I like the way you describe the "state of mind when doing long, monotonous tasks"; when I worked at Amazon (briefly, thankfully), that's exactly how I would get through those grueling ten hour shifts of packing boxes. It's the closest I think I've ever come to achieving a state of zen - body on total autopilot, moving independently, without any conscious input, while the mind is elsewhere entirely. It's strange and I've never been able to replicate it, but I don't want to go back to Amazon to do it. Especially because you weren't guaranteed to pack every night, and some nights you could be stuck on "picking" duty, which was its own special type of Hell; paradoxically infuriating and boring, but demanding too much thought and engagement to kind of mentally "check out" like packing.
Reading this brought back all the shitty gigs I've done before, but I completely resonate with the feeling. Those types of environment do foster a sort of unspoken unity I've never found in the viper's den of catty, back-biting snakes that is the corporate world. Like you said, I'd never go back and do them again (except for waiting tables at a small, family owned restaurant with cool owners, that place I would have stayed full time if the pay had allowed), but there was value to them all the same.
"Those types of environment do foster a sort of unspoken unity I've never found in the viper's den of catty, back-biting snakes that is the corporate world. "
Yeah. It's that realization you're stuck together, sink-or-swim. No other help is arriving, and you have a mountain of work to power through. Most importantly, there's simply no time for back-biting.
1. I worked two jobs around 1982 or so, lifeguarding/swimming lessons and Farrell's (yes, THE Farrell's in Kennewick, WA).
Started Farrell's in the dish pit and finally moved up to soda jerk (er...Fountain) whereupon my mouth actually got me fired ON MY BIRTHDAY (irony?). I will never forget the sounds, smells, and just the overall sense of doom when the dishes piled up. Their candy/gift shop sure was cute...anyway...oh...and if one more person would have shown up with 10 minutes left in the open hours and asked for a hand scooped shake, I would have also thrown chairs, much like you.
2. Fast forward to about 2016, and I'm almost 30 years into a Software Engineering job and I get the harebrained idea to moonlight at the local Hopjacks (now called Hops and Drops) to make some extra money to help the twins get through nursing school.
Started Hopjacks as a Hostess (with the Most-est) and moved into Bussing, Expo, and finally the much sought after Server. Oh yeah...I'm rockin' now!
I nicknamed the place "the Beast" because on Friday/Saturday nights, I swear to you the entire restaurant "breathed" like a fiery dragon. It wasn't a bad thing...but it was a thing. This would be nights when every table was taken and the line stretched out the door.
While bussing I would help out the poor schlep in the dish pit. Of COURSE they were much younger than me (egads, I was 52 at the time), in fact, many of the servers could have been my own children. I even took a few shifts on the dish pit to see if I wanted to start climbing the "back of house" ladder (from dish to cold side, then to hot side) but that never really got any legs.
I have TOTALLY been in that place where you show up at 5PM to work the night shift and the dish pit is already buried and there is no digging out until about 11 or possibly midnight.
I have seen young lady servers literally crying between tables and trying to not show it. I've seen a lady older than me with a bum leg still coming into work and hobbling around doing expo (and doing a great job at it!) because she had to in order to keep paying rent. I once, in a heat of adrenaline, lifted a 300 pound man (I'm 170) in the Heimlich maneuver and thrashed him like a dog until the piece of shrimp that this guy just HAD to choke down finally spewed about 10 feet through the air (I shook like a leaf the rest of the shift and had to stay away from that section of the restaurant because I didn't want him to feel bad). Management was happy I saved the guy...so there's that. No back injury (lift with your legs chiddren).
I would not trade either of these jobs for anything. There is something about being at the end of your shift with some of your other shiftmates sitting together having a beer before going home (with our shirts turned inside out cuz GOSH you don't want the public to know you work there and DRINK there...).
Oh...and I was doing this Hopjacks stint while still working 40-50 hours for a National Laboratory. I still don't know how I did it...I do know that I basically stayed up on Sundays til midnight to mentally stretch the weekend out just a weeee bit more.
