Dishes in the Bathroom

Since I was trying to be a good, honest, and “go-the-extra-mile” employee, I decided to grit my teeth and do a good scrubbing. This meant not just wiping soap around the inside of the cup, but actually digging my finger into a half-damp, recycled paper towel and running it roughly around the bottom of the obscene object, letting friction work its magic. As I worked, I tried to look at the cup as something I cared for—a grubby kid who needed his nose cleaned, dug into, and scoured. This thought kept me from gagging and making a mess all over the dishes I’d already done. The thought of having to start the whole process over was too much to bear.

When I was finished with the paper towel, I did what we all do when we’ve wiped: I surveyed the towel. The scene wasn’t quite as disgusting as I’d imagined. It was crusty, but was more like flaky coffee grounds than anything else. Except the flakes were yellow.

As I entered our office kitchen and began placing the merchandise I’d just washed with hand soap onto the shelves, I was overcome, suddenly, with the urge to let my hand slip just as I was handling the gray cups. In my head, the putrid plastic would come tumbling into the garbage can next to my knee and would be suddenly swallowed by a mass of paper cups, Cup ‘O’ Noodles, and Mr. Fink’s used tissues. And just as I would summon the courage to reach into the grimy bag, the late-night cleaning lady would swish in and snatch it from me before I could say a word.

But no, the gray cups would stay. After all, even if my fantasy really happened, what would I say to Mr. Fink the third the next day when he asked where his favorite cups had gone? I could just hear him: “Has anyone seen the gray cups? They’ve disappeared! I can’t have my Coke and lemonade in a glass! Where did they go?” And then my face would burn and I’d say I didn’t know—my attempts at noble, honest employee flushed down the brownish-yellow drain I’d poured the excess coffee down the night before.

Oh well. Why should I care that my boss and Conan drank from filthy gray cups? If they wanted to drink germ-infested Coke, it was their choice; I’d simply avoid talking to them head on. I just wished I didn’t have to clean up after them.

Since that experience, I’ve worked a good 5 or 6 times for Myrna, and have found that I don’t mind the dishes as much. After all, one of the gray cups stays on Conan’s desk for nearly 3 weeks in a row, and when it does eventually make its way to the kitchen, I just hope that Myrna will be working that day. (Even if she isn’t, maybe I’ll slip it back in to Conan’s office for one more day—he wouldn’t really know.) As for the ladies who may walk in as I’m scraping mildewed coffee away, they just have to use the spare sink.

Who knew that when I applied for a job at an uppity New York law firm I’d be signing up to wash dishes in lukewarm bathroom water? Ah, well . . . nothing beats walking past millionaire Fink’s office and seeing him sip heartily out of a filmy gray piece of plastic that’s just seen the drains of a smelly New York ladies’ room.

I’ll have a paper cup, please.