I try to make the occasional dishwashing at The Beanhouse interesting somehow. I almost like the task, as it can be rather quiet and contemplative. My mind can wander where it wills, free from customer demands — and I never really know just where it might roam. Last night, to my surprise, the bus tub came to life, a lively, sudsy little world.
The Players:
— a cold mocha tide ebbing and flowing across the bottom of a grey plastic world, a sloshing excess, too much of a good thing
— a large white ceramic mug, coffee smeared up the side, milk foam like soggy lace covering it all; cappuccino, puddling, lonely at the bottom — wait! a crumb — a swimmer, slicing through the lonely brownness.
— a small white ceramic plate, fluffy crumbs dotting its glossy field, little remnant sugar lambs, still and quiet in their place
— a paper coffee cup, crumpled but not thrown away; paper sleeve dangling, trying to hold onto the sudden wrongness of the shape
— two stir sticks, snapped in compound fracture, jagged wooden edges waiting to jab unsuspecting fingers
— a plastic straw drowned in the drink in its paper wrapper, perhaps thrown to the java sea by coffee mobsters with a grudge
— a Splenda packet, ripped neatly open, all the way across, perhaps by a woman, or a Felix Unger
— a straw paper wrapper, soaked from coffee spray, clinging to white ceramic cliffs, a weary climber losing hold over the roiling coffee tide
— two Pelligrino bottles, giant green bullies muscling for space, tiny contents in the corner quailing at their boorishness
— a knife and fork, tangled together, fork spotted with sticky cherry redness — lipstick of a lover’s embrace or blood of an enemies’ duel?
— a gob of Kleenex, once white, now coffee-sogged, perfect for wadding and throwing back at the runny-nosed rudey who carelessly tossed it here
— a dented Pelligrino bottle cap, green bully’s missing hat, ruined and never to be worn again
finally,
— a half-eaten chocolate croissant, caved-in and sodden, a floating buttery island jutting from the mocha waves
just a grey plastic tub and its players, remnants of rudeness and ritual
Ah yes, the beauty of dishwashing. You do have a way with words! And there is something to be said for jobs that require no thought – the freedom to think elsewhere.
Loved it. 🙂
Ah yes, zen tedium … I get that way with mowing the lawn.
“a Splenda packet, ripped neatly open, all the way across, perhaps by a woman, or a Felix Unger” … Or WordGirl
I get this doing dishes at home. It’s nice, standing at the sink, looking across the back yard, watching the squirrels, birds and cats in their territorial machinations. It *is* a sort of zen tedium, Cullen. I kinda’ don’t want to get the dishwasher fixed… Kinda’.
Tef, however, does his share of leaving cereal bowls, ice cream saucers and dead Diet Sunkist glasses all over the house, so I get my share of waddy kleenex; glotted, sticky cream; and dried egg protein to grind off the Corelle.
Again, wicked way with words. I suppose a book will come of this? At least an essay?
Tracey, just gotta say it:
You are a WRITER.
“remnants of rudeness and ritual”?? Are you aware how good that is????
I’m still amazed that you are not being published!!! It MUST be because you truly don’t realize…reminds me of what’s his name on Idol last night…Paula asks him “do you have any idea how good you are?” and he responds “only when you tell me”
Tracey…I think you have so much INSIDE that can benefit so many more than you are reaching in this venue…I’m praying that doors will just begin to open for you, I can’t believe that God would grant this incredible talent, mixed with such wisdom and wit and NOT do something awesome with it.
I am in awe of your imagination.
All right, everyone, stop making me cry the blubbery cry!! A girl who’s working at a damn coffeehouse has still gotta have SOME dignity.
But, really, thank you, THANK YOU for your kind words. I don’t know what else to say.
SAY YOU’LL WRITE A BOOK
*passes tracey a kleenex* after you dry your eyes and bloy your nose
Lyn — I think this blog is my book! I can’t sustain a topic past a few parapgraphs!
I can’t sustain a topic past a few parapgraphs!
That didn’t stop William S. Burroughs.
I would definitely read whatever you wrote.
Well, Cullen, I do have the word “Naked” in my blog name …..
My dad has a great story about meeting William S. Burroughs at a party. Burroughs was, of course, all in black – and he had an entourage with him – all of young men, of course, who literally followed him everywhere. The entourage, moving as one, behind Burroughs, going wherever he went, moseying thru the crowded party … like a “school of fish” said my dad. I just love that image.
And Tracey … I remember I was afraid to open up your blog at first when I saw it in my referral log … just because of the URL. I thought it might be some kind of spiritual pornography or something – hahahahahaha Imagine my delight when I opened it up and read your post about teaching Drama at a summer camp for kids.
red — hahahaha! I remember when we first “met” and you said that — “spiritual pornography or something.” Still kills me.
And I love that story about William S. Burroughs.