Ethan looked up from the stack of filthy plates. Tim walked by, tying his apron as he hurried in to work, late.

“Damn, man,” Ethan called to him, over the gush of the sprayer. “You look like shit.”

Tim smiled weakly. “Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Much? Or any?” Ethan laughed, more an exhalation than anything else, and mostly through his nose. “You get a girlfriend?”

Tim grabbed a stack of wet racks from the back of the washing unit, and brought them up to the front, near Ethan. He started lining up the dishes, staggering their alignment. “No, not exactly. I was talking to someone online, though.” He pushed the first rack through the wet rubber flaps and grabbed another.

Ethan used the force of the water jet to remove some fat, flaccid macaroni from a plate. He shoved the stack toward Tim, and reached for a tray of silverware. “Wait a minute. You spent all night on the computer? You know, you’re going to either go blind, or get face cancer, or both, right?”

Tim laughed and grinned, a sleepy, half-hearted expression. His eyelids drooped and his eyes were puffy. “I think I’ll be ok. But if not, I’ll get in on a class-action suit, and I’ll let you say I told you so.” He shoved the final rack of plates through the flaps and onto the conveyor belt. He pushed the stacks of silverware Ethan was spraying into the machine, as well, and then went out to the dining area to collect more dishes.

Ethan shook his head. He couldn’t believe that kid and his crazy behavior. It was one thing for people like Buck to go out and party all week and couch dive. It was another thing for smart, together dorks like Tim to drive himself to exhaustion surfing the knowledge expressway or whatever it was. That brought to mind two questions. Ethan intended to ask Tim about both on his return.

“So, what is it that you do online, anyway?” Ethan figured he’d stick to the conversation at hand.

Tim dropped off two stacks of plates and raised his eyebrows, as if he had to think of the best way to answer the question. He put up one finger in the “wait one moment” gesture, and went back out through the swinging doors. He came back a moment later with a tray loaded with silverware.

“OK. That’s a good question. It’s hard to explain, without it sounding dumb. Mostly, I just have conversations with people or play games.” Tim stacked the plates in another rack as Ethan sprayed them.

Ethan stopped spraying dishes. “You play games and write back and forth with people?”

Tim looked up at him. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Til eight in the morning?”

Tim smiled again and laughed. “Well, sometimes it gets kind of involved. And it takes awhile to type all that stuff.”

Ethan sprayed the last of the plates and moved to the silverware again. “So when did you start last night?”

Tim shoved the rack of plates through the flaps. “I dunno. I guess at about 11:30 or so.”

Ethan pushed a stack of silverware trays toward Tim. “So for almost nine hours, you were typing?” His face was a wide, blank mask of disbelief.

Tim pushed the last tray through the flaps and looked at his friend. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re going to get that carnal tuner thing, man. Or arthritis or something.”

Tim flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles as he backed out the swinging door. “It’s carpal tunnel.”

“Whatever, man.”

The day passed quietly, as the breakfast dishes disappeared. Tim swept and wiped down the tables while Ethan ran the dish machine through the de-liming process. He had to load the green chemicals that would loosen and dissolve the hard water deposits that built up from continued use of the machine. Then he had to run the machine with soap and water to clean away the chemical residue. By the time he finished the cleaning, the cooks were already bringing him pots and utensils from lunch preparation. Soon enough, he heard the students start lining up and ordering from across the counter. He took this opportunity to visit the restroom and to do a quick read of the newspaper.

When he returned, a stack of silver tubs awaited, crusted with greenbean casserole and fried chicken breading. The spatulas and tongs were all stuck in a soup pot. He turned the machine on and let the conveyor action start moving. He grabbed the sprayer and started soaking down the worst of the crusty pans, then filled the soup pot to soak the utensils as well. Then Ethan started spraying the worst of the crud off the sloppy tubs and shoved them through the rubber flaps and into the waiting maw of the machine. As he was finishing the last of the cooking pans, Tim came through with a stack of glass racks and sent them through the machine. Ethan leaned against the stainless steel table and watched his friend unload the racks from the cart.

“So how’s Buck doing?”

“No clue man.” Tim paused a moment. He seemed to be deep in thought. “It’s been awhile now, huh?”

“Yeah man. Didn’t you say that you hadn’t seen him in three or four days? So still no sign of him?”

“Shit, Regina’s headed this way. Yeah, man. So now it’s almost been a week. I’ll be back in a bit…”. Tim ducked out the swinging doors.

Ethan shook his head and headed to the back end of the machine. He unstacked all the pots and let them air dry on a rack. He too the utensils back to the cooking area, and then pulled the glasses off and set them on carts to be taken back to the front of the union. When he’d unloaded the machine, he headed up to the washing area, where Tim had stacked several piles of plates and a couple racks of forks and spoons. Ethan sprayed them all, washing the remnants of lunches down the drain and into the oversized garbage disposer. He doused the silverware a few times, shoved the trays through, and then turned on the grinder.

The thing make a noise like a lawnmower choking on a matchbox car. Ethan ducked as a mangled fork flew out of the machine, twirling crazily across the room and clattering across the linoleum.

“Damn!”

Tim came through the door in time to see Ethan crouch and duck. The younger man backpedaled through the swinging doors. “Is it safe yet?”

Ethan managed to turn off the grinder. “Yeah man. I think so.”

Tim poked his head back in. “What happened?”

“Fork. Fell in the disposer.” Ethan went and picked it up. It was bent at a right angle, and the tines were curled in four different directions.
Tim came over and looked at it, too. “I knew a girl once,” he remarked, “who would probably pay you ten dollars for that, and wear it as a bracelet.” He turned to go back out to the floor and get more dishes.

Ethan tossed the fork in the trash. “How is it that you meet all these weirdo women, man?”

“Oh, you have no idea, my friend. No idea.”