One more fun memory: on one of the nights where the Beast was breathing maybe heavier than normal...my watch clocked ELEVEN MILES I had walked in that restaurant. By the by, we (and especially me...cuz I'm hyper) never did anything slow...we charged through that restaurant (complete with trays of food, drinks, dishes, you name it) and of course I also had the pleasure of having our largest tray size full of dishes, charging out into the lane and slipping on water that a server forgot to wipe up and I watched that tray sail straight out in front of me and crashing to the floor while my knees slammed into the concrete...bloody knees...it's a thing.
but again...I still wouldn't trade it for the world...
thanks for your thoughts and memories today and I tip my hat to your courage and resilience.
I can also tell horrifying software engineering stories too...ain't life grand?
Former Jordan Marsh restaurant and nursing home kitchen dishwasher, here. The last thing I did before turning out the lights and taking out the trash was to squeegee the floor.
You brought me back to my college days in the early 80s, working in a campus dining hall. I hated the dish room, for all the reasons you go into. My favorite job was the milk runner, taking care of the beverage dispensers. It allowed me the chance to roam the dining hall and socialize. I felt like a “front of the house” type. Some people loved the dish room though, especially girls on the breakfast shift. Cloistered away from public view, they didn’t have to get up super early to shower and put on makeup.
A “Hell Summer” is a right of passage that after the passage of time, becomes a sacred memory. I pity those who never had the opportunity to see just how far they could push themselves. They will never know the answer is “farther than you can imagine”.
If someone told me they had worked at McDonald's for a year or two, they would instantly have my respect, and your story does quite a lot to explain why. Bravo. This is an ode to the dirty work we have done to keep body and soul together, told with big flashes of insight, and strangely it is both realistic and subversive.
I like the way you describe the "state of mind when doing long, monotonous tasks"; when I worked at Amazon (briefly, thankfully), that's exactly how I would get through those grueling ten hour shifts of packing boxes. It's the closest I think I've ever come to achieving a state of zen - body on total autopilot, moving independently, without any conscious input, while the mind is elsewhere entirely. It's strange and I've never been able to replicate it, but I don't want to go back to Amazon to do it. Especially because you weren't guaranteed to pack every night, and some nights you could be stuck on "picking" duty, which was its own special type of Hell; paradoxically infuriating and boring, but demanding too much thought and engagement to kind of mentally "check out" like packing.
Reading this brought back all the shitty gigs I've done before, but I completely resonate with the feeling. Those types of environment do foster a sort of unspoken unity I've never found in the viper's den of catty, back-biting snakes that is the corporate world. Like you said, I'd never go back and do them again (except for waiting tables at a small, family owned restaurant with cool owners, that place I would have stayed full time if the pay had allowed), but there was value to them all the same.
"Those types of environment do foster a sort of unspoken unity I've never found in the viper's den of catty, back-biting snakes that is the corporate world. "
Yeah. It's that realization you're stuck together, sink-or-swim. No other help is arriving, and you have a mountain of work to power through. Most importantly, there's simply no time for back-biting.
As a former delta driving dishwasher I salute you, brother.
Excellent writing! Brought back faded memories.
Perfect description, I've been there. You're a gifted writer.
Wow...this hits hard for two reasons:
1. I worked two jobs around 1982 or so, lifeguarding/swimming lessons and Farrell's (yes, THE Farrell's in Kennewick, WA).
Started Farrell's in the dish pit and finally moved up to soda jerk (er...Fountain) whereupon my mouth actually got me fired ON MY BIRTHDAY (irony?). I will never forget the sounds, smells, and just the overall sense of doom when the dishes piled up. Their candy/gift shop sure was cute...anyway...oh...and if one more person would have shown up with 10 minutes left in the open hours and asked for a hand scooped shake, I would have also thrown chairs, much like you.
2. Fast forward to about 2016, and I'm almost 30 years into a Software Engineering job and I get the harebrained idea to moonlight at the local Hopjacks (now called Hops and Drops) to make some extra money to help the twins get through nursing school.
