Drunnnk History: The South Pole
People around McMurdo recreating the 100 year anniversary of Scott and Amundsen, and even Road Dahl, reaching the South Pole. It’s what happens when you have a drunk storyteller.
Dish Washing Part II: The Dish on Antarctica
January 23, 2012
Drunk History: The South Pole
September 10, 2011
Anti-rachnophobia
It’s just something I haven’t thought about. There are times that I have been asked to clean some nooks and crannies of the Galley that have not seen the light of day or a disinfectant since Sir Robert Scott threw away his food waste of pemmican and penguin.
Beneath the rim of trash cans in the front of the Galley or in the far corners of the pot room there are layers of Mesozoic era waste. On my back or down on my knees with size 10 rubber gloves and a blend of Clorox and nuclear isotopes, I scrub away what looks like the building blocks of primordial sludge. I wipe past the debris caused by the Chicxulub meteor that caused the extinction of dinosaurs, unearth the genes of the first Acanthostega and then finally reach the tile or the steel of the Galley floor or the food waste bins.
But, here’s the thing, if I had to do this type of deep cleaning in my past apartment or future house, I would be mindful of spiders, cockroaches and mice. In Antarctica, the nearest single-celled or multi-legged venomous creature is sequestered far away in a city called Denver.
There is a certain freedom to living in a bug free environment that I just don’t think about, until I’m reaching behind the sink to retrieve a dropped spoon or crawling under my bed to find a dropped glove or missing boot.
This morning as I was getting ready for work, one of my non-slip Galley shoes had slipped away from its usual resting place. Even though my commute to work is less than three minutes away, this missing shoe was causing a bit of a delay.
After getting down on my hands and knees, I saw the shoe had been kicked below my dormitory bed. Imagine if you had to reach beneath a bed at a motel that was constructed in the 1970s. The dust bunnies hanging from the mattress, the random bits of human skin-dust dangling from cotton strings that form the bottom of a box spring mattress and, no doubt, spiders, mites, roaches and other bugs that have yet to be phenotyped.
If this shoe had been lost in such a motel, I would have left it were it lay and gone to work with one shoe and asked the staff to call me a new nickname like “Lefty,” “One-Shoey” or “Heather Mills.”
Instead, I said out loud to my brain, “You’re in Antarctica. There aren’t any bugs.”
It’s just something I haven’t thought about: The ability to clean without fear of unearthing the Hantavirus. Since arriving in Antarctica, I have not heard an eeek or a shrill or a cry because of a bug. It’s like the opposite of a nuclear bomb has detonated, and instead of unleashing a holy hell of fire that kills everything except cockroaches, hell has frozen over, the cockroaches are dead and I call this home.
If you have claustrophobia, agoraphobia or Spheniscidaeaphobia, then Antarctica is probably not your continent. However, if you suffer from arachnophobia, then you might want to consider moving to Antarctica.
August 31, 2011
????????????
Do you live in an igloo? Have you seen any bears? Have you lost a finger and/or toe to frostbite? Is it cold? What is your favorite bear: The polar or the grizzly? Are there UFOs? When you walk, does it feel like you’re upside down? Can you take a picture of my Flat Stanley? Is it cold? Is it cold? My dad shoveled our driveway today.
The kids from my nephew’s second grade class sent me a list of questions about what it is like to live in Antarctica. Regardless of the quality of their questions, my nephew is not retarded. In fact, before I came to Antarctica, I also worried about frostbite and walking upside down at the bottom of the world. But, what I have since learned about Antarctica, I haven’t learned by living in Antarctica, I’ve had to read books about Antarctica to learn about Antarctica. Even though I live in Antarctica, all I’ve really learned is how to wash dishes in an industrial sized kitchen.
Since these kids asked me general questions about Antarctica, questions that could be learned in any I-can-read-book, full of pictures (none of which would have a bear) about Antarctica, I decided to submit the answers to the questions about what it’s like to live in Antarctica from my perspective as a dishwasher.
As dishwashers, we keep a daily log that informs the different shifts about what was, what needs to be, and what was not cleaned during the previous shift.
So I wrote back to the Second Graders:
Thank you for your questions about living in Antarctica. None of these answers pertain to your questions. These are the answers to the questions I deal with in my day-to-day life. I think you’d best understand what it’s like to live in Antarctica, by seeing the actual questions, complaints and duties I undertake every day.
