dishwashing.
The door opened and they pressed into the tight elevator. Tyrone pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the elevator went up, Ben could hear the cable squealing and was sure that it would snap.
“Can I axe you a question?” Tyrone said.
“Okay.”
“What country is you from. I notice you gots a accent.”
Tyrone was right. Ben was from another country: the suburbs. But Ben didn’t want to tell him that. It might hurt Tyrone’s feelings, and then Tyrone would hurt him. So Ben just said, “I’m from England.”
Tyrone nodded. “I shoulda know’d it.”
The elevator door opened. Tyrone led the way down a narrow, poorly lit corridor.
Ben was worried. What would happen when Tyrone did a credit check on him? It would become painfully clear that he wasn’t British.
“I’m actually American. I just lived in England, that’s why I have the accent. My parents sent me to boarding school over there.”
“Like Harry Potter.”
“Yeah.”
Tyrone stopped walking. “Here’s de crib.”
“The what?”
“De crib.” Tyrone took a ring of keys out of his pocket. “De apartment.”
“Ah, yes,” Ben said, comprehending. “The flat.”
Tyrone unlocked the door and let it swing open. A bare mattress lay in one corner. A television with aluminum foil on its antenna sat in the center of the room. The pale orange carpet was stained with cigarette burns and several cigarette butts were scattered about. A single bare light bulb hung from the low ceiling.
Ben walked to the window and stared out at the crumbly brick wall, an appropriate metaphor for the life of the working class. The apartment was perfect, the kind of place a workingman would come home to after a hard day of work, get drunk, and beat his wife. A palpable downtroddenness hovered in the air and Ben felt his creative juices begin to flow. Now surely the muse of the downtrodden would take notice of him.
Tyrone patted the top of the television.
“Gets all de channels.”
“Ah, the telly. I don’t watch it. I’m a poet.”
Tyrone had left the door open. A large woman now stood in the doorway. “Tyrone, why you ain’t fix my toilet?” She saw Ben and frowned. “Who dat white boy?”
“He ain’t white,” Tyrone said. “He British.”
The woman looked back at Ben and smiled hospitably. “Welcome to America.”
“Thank you,” Ben said.
Now he would see the real America, and be its poet.
Juan seemed to enjoy his job washing dishes. He was always grinning and singing along to the Latin music playing on the radio station. Sometimes he would playfully spray Ben with the hose and then giggle hysterically.
Despite this apparent cheerfulness, Ben thought that Juan was disgruntled. This was because Juan always spit on the food.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately for the diner) he was only spitting on the leftover food, so the spit never reached the customer. He immediately washed the plate after spitting on it.
Ben thought this was a good metaphor for the struggle of the working class and their misdirected anger. He used this metaphor in a poem.
When he read the poem to Juan, hoping this would lead to a dishwashers’ union, Juan stood there, politely listening and playing with the nozzle on the hose. There was extra pressure on Ben to read well; the hose was the equivalent of rotten tomatoes that would be thrown at him if the audience wasn’t satisfied. Ben finished reading, folded up the poem, and put it back in his pocket. Juan just stared back at him blankly. The poem hadn’t had much effect—probably because Juan didn’t speak English. He hadn’t understood a word.
He just soaked Ben with the hose and giggled. It never got less funny to him.
One night after work, Ben sat alone on the floor of his apartment. His heater didn’t work, so he was bundled up in several sweaters, his hat, and scarf. He hunched over a notebook, trying to compose a poem. Nothing. His muse was silent.
The phone rang. Maybe it was his muse.
He rolled over and picked it up.
“Hello.”
“So, what are you doing these days?”
It was his older brother Philip’s voice.
“I have a job. I’m a dishwasher.”
“I didn’t think they gave those jobs to Americans. They’ll take your citizenship away
now.”
“They can’t do that.”
“That’s what they said in Germany.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”
“Why? I’m just gonna get coal in my stocking.”
“Christmas isn’t about the presents.”
“Will they let me eat from the Christmas ham?”
“Christmas isn’t about food.”
“So I can have ham?”
“One slice.”
“I think I can learn the true meaning of Christmas without being there.”
“Mom wants you there.”
“Will there even be a Christmas tree or is it just another intervention.”
There was a short pause. This confirmed Ben’s suspicions.