Started Hopjacks as a Hostess (with the Most-est) and moved into Bussing, Expo, and finally the much sought after Server. Oh yeah...I'm rockin' now!
I nicknamed the place "the Beast" because on Friday/Saturday nights, I swear to you the entire restaurant "breathed" like a fiery dragon. It wasn't a bad thing...but it was a thing. This would be nights when every table was taken and the line stretched out the door.
While bussing I would help out the poor schlep in the dish pit. Of COURSE they were much younger than me (egads, I was 52 at the time), in fact, many of the servers could have been my own children. I even took a few shifts on the dish pit to see if I wanted to start climbing the "back of house" ladder (from dish to cold side, then to hot side) but that never really got any legs.
I have TOTALLY been in that place where you show up at 5PM to work the night shift and the dish pit is already buried and there is no digging out until about 11 or possibly midnight.
I have seen young lady servers literally crying between tables and trying to not show it. I've seen a lady older than me with a bum leg still coming into work and hobbling around doing expo (and doing a great job at it!) because she had to in order to keep paying rent. I once, in a heat of adrenaline, lifted a 300 pound man (I'm 170) in the Heimlich maneuver and thrashed him like a dog until the piece of shrimp that this guy just HAD to choke down finally spewed about 10 feet through the air (I shook like a leaf the rest of the shift and had to stay away from that section of the restaurant because I didn't want him to feel bad). Management was happy I saved the guy...so there's that. No back injury (lift with your legs chiddren).
I would not trade either of these jobs for anything. There is something about being at the end of your shift with some of your other shiftmates sitting together having a beer before going home (with our shirts turned inside out cuz GOSH you don't want the public to know you work there and DRINK there...).
Oh...and I was doing this Hopjacks stint while still working 40-50 hours for a National Laboratory. I still don't know how I did it...I do know that I basically stayed up on Sundays til midnight to mentally stretch the weekend out just a weeee bit more.
One more fun memory: on one of the nights where the Beast was breathing maybe heavier than normal...my watch clocked ELEVEN MILES I had walked in that restaurant. By the by, we (and especially me...cuz I'm hyper) never did anything slow...we charged through that restaurant (complete with trays of food, drinks, dishes, you name it) and of course I also had the pleasure of having our largest tray size full of dishes, charging out into the lane and slipping on water that a server forgot to wipe up and I watched that tray sail straight out in front of me and crashing to the floor while my knees slammed into the concrete...bloody knees...it's a thing.
but again...I still wouldn't trade it for the world...
thanks for your thoughts and memories today and I tip my hat to your courage and resilience.
I can also tell horrifying software engineering stories too...ain't life grand?
Former Jordan Marsh restaurant and nursing home kitchen dishwasher, here. The last thing I did before turning out the lights and taking out the trash was to squeegee the floor.
You brought me back to my college days in the early 80s, working in a campus dining hall. I hated the dish room, for all the reasons you go into. My favorite job was the milk runner, taking care of the beverage dispensers. It allowed me the chance to roam the dining hall and socialize. I felt like a “front of the house” type. Some people loved the dish room though, especially girls on the breakfast shift. Cloistered away from public view, they didn’t have to get up super early to shower and put on makeup.
A “Hell Summer” is a right of passage that after the passage of time, becomes a sacred memory. I pity those who never had the opportunity to see just how far they could push themselves. They will never know the answer is “farther than you can imagine”.
Well written sir, well written indeed.
If someone told me they had worked at McDonald's for a year or two, they would instantly have my respect, and your story does quite a lot to explain why. Bravo. This is an ode to the dirty work we have done to keep body and soul together, told with big flashes of insight, and strangely it is both realistic and subversive.
Huzzah!! (from a fellow former professional dishwasher)
See that's the difference between me and most of you. I take time off sometimes to go back to the kitchen. I would do it again. I miss it.
Nothing wrong with that. For me, I had my fill.
As a former dishwasher/busboy: 🫡🫡🫡