Dishwasher Paul said: Whoever keeps putting the bug juice machine together with the spinning piece upside down should never be allowed near these machines again, Also, this pen is almost out of ink. Where do we get new ……
Good Question Paul: Pens in Antarctica are as rare as cigarettes in prison. It’s not like we have an Office Depot where we can shop. If you find a pen, I’ll trade you three beers and a stack of 1980s porn.
Tracey asked: There’s a new sound in the pot room. What is it?
“Dishwasher” Tracey: Ever since you arrived in McMurdo it seems your only goal is to sleep with as many firemen as possible, get drunk and be completely useless at work. Since the bars are closed on Monday nights, and today is Tuesday, that sound in the Pot Room is the sound of you working for the first time. Tomorrow, the sound of you saying, “I can’t possibly work with this hangover” will return and everything will be normal in the Pot Room.
Mark can’t figure out a condiment problem: What the f-bomb is up with empte katchep bottles? Not to be harsh, but we need to create a protocal?
Kids, I think this is a good time for me to reiterate what your teachers always say: read a book, learn to spell and stay in school. And, if you have so many goddamn questions about Antarctica, become a scientist or a mid-level manager (good grades are not a prerequisite to be a boss), and if you really want to learn about Antarctica—don’t come to Antarctica as a dishwasher.
August 27, 2011
Board of Antarctica
“There’s gnargnarPOWPOW on the mountain. Let’s straightline that bitch.”
“Whoa. Don’t get aggro. Colorado type powpow or Utah powpow? I’ve snowboarded everywhere and Utah powpow is da sick shit.”
“After shredding let’s down some PBR.
“Ah-Ight.”
Do you know the difference between a snowboarder and God? God doesn’t think he’s a snowboarder.
I’ve been to parties where I accidentally got stuck in between a conversation of snowboarders and every snowboarder talked like they were the Mohammed Ali of the mountains. They all floated like butterflies and stuck their landings like a bee. Each person caught the highest air, had snowboarded in the sickest locals and said, “No friends on a powder day” and then they’d toast their PBRs to the snow gods even though they each felt like they were that diety.
I would try to contribute to their conversations with fist bumps or pulling up my boxer shorts, but trying to relate to snowboarders by discussing document shredding really put me on the outs.
So, when I was asked to hike the Castle Rock Loop to go snowboarding, I politely bowed out. The Castle Rock Loop is approximately a 7 to 9 mile hike on the outskirts of McMurdo Station. It wasn’t the cold or distance of this hike that met my immediate decline, it was knowing this hike would take several hours. Several hours of sick, shredding, trippendicular vernacular was not how I wanted to spend my day off.
Then, I realized, I had to. Not for the fun. Not for the adventure, but for the future.
We suited up and headed out. Everyone had a snowboard and I brought the tool of my trade: A blue Galley tray. I’ve seen how these food trays slide through my dish machine, so I could only assume I could turn my Antarctic livelihood into my Antarctic recreation.
Most of the hike around Castle Rock is just flat or with some small “rollers.” These hills were made for hiking, and not for boarding. But, at the base of Castle Rock, the snowboarding began.
It would be great to say I was a natural. To say, I strapped on my board and gave Shaun White a run for his Gold Medal. Instead, I snow-butted. I was like a fat American exploring the Grand Canyon because I was on my ass.
If my ass was where I was supposed to be, then my ass was where I wanted to be. I took off the snowboard and pulled out my dining tray. On my blue tray, I hit the black diamond course. I was sledding further off the marked track into a place where even the snowboarders didn’t dare go. That’s when someone yelled, “Those black flags are marking The Crevasse.”
I bailed off the blue tray and this ended my illustrious snowboarding/traying expedition. But, I can’t wait to get back to the states and caught up in a conversation with a gaggle, murder, bunch or dorks of snowboarders. Because, after they down their 24 oz cans of PBR tallboys, I’ll simply say, “I boarded in Antarctica. And I was sick.”
August 10, 2011
Antarctica Math and History
As best I can calculate each person in McMurdo uses seven utensils for every meal. The combinations of utensils would best be calculated using the fluctuating factorial “N.” Most commonly it’s described as plate, spoon, fork, knife, cup, tray, and bowl. However, for each person who doesn’t use a fork, knife or spoon (and there are many, because manners are not Antarctic prerequisites), their utensil count is taken care of by the cooks.
It takes pots and pans to prepare the food in the grub line and all of this has been taken into consideration with my calculation of “7.” On my first day of work, McMurdo Station had a population of 535. For some quick Antarctic math: 535 people times 7 utensils times 3 meals equals 11,235 pieces of cutlery that need to be cleaned by the dishwasher.
