THE DISH DOG MARTYRS

There were three ex-dishwashers of the café who have died of alcohol related conditions over the last year and a half. They drank themselves to death. All three were somewhere in their fifties. Here they’ll be called “Peter,” “Paul,” and “Joseph.”

JOSEPH
Joseph had thin, greasy hair combed over his scaly, pock marked head. He had a vulgar looking moustache and was missing a tooth, most likely from falling off a barstool. He had the looks of an evil landlord, a Snidley Whiplash character who would twirl his moustache hair with glee as he’d try to goose the rent out of the poor widowed farm wife.
Despite this, I got along with the guy alright. We weren’t bffs or anything, but we always said ‘hi’ and engaged in some type of small talk every day. You know, sports, weather, how much work sucks, etc, etc, so on and so forth.
He was unpopular with the waitresses, which is a bad bad bad place for a dishwasher to be. Those waitresses will conspire silently, wait patiently, and then sabotage your very soul. They’ll tell you they left a birthday present for you in the garage, and you’ll go out there, touched by their generosity. Then you’ll discover the garage door locks behind you and that the room is filled with rabid mountain lions and the walls are lined with mousetraps.
Such was the case with Joseph. As soon as he slouched through the door, you could see the back hair of the waitresses starting to stand on end, their postures clenched and uncomfortable. He came to work sometimes noticeably drunk. He sometimes snuck off to a side room to catch a few Z’s. The waitresses were convinced he had a bottle hidden somewhere on the premises and the flipped the place more thoroughly than the vice squad. No stone was left unturned in the search for the stash in a desperate attempt to find hard alcohol hard evidence. They even had me search the tank of the men’s room toilet on three different occasions. Now that you mention it, that is a pretty good place to hide the hooch.
One day I walked in, and Mo was smirking at me through a haze of cigarette smoke.
“Wait’ll you see Joseph today.” She said, exhaling smoke. “He’s turned yellow.”
“Sure, Mo.” I said, dismissing it. I thought she was implying something like “he’s a little green around the gills” or that he looked pale and a little ill. Then he walked in.
“Holy cats!....He’s….YELLOW!” I shout whispered to Mo.
“I told you.” She said.
“No, no…he’s yellllllll-ow!”
“I told you.”
“I mean, he looks like he walked out of an episode of the fucking Simpsons!” I was still kind of in shock. I’ve never seen anyone Crayola yellow before.
“I told you.”Mo said again.
As you can probably guess, it’s not a good sign when you turn as yellow as yield sign. It means you are dying. And a few months later, Joseph was dead.

PAUL
Paul had a drinking problem.
His doctor said “Paul, if you continue to drink, you will drop over dead as a fucking doornail.”
Paul said, “Thanks for the advice, doc.” Then he headed straight for the Roman Coin.
I liked Paul. He was a nice, jolly guy. He loved to laugh and joke around. Sure, he was in a goddamn grouchy mood sometimes, but who the fuck isn’t? I can’t remember now if he quit or was fired for being drunk on the job, which happened on a regular basis. The booze made him happy. The waitresses were split on their decision on Paul. I liked him.
He started losing weight. Like I said, he was jolly. Jolly to me implies a little fat, which Paul was. He started to lose weight, rapidly, and it wasn’t from dieting or exercise. The weight loss looked unnatural. His skin tone was changing, too, it was yellowish greenish grayish. That’s the best way I can describe it. It was like he was shriveling up and dying. It was depressing to see. I remember seeing him, gray looking, soaking wet, walking in the rain with his XXL t-shirt hanging off his now L body, heading to the Roman Coin. Things got worse and he checked into the hospital. He didn’t check out.

PETER
It was kind of a surprise. I knew Peter drank too much, and popped an unprescribed amount of pain pills, which is a no no, but I didn’t think much on it. He didn’t look great, but he didn’t look like he was going to drop over.
Peter had a bushy beard and long hair and a wild look in his eyes, like Charles Manson. He was always dressed in the same beat up flannel and beat ups jeans, chain smoking Old Golds and looking around him wildly. Initially the dude freaked me out a little bit, with all the staring and teeth grinding and mumbling to himself. Soon I realized that this was the pain pills talking and that he was an ok guy. He had miserable things happen in his life and I felt bad for him. I do remember thinking that he looked a bit worse than usual last week. He wasn’t making sense and seemed angry about it. I swear his beard looked much grayer than it had been days before, but maybe my mind has invented it. He disappeared for a few days, then one evening his mother walked in. His mother is like three hundred years old, slouched over a walker, dressed in an ancient floor length fur coat, a mess of white hair on her head. The boss and I were at the front counter. She walked through the door with much effort, and stared down at us.
“Peter is dead.” She said, making a great effort to lift her head. Like I said, it was kind of a surprise.
Later I was at the bar having a drink. I stared down into my glass. “Shit, man.” I thought, “This shit will kill you.”