“Oh my God! It is another intervention, isn’t it?”
“Act surprised,” Philip said. “And don’t tell them I told you.”
“You’re acting like this is a surprise party.”
They’d all jump from behind the Christmas tree and yell, “Surprise!” Pat Henderson, the intervention counselor would be wearing a Santa Claus hat and tell him he was addicted to dishwashing.
February 18, 2007
“Do you have any experience as a waiter?”
“I don’t want to be a waiter. I want to wash dishes.”
Reggie looked up at him and narrowed his eyebrows.
“Are you serious?”
Ben nodded.
“Why do you want to wash dishes? You can make more money as a waiter.”
“It’s not about the money. I want to feel what it’s like to work at the very bottom. I want to feel the sweat on my brow and the whip on my back.”
“Actually I treat everyone here pretty well.”
Ben nodded. His throat was very dry and his tongue felt swollen. When he got nervous, he got thirsty. He tried to take a sip through the straw but there was no iced tea left, only ice. It made the slurping sound of air being sucked through a cluster of ice cubes. Now he wouldn’t get the job. Reggie would think he was rude for making that noise.
On top of that, he drank it too fast: the whole glass in less than a minute. He should have paced himself. Reggie probably thought he was dehydrated from a long night of drinking—that he was an alcoholic in need of an intervention. He’d think Ben would always be showing up to work late or taking breaks to get a glass of iced tea, that the dishes would never get washed.
“Do you want some more?” Reggie asked pleasantly.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So you want to wash dishes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any experience washing dishes?”
“I did chores.”
Reggie glanced at the resume.
“It’s not on here.”
Ben didn’t think to put that on his resume. His parents wouldn’t have given him a good recommendation anyway.
“Are you allergic to any kind of soap?” Reggie asked.
“No.”
Reggie sighed. “Well, it’s against my better judgment, but I’ll give you a shot. I’ll hire you on a trial basis.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Ben pressed his lips together to conceal his giddiness. He was finally a member of the working class. Everything was going according to plan.
Reggie leaned back and his chair creaked.
“Do you have any questions, Ben?”
“What are the benefits?”
“Five dollars an hour.”
“Do you offer a retirement plan?”
“No. Were you planning to make a career of this?”
“How about health insurance?”
“No.”
“How many weeks of paid vacation do I get?”
“None.”
“Are the dishwashers unionized?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“There’s no union?”
“No.”
Ben grinned. There would be a union soon enough. He would unionize the dishwashers
and then lead a strike. They would demand better working conditions, better hours, overtime, and to be treated like decent human beings.
The dishes would go unwashed until all the demands were met. They would just stack up in the sink, mold growing and fruit flies buzzing around, like the sink of an alcoholic who got drunk every night and showed up to work dehydrated.
“Okay,” Reggie said. “Let’s get you a hairnet.”
Tyrone was a skinny black man with tightly braided hair. His purple shirt was unbuttoned half the way down revealing a thick patch of chest hair. Ben thought Tyrone might have put gel in his chest hair, but he didn’t say anything.
They were waiting for an elevator in a lobby filled with dusty artificial plants and cloudy mirrors. The tart tang of rancid garbage hung in the air. Ben inhaled with great vigor, like he was smelling the fresh morning air.
“So this is where the working people live,” Ben mused aloud.
“Naw man,” Tyrone said. “Deez people don’ work.”
“Oh.” Ben was disappointed. “But they’re downtrodden, right?”
“Oh yeah, dey way downtrodden.” Tyrone looked at him. “You gotta job?”
“I’m a dishwasher.”
“Dey got machines can do dat now”
“Well, I’m really a poet.”
“Dat’s good, cause you be needin somefin to do when de machine take yo job.”
Ben nodded. Poetry was his fallback option now. Just in case he didn’t make it big in dishwashing.
The door opened and they pressed into the tight elevator. Tyrone pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the elevator went up, Ben could hear the cable squealing and was sure that it would snap.
“Can I axe you a question?” Tyrone said.
“Okay.”
“What country is you from. I notice you gots a accent.”
Tyrone was right. Ben was from another country: the suburbs. But Ben didn’t want to tell him that. It might hurt Tyrone’s feelings, and then Tyrone would hurt him. So Ben just said, “I’m from England.”
