I once knew a dishwasher. He was always gloomy because he smoked tight joints before his shift and simply did his job staring at a dirty wet wall. He said the food on the plates made him feel funny. Sad. Like still life. I would go into the hot small steamy room and lean over his sink. I would tell him the stories of the nights before. Sometimes we would drink cups of espresso together in the back parking lot. His red eyes shone like the fourth of July. He was to become a character in a novel that I would never write.