I’ve heard the expression “sink or swim.” Well, on my first day of work I was swimming in a sink full of dirty dishes. These egg, oatmeal and saliva encrusted cutlery were my ticket to Antarctica, so I jumped in with both hands inside rubber gloves and started cleaning.
The pot room was my first Antarctic task. This room could have been in the back of any all-you-can-eat restaurant in America. Nothing about this job said, “Antarctica.” What it did say was “manual labor.” In the pot room there are no clocks or windows, just an endless supply of over-sized cookware. In order to prepare food for over 500 people, the cooks use Paul Bunyan sized dishes. Spatulas are the size of canoe paddles and bowls are the size of satellite dishes. I was given one sponge, three sinks, a garbage disposal and an hour to clean.
The uninterrupting supply of pots and pans was only interrupted by my boss. She’d come into the pot room every few minutes and say, “Did you know you have dishes to clean in the front? Did you know it’s your job to vacuum? Did you know the tables need to be wiped?”
My boss said, “Did you know if you say ‘Did you know?’ before every sentence people won’t get mad when you approach them with a problem or a task?”
Does she know I can fit her down the garbage disposal?
By the time I faced the 11,234th dirty dish, the tables weren’t the only thing wiped today. Did you know my body was beat up?
This is it? This is my Antarctic experience? I got back to my room and wished I had been on one of the early Antarctic expeditions with Robert Scott. There could not have been this many dishes on The Discovery, the first ship to set up camp in what is now called McMurdo Station.
My roommate Joe, a man I’ve been randomly assigned as my roommate, has built a child-like fort above his bed with blankets and cushions and tonight he’s in his bat cave watching a porn, so I put on my headphones and read the book “Antarctica Unveiled.” It tells the story about Robert Scott and the ship The Discovery. If I couldn’t live a true Antarctic adventure, at least I could read about Scott’s first adventure in Antarctica. And, did you know, I read about my earliest predecessor? His name was Brett, a 36-year-old galley worker on board The Discovery.
At Hut Point, where I live, Brett refused to wash dishes because he was tired of the daily routines in the galley. There is not a definitive account, but I believe Scott said to Brett, “Did you know I won’t tolerate your behavior?” And, did you know, Scott then “handcuffed and lashed (Brett) to the windlass in the forecastle.” To his credit, Brett was able to escape, but with nowhere to run, he was recaptured and his punishment was to return to the galley.
I closed my book, took off my headphones and heard that Joe and his movie were close to their climax, so I put my headphones back on and realized that I am having an Antarctic experience. Tomorrow, like Brett, my punishment is back to the galley.
August 2, 2011
Make and Fake
On the surface, washing dishes seems pretty straightforward. If you see a dirty plate, cup, bowl or spoon, you wash it. When you look around the dish room and every piece of silver, flat or cookware is clean, then you go home. It’s not that easy in Antarctica, this is why we have to have meetings twice a day to go over our dish duties. There is not a single person down here excited to be a dishwasher, we are excited to be in Antarctica and the cup stops there.
Our bosses think we need constant reminding on how to make coffee, wipe a table and it won’t surprise me if tomorrow they tell us how to wipe our ass. Even though I hate our daily meetings, I have to admit I was the one who came up with the protocol called, “Fake it Clean.”
If I want to be outside in Antarctica, I have to get out of the Galley. The faster I clean, the quicker I get to stick my tongue on a metal pole and experience all that Antarctica has to offer. Cleaning time is time wasted. I’ve learned that instead of making the floor clean, I can fake it clean by sweeping the parts of the floor that look dirty instead of the whole floor. Pots that have been used to boil chicken don’t need to go through the whole sanitizing process, if I can simply dip them in water. Instead of making the pot clean, I have faked the pot clean and saved a few minutes. A few minutes here, a couple of seconds there may mean salmonella for breakfast, but I only eat lunch.
Getting out of work 30 minutes early may make the difference between getting to the bar for last call or going to the bar for more drinks. One shot of whiskey and I remember I’m a fucking dishwasher. Two shots of whiskey, I’m a dishwasher. Faking it clean and getting to the bar in time to hear stories from people who get to work in the outside and experience Antarctica, makes it feel like I’m living the Antarctica experience by proxy. “Don’t make it clean. Fake it clean.” This is my mantra.
Today, I’ve been told, our daily meeting is crucial. The last time we were put on “High Alert” for a meeting it was because we found out we were using a toxic substance to clean the counters. They said this was why people were getting sick. People didn’t get sick when it was my turn to clean the counters, because I hadn’t used the toxic product to clean—it took too long. With soap and water, I had faked the counters clean.
