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$title = "Trial By Fire";
$id = 10;
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<p>The pungent odor of industrial detergent filled my nostrils as
hot plates scorched my palms through thin plastic gloves. I
quickly stacked dishes in neat piles, threw pots and pans on a
shelf, and grouped steaming glasses in grids. A fellow student
quickly jammed plates into the other side of the monstrous,
fire-breathing machine -- he was the source of all of my labor;
the faster he pushed carts through, the more quickly I had to dry
the items and sort them. A fast loader could have us scurrying
off to our precious little remaining free time in as little as
twenty minutes of work, while a lackadaisical loader could have
us in slow-motion, taking as much as three hours to complete the
job. Of course, a lot of it depended on the dinner, too. A sticky
dinner meant more detailed washings, and an increased likelihood
of a dish emerging yet soiled from the machine. Such dishes when
come through would be quickly placed upon a metal shelf barely
within arms reach. A quick cry of "Pots!" would be
sufficient to summon the two poor wretches assigned to scrub
these out in addition to those that didn't fit in the machine:
the stickiest, nastiest, and largest items of the crew. These
were usually the outcasts and those low on the social ladder,
i.e., the middle-schoolers. I had had my hour in that section,
and I was none too eager to repeat the experience. </p>
<p>None of us were here by choice: what freshman would wash
dishes voluntarily? Despite the fact that we had been bound
together arbitrarily by faculty disconnected from our lives, we
often managed to get along quite sociably. We would talk about
who had placed well in the last Debate Tournament, and when our
basketball team would be playing next and with whom, and we would
whine about our interminable French assignments and cold girls,
and frequently gossip against Wesley, the wall-eyed dork of our
class. Since rubbing a towel against china doesn't usually
provide a great deal of entertainment to the average high-school
freshman, we would also find our own ways to entertain ourselves
during crew. For instance, we composed and sung "We Didn't
Break the Dishes" [to the tune of "We Didn't Start the
Fire" by Billy Joel] a few times. We made up the lyrics
during a very boring study hall: </p>
<blockquote>
<i>We didn't break the dishes,</i> <br>
<i>They were always broken</i> <br>
<i>And we're not jokin'. (x2)</i> <br>
<i>Pots, pans, silverware</i> <br>
<i>Hither, thither, everywhere...</i> </p>
</blockquote>
<p>And on the song went. (I have trouble remembering the rest) </p>
<p>But our entertainment and social contact extended beyond
chatter. Doing dishes put me in a quiet, philosophical mood, and
it was not rare to see me engaged in deep, philosophical
discussion with a junior or senior while drying plates. We talked
over God, the Bible, and spiritualistic books that we had read
recently, even ones related to animals. (In such a discussion, a
senior pointed out a wonderful trilogy called "Duncan
Quest" that was completely about moles and quite possibly
one of the best books that I have read -- the only books that I
have shed tears over) I really got to know fellow students that I
would not have had contact with otherwise than through crew, and
exchange ideas, thoughts, gossip, and jokes. (A joke I learned in
crew about a man urinating in a bar is hilarious, but perhaps not
appropriate for this essay) </p>
<p>Our olio of arbitrarily chosen students turned into a social
group as we worked. This group taught me how to better understand
and cope with my world, how to laugh at my mistakes, and how to
swear in Mandarin. It was a bittersweet experience, an unpleasant
growth and maturation, but now, with all said and done, I am
happy that I was tried by the fiery dishwashing machine. </p>
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