Tyrone nodded. “I shoulda know’d it.”
The elevator door opened. Tyrone led the way down a narrow, poorly lit corridor.
Ben was worried. What would happen when Tyrone did a credit check on him? It would become painfully clear that he wasn’t British.
“I’m actually American. I just lived in England, that’s why I have the accent. My parents sent me to boarding school over there.”
“Like Harry Potter.”
“Yeah.”
Tyrone stopped walking. “Here’s de crib.”
“The what?”
“De crib.” Tyrone took a ring of keys out of his pocket. “De apartment.”
“Ah, yes,” Ben said, comprehending. “The flat.”
Tyrone unlocked the door and let it swing open. A bare mattress lay in one corner. A television with aluminum foil on its antenna sat in the center of the room. The pale orange carpet was stained with cigarette burns and several cigarette butts were scattered about. A single bare light bulb hung from the low ceiling.
Ben walked to the window and stared out at the crumbly brick wall, an appropriate metaphor for the life of the working class. The apartment was perfect, the kind of place a workingman would come home to after a hard day of work, get drunk, and beat his wife. A palpable downtroddenness hovered in the air and Ben felt his creative juices begin to flow. Now surely the muse of the downtrodden would take notice of him.
Tyrone patted the top of the television.
“Gets all de channels.”
“Ah, the telly. I don’t watch it. I’m a poet.”
Tyrone had left the door open. A large woman now stood in the doorway. “Tyrone, why you ain’t fix my toilet?” She saw Ben and frowned. “Who dat white boy?”
“He ain’t white,” Tyrone said. “He British.”
The woman looked back at Ben and smiled hospitably. “Welcome to America.”
“Thank you,” Ben said.
Now he would see the real America, and be its poet.
Juan seemed to enjoy his job washing dishes. He was always grinning and singing along to the Latin music playing on the radio station. Sometimes he would playfully spray Ben with the hose and then giggle hysterically.
Despite this apparent cheerfulness, Ben thought that Juan was disgruntled. This was because Juan always spit on the food.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately for the diner) he was only spitting on the leftover food, so the spit never reached the customer. He immediately washed the plate after spitting on it.
Ben thought this was a good metaphor for the struggle of the working class and their misdirected anger. He used this metaphor in a poem.
When he read the poem to Juan, hoping this would lead to a dishwashers’ union, Juan stood there, politely listening and playing with the nozzle on the hose. There was extra pressure on Ben to read well; the hose was the equivalent of rotten tomatoes that would be thrown at him if the audience wasn’t satisfied. Ben finished reading, folded up the poem, and put it back in his pocket. Juan just stared back at him blankly. The poem hadn’t had much effect—probably because Juan didn’t speak English. He hadn’t understood a word.
He just soaked Ben with the hose and giggled. It never got less funny to him.
One night after work, Ben sat alone on the floor of his apartment. His heater didn’t work, so he was bundled up in several sweaters, his hat, and scarf. He hunched over a notebook, trying to compose a poem. Nothing. His muse was silent.
The phone rang. Maybe it was his muse.
He rolled over and picked it up.
“Hello.”
“So, what are you doing these days?”
It was his older brother Philip’s voice.
“I have a job. I’m a dishwasher.”
“I didn’t think they gave those jobs to Americans. They’ll take your citizenship away
now.”
“They can’t do that.”
“That’s what they said in Germany.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”
“Why? I’m just gonna get coal in my stocking.”
“Christmas isn’t about the presents.”
“Will they let me eat from the Christmas ham?”
“Christmas isn’t about food.”
“So I can have ham?”
“One slice.”
“I think I can learn the true meaning of Christmas without being there.”
“Mom wants you there.”
“Will there even be a Christmas tree or is it just another intervention.”
There was a short pause. This confirmed Ben’s suspicions.
“Oh my God! It is another intervention, isn’t it?”
“Act surprised,” Philip said. “And don’t tell them I told you.”
“You’re acting like this is a surprise party.”
They’d all jump from behind the Christmas tree and yell, “Surprise!” Pat Henderson, the intervention counselor would be wearing a Santa Claus hat and tell him he was addicted to dishwashing.
February 18, 2007
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Friday, February 23, 2007
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