Good-bye from a dishwasher

McKenna Castleberry worked at Mac's Place in Longmont until leaving in the Fall of 2015.

By McKenna Castleberry

Former employee of Mac's Place

With elbows deep in greasy water, lettuce leaves and stained sugar packets float around my dripping arms in a dance that only pond-spiders can mimic. It's 8:17 a.m. I've been at work for 17 minutes but really it feels like five. A job that people have little regard for, has taught me to regard the little things. Customers can afford to refrain from meticulously licking the crumbs off their plates and let someone else do the washing. They can afford for someone else to throw away their syrup stained bread and half chewed bits of scrambled egg, still impaled on the tongs of a fork. People can afford to eat the food they want to eat and as long as there are people like that, there will always be people like me, in the back, in the sink--the dishwashers.

We may be an old-fashioned species, gradually getting upstaged by new washing technology, but we still have our place. Assuring a supply of clean dishes, I work at a mom-n-pop restaurant in North-East Longmont. Mom-n-pop shops seem few and far between, but I'm proud to help in a business that can compete with the big chain Goliaths just a few blocks away.

The mornings when I leave for work, my stomach twists into knots and I feel the mantle of dread upon my shoulders, yet only for a moment. When I'm deep into the guts of my job, I love it. I love working directly with my bosses. They're not formidable people that I must prepare for, but rather humorous individuals. They too want to go home after a long day. They too, feel pain after hours on their feet. I love the smells, the overwhelming sensation of bacon grease on hot metal. It seeps through my clothing and into my skin. I come home smelling of the kitchen, strong enough my dog spends at least three minutes sniffing my pant legs. I also love the smell of sanitizer, fainter than the grease, yet I know everything is clean. I love being in charge of making sure things are clean, that way if they're not to my standards; I have the power to fix what I can. And that makes me responsible for that dirty fork that almost got tucked away in the cupboard. It's those times my boss always jokes, "Job opening."

I love the feel of soggy bread as I soak it in egg batter; how it squelches when touched. I love the texture of fresh cut potatoes, moist yet cool and dry on my gloved fingertips as I put them in a Home Depot orange colored spinner. I love the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Mac (as I will call them) throw things in the sink and I don't mind a bit; it's restaurant clatter for "here's more to do." I love how smoothly my soap covered sponge glides over the concave portion of a spoon and in one swipe I see an upside-down red faced blur and I know that blur is me. I love being in the guts of my job, feeling my body sweat and feet hurt and my adrenaline rush as I wonder when people will stop coming through the door. And I beg God to make it stop so I can catch up, but rule No. 2 (rule No. 1 is always obey the Macs obviously) in a restaurant is speed. You have to be fast. I always wish I had three arms when I'm working so I can multitask better. I can't make pancake batter and clean six-pans at the same time unfortunately. But I love the rush of it, until it calms down, then I must catch up while the rest of our battalion rest up and regain their strength.

I'm not always at the sink. I'm a whirlwind of movement, whirling from the dining room to the kitchen, from one dish to another. I love how pancake batter is. You know the batter is just right when it pushes back against you as you swirl it into a paste. I love how hard pancake batter is. Take it from someone who cleans it, that stuff is cement. It could be used instead of mortar in most cases. Instead of gingerbread, the wicked witch could have made her house from gingerbread and pancake batter. Then when the big bad wolf—oh sorry, wrong story, maybe he would have gobbled it up had he had a bite.

I especially love the banter of the people I work with. It's an unspoken ritual that no matter how crazy things get, no matter how big of a line we have, we still laugh and joke to put smiles on each other's faces. Crazy Mac, as I will call him, is best at this. I love how he whistles everywhere. I love how he drinks out of a coffee cup with the Beatles on it. I love how people know he's from the Boston/New York area by his voice and that when he says "small" he always pronounces it "shmall" like Sid in Ice Age. I love how Crazy Mac and I quote Monty Python sometimes, or joke about how he's sometimes a Broncos fan and sometimes a Patriots fan.

