The Dishwasher Is Clean

I got hired at a bar and restaurant with a dance floor. I usually had the early shift (16:00 – 24:00), and I often arrived early, but the quiet dishwasher (let’s call him Simon) was always there before me. I soon realized he also left after me when I had the later shift (21:00 – 05:00). 

One day, I got there way outside of opening hours to pick up my jacket, and I found Simon dressed in comfy clothes, rummaging through the fridge. I asked what he was doing, and he didn’t answer but looked very guilty. Since we had lost some expensive food and wine recently, I naturally suspected Simon. 

The next shift, I approached my boss; he was the older brother of the owner. The owner managed another place in town; since this place was up and running, he rarely came by anymore. He did hiring, taxes, and stuff. My boss was quite lazy and didn’t manage much, but we didn’t need much managing anyway. He usually did something meaningless to look busy.

Me: “Hey, I have to tell you something.”

Boss: “Not now, [Not My Name], run off and play.”

Me: “I’m [My Name].”

Boss: “Whatever, [Mean, rhyming nickname], I’m busy.”

Me: “That’s not my name, but seriously. It’s about…”

A senior bartender tapped on my shoulder.

Bartender: “Hey, I need help switching a keg.”

Me: “Can it wait?”

Bartender: “No, come along.”

Boss: “Yeah, stop being lazy. Do some work!”

We went to the bar; our boss kept doing nothing. The kegs didn’t need switching.

Bartender: *Quietly.* “So, you noticed something about Simon?”

Me: *Matching his tone.* “Yes? He was here outside of reasonable hours, rummaged through the fridge, and looked guilty. It was really weird.”

Bartender: “He told me you found him here. He lives here. For the moment.”

Me: “What? Why?”

Bartender: “He’s homeless, for about four more months. He needed help, so we helped him.”

Me: “Okay?”

Bartender: “Simon had to flee his psycho girlfriend in the dead of night. She assaulted him for not buying her flowers; I saw the bruises. She trashed all his stuff, tossed his cat out on the street, filed a false police report against him… He found the cat, and it lives with [Chef]. And the cops didn’t buy her story. Anyway. Our boss laughed and called Simon a wimp, said he deserved to live on the street. Said the rain and snow would wash the shame away.”

Me: “How awful!”

Bartender: “Yes. Simon has no relatives and no friends besides us, so we had to help. Social housing takes a long time to get.”

Me: “Of course we should help, but why does he have to live here?”

Bartender: “We tried helping him by letting him couch surf. Simon is… well, very autistic. He is very, hmm, peculiar to live with. It really, really didn’t work, and we really tried. Then we realized that this place is empty during the day and [Boss] never gets here early.”

Me: “Wouldn’t [Boss] help someone in real need? This is a real emergency!”

Bartender: “Our boss thinks poor people deserve to be poor and the homeless should have a better work ethic. And our dear boss thinks Simon should work somewhere else and be less weird, despite being the best god-d*** dishwasher in the kingdom. Now, living here is illegal, I think. At least not allowed.”

Me: “Oh. That would make it easy to get rid of him.”

Bartender: “Indeed. Social housing takes a while, but Simon will get an apartment in four months. There is a known date. Since this is constrained by time, we thought that this was a decent emergency solution.”

Me: “I understand. I’ll keep the secret.”

Bartender: “Good man. Most people here know, and we help keep our dear boss in the dark. But we still try to keep the conspiracy small.”

I passed through the kitchen and found Simon. He looked at me with real fear.

Me: “Simon. [Bartender] told me your story. I’m sorry that I scared you.”

Simon: “I was not able to tell you what I was doing.”

Me: “No, I understand. The secret is safe with me. I want to help you; no one should be on the street.”

Simon looked relieved and happy and gave my shoulder an awkward squeeze.

Me: “I just must ask, what were you doing in the fridge?”

Simon: “Look.”

He showed me the fridge. There was a shelf at the bottom with some common groceries that we didn’t use for cooking.

Simon: “My food. I bought it. I eat it.”

Me: “I see. Sorry for suspecting you.”

Simon (and his cat) was relocated to a municipal apartment four months later, just as planned. Simon still works here and still does an impeccable job, but our boss doesn’t. You see, our dear boss had decided that he deserved to take fancy wine and food to impress his latest girlfriend. When his wife and his younger brother found out, he lost his job, his marriage, and the girlfriend.

We are now managed by the bartender.