Sweltering

 I spent a summer as a dishwasher for a Mexican restaurant. 

Okay. Not the whole summer. I had days off. And in between shifts I did things that newly minted teenaged boys should do. But that may have been as hot as I have ever been in my life. For periods of time, anyway. And it wasn't a dry heat, either. Two of us in our nominal uniform of white short sleeve shirt and white and black checked polyester pants would take turns pulling tubs of dishes brought to our window by busboys. Excess food would be tossed off into the frequently changed trash can. Then they were stacked and shoved down to the sprayer. Alternately the most fun and dangerous job, spraying the dishes to get off the cheese that had been baked onto the plates and hosing the guacamole and whatever else didn't make it into the trash can while attempting to keep your footing on the increasingly slippery rubber mat that never dried. The scraping and stacking position was a dual one, in that once screaming hot sterilized glasses, bowls, plates and cutlery on racks came out of the Hobart after having been shoved in there by sprayer it was that person's job to get the clean things back where they belonged. Mostly in the kitchen.

But, if you timed it right, you got to carry a rack or two of glasses to the bar. This meant you got to walk halfway across the restaurant, far away from the oppressive swamp temperatures of the dish room. This meant an occasional interaction with other human beings outside. Waiters. Waitresses. And the bartender. He might even fill up a tall water glass with Coke and let you choke it down before returning to the swamp. Back to the hole. 

That perk of the occasional Coke from the bartender? That was in lieu of the tips that busboys shared with the wait staff. That window where they shoved the dirty dishes at us was also where the money stopped. Which is probably why the bartender felt like keeping us cool and caffeinated. If we didn't bring him any glasses, he didn't serve any drinks. No drinks. No tips. It was in his best interest, and we would even wash the glass. 

After eight hours of this, when the bar and the restaurant were closed, we picked up that rubber mat and turned the hose on the floor where a night's worth of enchiladas had been congealing. The dishwashers were hosing down even as the cooks were tossing their aprons in the laundry and heading for the door. The same door we would be sloshing out shortly after peeling off the uniforms that now clung to us like a second skin. Into our street clothes. Out into the night air. I said goodnight to my fellow dishwasher and hopped on my bike and rode the three miles back to my parents' house. Where I collapsed in a protective cocoon of steamed in grease.

Until it was time to wake up and do it all over again.