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.
