Dishes in the Bathroom

A few weeks ago I worked overtime for Myrna, our night receptionist, and found myself washing dishes in the bathroom. Funny that Mr. Scnielnel failed to mention this particular perk in the interview. Perhaps he was contemplating my qualifications and felt that I might not be ready, just yet, to do this. For whatever reason, I wasn’t introduced to this task until about a month ago when Myrna told me that I was to work overtime for her.

“I’m going out of town on July 19th,” she told me. “You’ll need to cover my shift.”

“Alright,” I said, vowing I’d get her back next time by demanding that she take my shift, instead of asking her with my usual polite, quivering voice.

I usually work the 8-5 shift at Scnielnel and Fink, a small New York law firm. I answer phones, mostly. But I also feel a lot of pressure in other areas. I have to pick up and stamp the mail, call for repairs on the telephone lines or a light bulb that’s gone out, and—most importantly—order breakfast for Mr. Scnielnel so he can stare blankly out the window or talk to his sister, Fanny, who calls collect from Florida twice a week, while he eats. So I was just a little pleased to be working the later shift when Myrna asked me—you know, to be in the office alone and not have so many pressing duties weighing over my head.

The day before her vacation, Myrna instructed me to—at the end of the night, right before I left the office—enter the partners’ offices (Mr. Scnielnel’s and Mr. Fink the third’s) and collect the glasses of coffee, soda, and whatever other garbage they decided to leave scattered on their desks that day. Apparently it’s too much for them to place their coffee mugs in the kitchen like the rest of the office. (Of course they could never use a paper cup like everyone else.) I suppose when you’re 61 and 67, any unnecessary shuffling should be avoided. And, outside of the courtroom, the bathroom, and the elevator, where does a person need to walk, really?

Well, the first time I did the dishes in the bathroom, I must admit, I was nervous. I had never done dishes in a semi-public restroom before. We share the floor with a financial company, and I was worried that one of the high-class women who worked there would walk in on me sticking a wet paper towel into a grimy coffee mug.

I soon learned my fears were legit.

There’s a black tray in the kitchen (which really isn’t a kitchen—which is why we have to do the dishes in the bathroom) where we put the glasses, mugs, unfinished coke cans, and sticky, half-drunken bottles of Snapple iced tea. Thinking (or hoping, really) that, since it was a quarter to eight, most of the women on the floor had gone home and wouldn’t be needing the bathroom sink, I strategically placed this tray on one of the sinks and proceeded, at another sink, to wipe slimy brown film from the insides and edges of the mugs. I then began placing the clean mugs face up on the edge of yet another sink. This left one sink open for the women who surely wouldn’t be coming in to the bathroom. And then, of course, a woman came in. And then another one.