Dishwasher

DISHWASHER

by Holly Rennick

Born and raised Methodist, when I moved to town the first church I visited was Broad Avenue Methodist, and that was that. "Broad Street United Methodist Church. Love Made Real," with the UMC logo on the sign.

Broad Avenue has a men's group where we discuss helping the homeless. We're going to fix some windows at the shelter after the bowl games, but the fact is that I'm neither that much of a carpenter or football fan.

Methodists prefer hymns that harken to our heritage, but Broad Street includes music more upbeat that speaks to the future, but in either case, I can't carry a tune.

As church is about learning from folks of different backgrounds, Broad Street welcomes all races, especially African Americans, though they don't really come, but even if we did, I'm not that multicultural.

If I were gay or one of those other letters, I'd have a group, but I'm just regular.

"Hi, Samuel. Great to see you this week." Broad Avenue encourages us to wear nametags, but many don't, this being one of the latter. I think it starts with an M or a T, but I hate to ask.

"Great to be here," my response, trying to remember if he's the firefighter or the CPA, both having beards. My profession, systems analysis, isn't a conversation starter.

The key to fitting in is to find your niche.

I always stay for potluck, in itself a Methodist institution. I usually brownies which the kids grab on their first pass. They're the future leaders of the UMC. I used to add walnuts, but some people have allergies. Myself, I go for the apple pie and eat the crust, though many don't.

I usually end up sitting between two seniors who talk about 1962, me making my escape by offering to bus their dishes to the dish-return window.

But on that fateful Sunday, the window being blocked with unreceived returns, I took the dishes directly into the kitchen.

The crew was hard at work, to be sure, but at what? An aproned woman was putting empty serving dishes into a picnic basket. Another was sorting serving spoons. Another was dumping the surplus coffee down the drain. Another was carting a tray containing several cups, some silverware, a pitcher and a baked bean pot. All necessary tasks, but was anybody clearing the dirty dishes from where they were blocking the return window? Was anybody moving them into the dishwasher, the critical-path bottleneck? No one!

Consider the dishwashing machine -- a tray of scraped dishes enters from the left and emerges sanitized on the right -- to be a unit operation on a systems flowchart, inputs being dirty dishes, hot water and soap, outputs being steam, dirty water down the drain, and clean dishes. (The machine is, of course, a system unto itself, but that's only of interest to a dishwasher-maintenance person)

The operator shoves the tray into the washer, that tray shoving the already-washed tray out the other side, where it's emptied and then returned to the head of the line for its next load. The operator raises and lever the hood by means of a leaver, flicking the disposal switch as needed to unclog the drain, but not for too long or it will grind down the blades.

That's a lot of explanation, I realize, but it's to show that a church kitchen requires a dishwasher operator with up and downstream feedback to optimize dish flux in a dynamic environment. We're talking logistics, but I'll stop there.

Boy, did they need help, and it wasn't as if I really needed to hurry back home and get back to my computer. Sorry ladies, it's a professional's job.

Probably the crew thought I was looking for more pie when I entered, and maybe nobody noticed when I began to organize the trays fed into the machine, but when the gal folding a tea towel did notice, she gave me a, "Thanks, Samuel" -- I'd my name tag still on -- with a smile, adding, "The green light means it's going or maybe they're done, one of those, I think."

"Got it," as I try not to say that I already know things.

One of them got me an apron, a blue waterproof one that afforded me some authority, and I got her preprocessing, there being a spray hose to blast off the food scraps -- lots of piecrust, this day. Methodists used to say, "Remember the hungry children in China" regarding food left on plates, but it's now said that they eat more healthily than we do.

Next step, someone to tray the dishes to feed the washer. Three small plates or two large ones side by side in the plate rack, no space wasted. Small beside large decreases thru-put by 20 percent.

Then the dishwasher operator, keeping an eye on the entire process and calling as needed for operational adjustments.

Then someone to relay the dishwasher output to the shelves.

And someone to handle externalities, the handwashing. While a soup kettle might in fact fit into the machine, it would slow down the run time.

I'd found my place at Broad Street UMC, an unofficial member of the Hospitality Committee.

***

I'm still not sure if "dishwasher engineer" was a joke, as I am indeed an engineer, but I don't care. Some guys usher for 40 years. Some guys understand how to wash dishes.

As a kitchen crew has lots of opportunity to chat, I learned about their families, what they'd studied, what they did the other six days. Sandy worked in healthcare, Holly, a teacher, Joyce helping run a fair trade venture, Karen, big into gender equality.

They in turn were interested in what I ate on my trip to Japan, us agreeing we'd not serve recently living things at Broad Avenue. We're the United Methodists, after all -- Yes, There'll be Meatloaf in Heaven '' not Oriental Methodists who probably aren't big into three-bean salad.

I probably learned things about my crew colleagues that I really shouldn't have, as well. Their chitchat about their sex life was somewhat coded, but easy enough to figure out. I'd try to not appear to be listening in, but I think they sometimes knew I was, and somewhat uncoded the code for my behalf. I of course found it interesting, how things were going at home -- them all being married -- but what was more of a challenge to work were what seemed to be allusions to elsewhere, more of interest to the others than their domestic situations. I'd almost the impression that they wanted me to guess.

At times it was as if they even forgot I was a guy. If one of them was in a top with sleeves likely to get dirty, they kept a Camp Wesley t-shirt in a drawer, changing in my presence not seeming to be an issue, and on more than a few times, working across from one of them at the counter, it was more than her bra I saw.

