Sometimes I indulge this fantasy: Dishwasher with a Past. Not of shame, but accomplishment. Every night I’d chip off the old gleam, scrubbing it to evanescence. Waitresses would whisper, “He used to be somebody, but he walked away,” while I, oblivious, sprayed entrée guts down drains and waited for the clock-out, when I could roll hovel-ward and drop my bones for some late-night TV, beer in hand and not a thought in my head. My gold and platinum records and journalism plaques would adorn some upstairs wall, and I’d show them to the occasional visitor. “Where did you get those?” he or she would gasp. “My other life,” I’d sigh beneath a wistful, faraway gaze. Naturally, there’d be follow-ups. “Don’t you ever miss it?” “Why’d you leave it all behind?” “What truly lives in those dishwater hands?” I’d respond the only way I could. “Hey,” I’d say. “Let’s go bowling.” So we would. Three games on a 12-pound ball. On my very last frame, I’d finally break 200 with a climactic turkey. Returning to a chorus of back-pats and steins aloft, I’d know I’d done the right thing. Because Dishwasher with a Past is an awesome bowler.