Once the lunch room crowd had left and just before we began the deep clean to prepare the Galley for dinner my boss gathered up the dishwashers and we sat down at two circular tables.
“We have a gift for you today,” she said. “Something that will make your job a lot easier.” And, indeed there was a large box sitting on one of the tables. Inside the box I could only imagine that we were going to get an automatic scrubber for the pot room, because my fingers were starting to curl at night from carpal tunnel syndrome. At the very least, I hoped the box contained a heaping dose of painkillers.
She opened up the box like a mom getting ready to give away Barbie Dolls on Christmas morning and handed each of us a new plastic apron.
“Now you won’t get so wet when you wash dishes,” she said.
In a place with so few luxuries, this seemed to make everyone happy. I faked it happy. This meant the meeting would be short and I could go back to fake cleaning.
July 18, 2011
Talk to the Hand
There aren’t movie theaters or restaurants in McMurdo. Because of the International Dateline, Sunday NFL play-off games are played here on Monday afternoons when we are at work. Removed from society, we have to reinvent our “norms” and entertainment.
On Saturday nights, men dress up as women, for fashion women shave their heads and men have mustache or beard growing competitions. People win or lose their weekly paychecks in high stake poker games that revolve around a few different dorm rooms and the 100-square Superbowl pool quickly filled up at $100 per square. This puts 10 thousand dollars up for grabs simply by the kick of a field goal or a missed touchdown.
But, the real buzz in town is around the 12 people who have taken a vow not to masturbate. Twenty-two days into the Rub and Tug tournament there are just two people left who have mastered their domain hoping to win the $828 ($69 x 12 people) prize.
The rules are simple, but honesty has to be trusted. Wet dreams don’t count, but if you have sex—you’re out. Of the 12 people who entered the contest, 12 of them would have paid more than $828 to have sex, so this rule was moot. Men outnumber women 2 to 1 in McMurdo, so if you haven’t “earned your wings (that’s a euphemism for ‘having sex’)” in Antarctica by now, odds are good that you’re goods are odd and your last few weeks in Antarctica will be spent celibate.
For some, getting to Antarctica is a dream come true. For others, earning their wings on this continent is the cherry on top of their cock. This is why the crude guard of Antarctica experience will tell every newbee, like myself, to G.U.E.
“If you G.U.E.,” one of the guys from the Heavy Shop said to me over my first beer at the Southern Exposure bar, “you’re guaranteed to earn your wings.”
Since I was/am a newbee, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask what that statement meant and with a hard slap on the back (that did end up hurting), he said, “If you go ugly early, then you’re sure to get fucked.”
The reality and ugly truth was I lost my $69 six days into the tournament. I didn’t G.U.E. I talked to the hand.Tal
The final two contestants are now down to a janitor who claims he only needs to plunge toilets and a carpenter who plays with wood all day long, this competition could last until the final flight, but, not if I have my say.
My money is on the carpenter. He seems semi-androgynous (sometimes dressing as a woman not just on Saturdays) and his hands are callused. I’ve doubled down my $69 on a side bet with a friend who has faith that his janitor friend will clean up.
Trying to sway the competition, or at least make the left hand not know that the right hand is stepping out, this week I’ve started slipping porn beneath the door of the janitor’s dorm room. Gay porn, straight porn, hairy bushes and shaved kittens, whatever it takes to make it hard on the janitor.
July 7, 2011
Oh Shit. My job stinks?
Nichol’s job is to chip away at shit leaking out of a drain. Because she lives in Antarctica, this shit is frozen. It’s like chipping brown diamonds. Diamonds covered in corn. Diamonds covered in peanuts. Twenty-four carrots and two pieces of potatoes are in this shit. This shit is hard.
There has been a leak in one of the sewer pipes and the stuff that comes out of us is now leaking beneath one of the buildings. Someone has to crawl beneath a dorm, and clear this shit away so the plumber can then belly-crawl under the dorm and repair the pipe.
Even though the sun has been shining 24 hours a day, Nichol needs to grab a flash light, because, just like the source of this shit, she is going where the sun don’t shine. She wears a knit hat her mother made and four layers of clothing. As she knocks away at the shit her fingers become frozen around the hammer’s handle. In fact, she realizes she wished she had put on one more layer of clothing. The ground seems to be sucking away all of her warmth.