If one of them needed to reach around me to spray something off a plate, I'd get swiped against coming and going.

Once when Joyce was standing on a folding chair, she'd call for me to steady her, and I'd ended up reaching around her front, but she'd not noticed.

"Hey, Samuel," Karen told me over a slice of ham. "You want a date or anything, we've got ideas."

"I'm pretty busy with work."

"Or maybe four dates?" chimed Sandy, and they all laughed as she, to my amazement, leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"Maybe another?" offered Holly, not waiting for my answer before doing the same.

I may have turned crimson.

***

For our church retreat at Camp John Wesley, Broad Avenue could have had the venue handle the meals, but as we prefer that our resources support outreach, it never occurred to the Church Council that Hospitality needn't do it. It made it less of a retreat for us in Hospitality, of course, but that's how churches work.

I knew my co-workers' apron-over-Sunday-dress attire, of course, but a retreat's less formal. Sandy's shorts were short. Joyce's collar gapped more. Holly wore a bra to church -- I'd have noticed otherwise -- but when she slipped past me in the camp kitchen, I could tell the difference.

For after lunch, the Retreat Committee organized a hike to Prospect Point, an activity my colleagues said would drive their husbands to show each other who was the most fit.

Cleanup complete, we, on the other hand, headed the opposite direction to the lake's other side, a retreat from our retreat, so to speak.

It wasn't until we were there did anyone think to tell me that we'd come to swim, and when they went behind the greenery to change, I did my best to gaze lake-ward, but as they weren't totally behind the leaves, it wasn't my fault, what I did see.

It was Sandy who mentioned this side of the lake is where lots of campers have their first sex, her having been a camper here.

"Come on, Samuel," once they were in. "The water's warm."'

"Didn't bring my suit."

"So? It's just us."

And so I did, me in my boxers, slipping onto the water as best I could without facing anyone.

"We can't see anything," as if I'd asked, perhaps true regarding what of me I could keep below the surface, but as we devolved into more of a splashing and submarining, one of them would now and then brush my front, but perhaps what felt like a goose wasn't intended to be that.

My situation wasn't helped by the fact that I couldn't help reacting to the contract, my underpants not doing much to hide it. Keeping that part of me below the surface perhaps helped and they were nice enough not to mention it, especially when one of them would be against me for a period. Maybe just a hip, but at times what felt more.

I suppose I wasn't entirely innocent, myself, but did my best to not stare at the nipple bumps, and when I bumped back against them, I tried to make it quick. It was all in silliness, of course.

Exiting the water was awkward, the four waiting on the shore, but I managed to do so, my hand casually in front of me.

Not having a towel, myself, they spread what they had and made me a place in the center, where I remained facedown for obvious reasons.

Finding a place beside me to sun, Holly, to my amazement, pulled off her top and hung it on a branch.

"She did her junior year in Italy." Joyce, on my other side, reminded me, as if that made it OK in America.

"Snack?" offered Holly, opening a bag of Fritos.

When you're in your boxers, you'd rather there be some distance from a topless female offering you chips, but what can you do?

"Sunscreen?" she wondered, not waiting for my answer before beginning on my back, Joyce taking up the job on my calves.

I was OK with it until the two of them began to approach my underpants from either direction.

That's when Holly told me to roll over, which I wasn't about to do, but they rolled me anyway, and there I was in the middle, my undies more and more tenting, as whatever dispensation the lake temperature had afforded me was quickly fading.

'`You like us, right?" asked Holly, taking up where she'd left off.

What could I say? "Sure."

"And we like you." now against the hem. "Know that sign, Love Made Real'?"

"Yeah."

"We want to do that," now over it.

"Do what?" I wasn't sure what she meant, but I was totally for the UMC becoming welcoming. It just hadn't occurred to me that my co-workers were in one of those groups we were supposed to love.

"As far as I'm concerned, lesbians can be pastors, or whatever," once I understood. "It's totally your choice."

"Us?" her reaction. "That's why you fit in," she went on. "A gay guy wouldn't know how to run a dishwasher; he'd be more into the table decor. Plus he'd never bring package brownies."

"I guess," not reminding her I often add nuts to the mix.

"Actually, we can tell other ways, too," her hand yet lower, Joyce's yet higher, the difference being that Holly's presence was so visible, while Joyce's was at least somewhat masked by the cuff of my boxers. Not that either was on me, but the twist of a wrist or the extension of a finger would have done it.

"Oh," all I could come up with. This was more than awkward, the others listening in, seeing. I'd have moved them off me, except that it might have seemed rude, and as best I could tell, the others seemed to think it OK.

"You want to sleep with us, right?" Holly asked, twisting her wrist.

Is she serious?

"Listen," I tried. "This isn't something..."

OK, I'd just admit it. "I'm not, you know, that experienced."

"We'll get you up to speed." from Joyce, extending her finger.

"I haven't been in a bachelor pad since college," from Karen behind Holly.

"I'm sure Samuel keeps his picked up." from Sandy behind Joyce.

"We dry yet?" asked Holly, as if everything was agreed upon, releasing me to hook her top. "We got KP duty, gang."

They'd figure out who for that night and let me know when and where and I said I'd rehearse the route in the light.

***

And that's why, all these years later, I remain the Broad Avenue Methodist unappointed Dishwasher Engineer, permanently drafted by the forever-appointed Hospitality Committee.

The youth still crowd to the head of the potluck line to triple up on my brownies, and I'm not sure that some of my DNA isn't already incorporated into the UMC of the future.