Jerry the Hobart.

I was a professional dish-washer in law school. There, I said it. Although my maternal grandmother, Gina, footed the bill for my legal education, I'd gotten an independent streak along and along, and decided I wanted some extra spending money. My buddy, Scott Anderson (click on his name if you want a repeat of an old post with a pic of Scott and me and some of our buds during this era (yes, Frandy, Russ is there, too)), got me a job washing dishes at Steak and Ale in Tampa over the Christmas holidays in my first year of law school, and I decided to stay at it for a couple of months after the break (it was not a smart decision. My grades were abysmal that semester, and I ended up having to repeat a class, as I've posted before.

The dishwasher was the lowest form of being in the restaurant universe. Look at it this way: In the genteel space out front in the customer-contact world, the Bartenders and waiters/waitresses were the knights, with busboys as their squires. The kitchen was more like a military operation, with the chefs as the Top Sergeants. Prep cooks were, maybe, Lance Corporals. In those categories, dishwashers were the serfs and buck privates, respectively.

I say I was a dishwasher; actually, they called us "Hobarts", after the machine through which the dishes moved. Talk about no respect. Anyway, the busboys'd bring in stacks of dishes, which we'd spray off, stack in dishtrays, and set on the Hobart conveyor belt. The dishes would come, steaming hot, from the other end, and we'd stack them up on the shelves and send the next batch through. It was hot, kind of nasty, work. I lost fifteen pounds or so during my three month tenure there, and I always struggled to stay ahead of the busboys. 'Course, this was only a temporary gig for me. Not so for Jerry. Jerry was born to wash dishes. While I struggled, he'd lean up against the wall and smoke a cigarette until his stack of dishes got chin-high; then he'd knock 'em out in a trice. One night as he bemusedly watched me busting my butt, he commented, "Dave, you're not REALLY a Hobart, are you?". What do you mean, Jerry? "I bet you're a student, huh?" He's on to me, I thought. "Yes", I said. "Where ya goin'?", he inquired. I don't want to overwhelm poor Jerry, I thought, I'll soft pedal it a bit. "Why, I go across the Bay, over in St. Pete". "St. Pete Jay Cee?", Jerry wondered. "No", I offered (trying not to sound too superior), "I'm going to Stetson Law School". "Law school!", Jerry blurted. "Gonna be a cop, huh?". I'm tellin' you, I don't get no respect.