It’s My Own Fault.
Living in poverty, which was new and exciting for me, meant that I needed to bring in a little bit of money so that I could go to The Hood and buy my frat party tickets when Larry wasn’t around. Sometimes Bonnie would bounce checks, or pay for the pizza and subs and beer that we had delivered, but it was a good idea for me to contribute even though I no longer got an allowance from my parents.
I had to get an on-campus job. I envisioned myself sitting at a desk in a dorm somewhere, studying or doing homework, or chatting with a guy who stopped by to see me. Instead, since I waited until January of my senior year, I ended up at Slater’s, aka the school cafeteria.
Washing dishes wasn’t something I ever enjoyed. Since I always ate at diners and bars with Larry, I simply never washed anything. Takeout containers went right into the trash, and someone else washed the burger plates at the bars.
But I had to take whatever job I got, and I was put in the dishwashing area. At least I finally got to see what was on the other side of the conveyor belt that transported my cafeteria dishes: a monstrous industrial dishwasher and a few dedicated staff.
I figured I could make plenty of beer and pizza money. All I had to do was show up and do the work.
The people on my new side of the conveyor belt were mostly locals, many with severe mental challenges. They weren’t all students, as I had envisioned. One woman, whose name I have long since forgotten but I’ll call Mary, was particularly memorable.
Mary took her job very seriously. She talked a lot, mostly to herself, loud enough that everyone could hear her. No one ever responded.
One day as the dinner plates were passing through, Mary either forgot to turn on the dishwasher, or forgot to turn on a specific cycle, so that the dishes were only half washed. Judging from Mary’s reaction, one would think she’d shut down the whole cafeteria single-handedly.
“It’s my fault,” she announced loudly to the room. “It’s my own fault.”
Minutes passed. Then she said it again: “It’s all my fault. It’s my own fault.”
She said it again, again, and again. For that entire shift and the next one, Mary told us whose fault it was. For days, weeks and months afterward, seeing Mary conjured the Led Zeppelin song Nobody’s Fault But Mine.
Mary, my colleagues, and I were all shoved into a rather small room around the dishwasher. My job was to clear the plates, dump any paper products and food remnants into a trash can, and separate the glasses, silverware, and dishes. It was a fairly mindless job.
I didn’t care for this work. I was young and stupid, and believed I was meant for better things than touching other people’s disgusting leftovers.
Put another way: I was young, stupid and arrogant, and thought I was better than the mentally challenged people who had to stay there forever. My college education was going to take me places far away from food service.
Fortunately there was one sparkly-toothed bright side: Todd. (Insert dreamy sigh here.) Todd was tall with wavy brown hair and an oversized bright smile. Todd – the only other student in my area – laughed at my jokes, and treated me well. I thought we were friends.
I was very, very wrong about that.