I love how they call me "the novelist" sometimes. I humbly reply "I try" every time they call me "the novelist." When I told Mr. Mac about my trip to Ireland, his response was "there's a story in that." I love how they call my sister by my name and they call me by her name, as we both work at the same place. I love how all the line cooks we've had, all had names that start with M, two Marks and a Mike. I love how our current Mark can't tell my sister or me apart (at least for a good 10 minutes anyway). I love how the only way Crazy Mac can tell us apart is by which car we drive to work. I love how every time my sister and I work the same shift, my parents come in for lunch. And every time my parents come in for lunch, my mom takes a picture of my sister and me, which inevitably ends up getting photobombed by Mrs. Mac.

I love how we can only seat 49 people in the restaurant, and how three people in the back room (a.k.a. the "dungeon" as I call it, where I wash dishes) is a party. I love it how the doors leading to the dungeon make whoever is looking for something in the fridge forget what they were looking for. I love it how every time I open the fridge I joke about how I need a GPS to find everything. I love it how everything is homemade and fresh. I'm proud of the food we serve.

I love it when Mr. Mac comes to the dungeon and asks himself, "What am I looking for?" And then I respond with, "that's a good question," and he laughs. I love how I'm allowed to yell across the room, make a mess (as long as I clean it up) and joke around. I love how Mr. and Mrs. Mac have their children work in the restaurant too. Mac 1, now going to be a freshman, was taller than me last time I saw him. I love how Mac 1 and I used to talk about bullies. He said he wanted to beat people up and I completely agreed because heck yeah there were people I wanted to beat up when I was his age. I love how Mac 1 would ask me things about girls and how I would ask him about guys. How we'd both complain about our times in middle school, how I would tell him it will all get better.

I love talking to Mac 2 as well, 10 months younger than her brother. I love how we used to swap stories like jelly sandwiches, and whoever had the juicier story won. I love walking around the restaurant pouring coffee. I love how we all called the job, "the coffee ninja" or "the coffee fairy." I love knowing who the regulars were, "Jen" with her computer and her plate of cold hash browns that she was still nibbling on every time I asked. "Trevor" who always liked his hash browns unsalted, "Shelby" and of course "John the Jeweler" from down the block. I love walking to the grocery, restocking necessary supplies. I love how people think I'm related to Mrs. Mac, though I look nothing like her. I love how I dressed up as a cat for our Humane Society fundraiser and Mrs. Mac's dad said in his Scottish brogue, "Yo bro I like your outfit." I love how Mrs. Mac's dad speaks in a Scottish brogue.

I love how competitive Mrs. Mac gets during football season, jokingly threatening to throw out anyone supporting the opposite team. I love how everyone dresses up in their Bronco's gear during game days and how we all say silent prayers that Peyton Manning will be okay. I love how I pop toast in the toaster; or how I read the ticket ahead of time so when Mr. Mac says, "I need a multigrain," I can yell back, "got it!" I love how we use plastic number tents for each table; and how I like to put them in number order, even though the No. 2 is missing. I think it got thrown away by accident.

We rush to serve and yet I love it all. I love being in the core, amidst the bantering, good laughs, leg pain, pancake batter, and wet clothes; because I'm having fun and enjoying myself. I love washing dishes so I can think. I love getting grease stuck under my nails (hence no manicure) cowering in shame from a perfectionist host.

I love painting calzones with egg wash and trying my best New York accent when I shout, "New Yark calzone in the oven!" I love washing dishes so no one else has to. I love the feeling of the soap bottle sliding through my hands or the joking of Mrs. Mac that "it's been a long day when my black uniform shirt is powdered white with flour" because I'm enjoying myself. There's nothing like inhaling a cloud of flour while trying to wipe it off you pants. There's nothing like the dull ache in your heels after six hours of work. There's nothing like joking with the Macs about everyday life, and knowing they feel the same as you do. There's nothing like being a dishwasher, and though I'm leaving the Macs behind when I head off to college, they will always be in my heart as treasured memories and I will see them again when I visit home.

I thank them for the opportunity to be part of their restaurant family, the experiences I've had and the wonderful memories.

McKenna Castleberry worked at the local restaurant Mac's Place up in northeast Longmont. She is one of the last original employees that they hired when they first opened and is headed off to college in the fall. She wanted to say good-bye to her wonderful employers.