I bussed tables at a VFW for a summer when I was nineteen. The restaurant itself was just like any other, except the sink for washing dishes was stuffed away in a back room, secluded from everybody.
It was a prison cell of a room. Cold and stale and musty. It came equipped with nothing but an old sink, dishsoap that was always running low, towels, and a dusty mop in the corner.
A single, uncovered light bulb, constantly flickering in and out, was the only thing illuminating the room.
David was there too. He was the dishwasher.
David was twenty years old. He had a tangled mop of curly dark brown hair at the top of his thin, short frame. He always had the same Spiderman baseball cap that was too big for him. He wore glasses that sat sideways on his face. I don’t think he could see too well with them, because he was always squinting. It was kinda cute honestly, especially the way he would scrunch up his nose and blink real hard.
He was a good kid.
We kept massive jugs of dishsoap on a rack just barely out of his reach. The jugs were really heavy too, and he was a small guy. Whenever I saw his soap running low, I would grab the next one and set it down on the floor, so he didn’t have to worry about it.
One day I was about to grab a new jug for him, but he stopped me.
“I can get it this time, Ben! Thanks though!” He said it with a sincere smile.
“You’re sure? Okay.”
I didn’t want to insult him, so I conceded. I figured he’d grab a crate or something and use it as a step-stool to reach it.
A few minutes later, I came back with some dirty dishes, and I slipped and almost fell. The jug of dishsoap was laying sideways on the floor, its contents everywhere, flooding the room from wall to wall.
I looked at David. He was beaming at me, grinning from ear to ear. I laughed along with him and helped him clean up. I always got the soap for him after that.
I didn’t really know much about David though. How could anyone? I mean, he was isolated in a closet from the second his shift started to the second it ended. The bussers were the only ones that would see him all night, but we were always so busy we couldn’t stick around and talk.
He was a quiet guy anyway. I think he liked being alone like that.
He was a good kid.
He would play music on his phone all night long while he washed dishes. I swear, it must have been the same twelve songs on the same playlist that he played on a loop, every shift, all night long.
Every.Single. Night.
Sometimes I would tease him about that and dance to some of the songs to make him laugh. He was awkward but sweet, always smiling.
Our interactions never went much further than that.
I know he had a crush on one of the servers there. Sometimes he would walk up to her on his break and try to talk. It was always kind of gawky and endearing. He wouldn’t know what to say. He would fumble over a couple of words and then scurry away, blushing and laughing uncomfortably.
It was harmless. Everybody liked David.
He was always smiling but he'd get embarrassed if you looked back at him, and innocently dart his eyes away, trying to hide his smile.
Nobody knew much about him, but he was always there, washing the shit out of some dishes, listening to his favorite twelve songs.
He was a good kid.
He rode his bike to work. One night, after a long shift, on his way home, a semi-truck hit him just a few hundred feet from his house.
Gone forever.
We closed down for a couple days after that. When we came back, the mood was weird. I interacted with him more than anybody else.
The first time I brought dirty dishes back to the room where I would always see David was tough. The lump in my throat kept getting bigger as I walked closer to the sink. I threw the dishes in and turned away. My stomach started to hurt.
As I walked out, I noticed there was a new light bulb.
I went into the bathroom and sobbed. I didn’t stop for a long time.
I cried for David. And his family.
But I especially cried for the life I take for granted.
People die everyday. There is always a new tragedy breaking the news. We hear about it and go on with our day, like we're numb to it. Or we just don't want to think about it.
Death is imminent for each and every one of us. Yet somehow I find myself droning along every day with no sense of urgency.
No appreciation.
Death must be used as a reminder. It could happen to me or any of my loved ones at any time.
I sit with it everyday. I think about how it closes in on me with every minute that passes. It reminds me that I still have a choice: to live, or to run out the clock.
I need to create new stories. Make new friends. Enjoy new experiences.
Because life will kick you to the curb if you don’t appreciate it, and death will swallow you whole.