Nichol wants to clear this shit and then go into the Galley to get a hot cup of coffee. She didn’t know this would be her job when she applied to work in Antarctica. She thought Antarctica would be an adventure with penguins and seals. She imagined she would write letters home to her mother saying, “This hat you made is loving life at the bottom of the world.” Instead, she’s covered in shit.
As she whittles the shit from a mountain to a mound to a molehill she thinks, “Hey, this shit don’t stink.” What Nichol doesn’t realize is that if someone were to see her, it would look like she had just rolled around in the sand on a beach. However, this sand is brown. It’s on her hat and the corners of her mouth. Just like on a beach, this sand has worked its way into every available crevice in her clothing and the wrinkles in her skin. It feels like 30 degrees below zero beneath this building and Nichol just wants to get inside.
Satisfied with her work, she hops on the radio and tells the plumber the pipe is ready. The crack has been exposed and this shit is ready to flow downhill.
I’m the first person Nichol sees when she walks into the Galley. Her face looks like a box of Neapolitan ice cream. The tips of her cheeks are white—the beginning signs of frostbite are setting in. The chubby parts of her cheek are healthy and pink. Her face, I think, is covered in brown dirt.
I walk with her to the coffee machine and she tells me how she just spent the last two hours.
“It’s a dirty job,” she says, “and I’m the one to do it.” She pulls the handle to dispense the coffee and when her cup is full she sticks her face very close to the rim of the cup. The white parts of her face turn pink. The pink parts turn red. And the brown parts, smell like shit.
This shit does stink and when it melts into her ear and seeps into her eyes as it goes from the corners to inside her mouth, Nichol knows she’s not covered in dirt. This is shit.
For Nichol it all happens in slow motion. The smell tells her brain, the brain tells her stomach, the stomach tells her throat. For me it happens quite quickly. Nichol is puking in her coffee and onto the floor of the Galley. She runs to take a shower and I go get a mop.
Two hours later, Nichol walks up to me during dinner. I’m standing behind an industrial sized dishwasher. I’m wearing rubber gloves and a plastic apron.
“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I’m sorry you had to clean up my puke. You really have the worst job in Antarctica.”
I also came to Antarctica for an adventure with penguins and seals. I left a well-paying job, family, friends and a to work on a small science base called McMurdo Station. Earlier today it’s quite possible Nichol tasted my shit. And now she says, I have the worst job in Antarctica.
McMurdo Station: 77° 51′ 0″ S, 166° 40′ 0″ E. Population: 1100 in the summer. Population: 151 in the winter. Worst job: dishwasher. I am the dishwasher.
July 7, 2011
The Ice Have It
Maybe there is something to global warming, today we ran out of ice in Antarctica. At first I thought my boss was sending me on a Snipe Hunt when she said, “We need you to find some ice.” But she was telling the truth. I immediately regretted saying, “How about opening the fucking door?”
In what might seem like the least used piece of equipment in Antarctica, there are actually several ice machines scattered throughout McMurdo Station. Each of the bars has an ice machine to keep our cocktails cold, there are ice machines in the dorms and the kitchen has one, too. Or, for the time being, the kitchen had one, too. The guy who I always equated with being the Maytag Repairman of McMurdo because he seemed to have the easiest job in Antarctica as the “Refrigerator Repairman,” was actually busy today. The impossible task he must master: How to make ice in Antarctica.
As he was busy trying to figure out this Gordian Knot of complexity, I was given two five gallon buckets and told to return with ice. At first I suggested just filling up the buckets with water, setting them outside and waiting 30 minutes, but the cooks were not impressed with this college-boy type ingenuity. It was almost like I was suggesting I could also turn water into wine just by placing it on the Galley’s back deck.
“We don’t need Bill Nye the Science Guy,” one of them said. “We need ice.”
I grabbed my coat, gloves, boots, hat, facemask, goggles and two five gallon buckets and went on the hunt for ice. I’m kind of a rookie down here and to me it seemed like ice was everywhere. There was ice on the road and ice on the building. I slipped on ice looking for ice and ice was running through my veins as I looked for ice.
The bars aren’t open during the daytime so I could not order ice on the rocks at one of our two bars—Gallagher’s or Southern Exposure. I saw someone leaving one of the Uppercase Dorms and I asked them, “Do you know where I can get ice?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I don’t know?” I said, “My boss wants ice?”
“You know you’re in Antarctica. Ice is everywhere.”
“Listen,” I said through the muffle of my mask. “I don’t need a lesson in irony, I just need ice.”
“Have you ever noticed that when the New Zealanders talk about ice it sounds like they’re saying ‘ass.’ I went to a science lecture and one of the New Zealand scientists is studying the Ice Cracks of Antarctica. That was a funny lecture.”
“Yeah, I was at that lecture and noticed the same thing. I felt like asking him, ‘When you drill in the ass, how big is the hole?’”
Then we just stood on the deck of this dorm. I could see Mt. Discovery covered in snow and ice across the frozen ocean. We were the only two people or living creatures I could see outside. It hurt to breathe. As a dishwasher this was the first time in my job where I was sent on a task that took me outside. I came to Antarctica for an experience and I’m an experienced dishwasher. I came; I saw; I cleaned.
“In this building, down the hall and on the right there is an ice machine,” he said.
I returned to the Galley like a conquering hero of Antarctica. I found ice.
July 6, 2011
Once There Was a Way to Get Back Home
Once there was a time that being a Dishwasher or DA in Antarctica was a gateway job to bigger and more exciting adventures—like moving up the ladder to being a Janitor. Now, however, the HR department actually reads our resumes and we can only get hired for jobs we are “qualified” to do. I applied for lots of job in order to return to McMurdo this year, however, my lot in life has been chosen, once again, to be a dishwasher.
Reading through my old stories from my last season of 2009 and 2010, you’d think and I’d think this would be like signing up for another go in a torture chamber. However, like reminiscing about a past love, I only remember the good times and the good times are happening again. I’ll be back behind the dish machine for the 2011-2012 season.
I’ll be updating my news as paperwork gets filled out and I begin the journey to fly south for the winter. In the meantime, I’ll start throwing up the old stories in random order and hope I’m not asked to take a psychological examination for Dish washing Part II: The Dish on Antarctica.
Here is your first lullaby, pretty darling.
Dear God,
I understand a couple of people are going to die from MRSA or wars, and I don’t mean to sound selfish, but if you’re planning the apocalypse would you mind procrastinating this for a few more months. If only Antarcticans are left to multiply and replenish the Earth, well, then, I’m screwed.
You see, I drew the short stick: I am the dishwasher. In this environment we are known by our job titles. There is Joe the Plumber, Bob the Electrician, Ben in Waste, VMF Bill and, well, you get the picture-who am I kidding? You’re God. Not only do you get the picture, you made the fucking picture. And, even though a picture is worth one thousand words, I’m going to keep praying, because in this picture the whole community has placed bunny ears behind my head. To my face, they need me, I sanitize their dishes, but behind my back sometimes their bunny ears are missing the index finger.
Antarctic society is like an inverted pyramid, I’m the point on the bottom of this pyramid and everybody is above me. If you allow all Earth people North of 66.5 degrees South to die, then this will mean my name will eventually morph into Dishwasherson. In school I sat next to a guy named John Whitehead, remember the shit I gave him? And he even had good skin, but you know his great grandfather probably invented Clearasil. Just to stop the ridicule.
If everyone dies up there this means forever and ever amen, my kids will have to be known as being descendants of a guy who cleaned dishes for a living. No thank you. Do you remember how Jesus walked around the world saying, “Hi, I’m the son of God. What do you do for a living?” I hear you’re not a prideful God, but that must have been pretty okay for you to know your son wasn’t going around saying, “Hey, I wash dishes for a living. Come follow me.”
Truth be told, who am I kidding? I’m not going to have any children. There are twice as many men down here as there are women. Just because one of these ladies is a lot like your son, Jesus, because she is everywhere-if you know what I mean-by the time I get a chance to “stay at her inn” it will be like eating Thanksgiving dinner on the Fourth of July. And that’s just too long to wait for leftovers.
Some people call this girl “The Flu,” because she gets passed around. After Sunday brunch last week, I saw The Flu take a bowl of strawberries back to her room with one of the guys from cargo and they were wiping the strawberries on each other’s faces as they left the Galley. Eating these berries was not on the menu for this couple.
Six days later when she returned the bowl, the strawberries were like pieces of red petrified wood on the side of this dish. I thought it would be best to give the bowl a quick blast with hot water using my super-soaker-like spray wand. This was one of my first weeks on the job, and I hadn’t learned the angles and geometry of spraying water into a bowl. I also forgot to take into account that in the Southern Hemisphere, the water swirled counter clockwise. The water gave a quick swirl, and then the pink and white cream shot back into my face. I can only hope it was cream. Dear God, I think I have gonorrhea of the eye.
On second thought, would it be okay to localize your wrath and just kill me now?
Amen.
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