Cathy.

Cathy’s not going to let us down today. She stands before an assemblage of sinks, prepared for the night’s worth of leftovers that will pass over her hands, a stream of dishes and utensils bound to devolve from one to another and eventually into the clutches of her machine. It’s another soggy evening in her world of tedious method, back and forth, dirty to clean—exactly like yesterday, and just like tomorrow.

Her age is an enigma, but I’d venture she’s something like forty. Years of work have added a decade or so to Cathy’s appearance, to a face homespun and sowed with crinkles. She stands on supple limbs, breasts wet from the heat and spray of her dish kingdom. “Ha’woh, Jen!” she’d say, in a voice brought on by crooked teeth and an idle tongue. Her tangle of brown hair is segueing to gray; it’s a confusing cut in a curious style. “Ha’ah yew taday?!”

Cathy is interesting to me, because I’ve seen her leave work and kiss a woman in the rain. I’ve seen her with her children, I’ve seen her drunk, I’ve seen her happy and subdued. Her epilepsy has left her in underwear, panicked and frenzied. She’s the personality of a wisecrack and the efficiency of an appliance. The plates! The plates’ah reh’day! Bow’als, Scott! Ah’ve gatcha some bow’als! Silvahweh! Her mind finds a rare stray from her dishes, save an interval of prancing on dripping floors proclaiming, “Let’s dance! Let’s DAH’NCE!” She’s happy to exist in this place of tranquil, organized chaos, a place that is grateful for her existence.

“What do you want for Christmas, Cathy?” I asked her toward the end of a shift one night in mid-December.

She told me a lot of people had been asking her that, and that she didn’t know what her kids would get her, but the one year they gave her The Bride of Chucky. I laughed. I wasn’t certain if this was something she’d wanted or not.

“What kind of sweets do you like…like, candy?” I asked. I paused and glanced at her teeth, not certain that they could sustain such treats. Before I could withdraw my inquiry, she professed her love for chocolate-covered cherries.

“Chahclat-cahvahed cheh’ies. Ya know those? Like a cheh’ie, cahvahed in chahclat?” she moved her hands to motion the making of a chocolate covered cherry, with whirling gestures to indicate the chocolate encasement. 

“Yes. I know. I love those, too.”

I felt the sudden duty to buy her cherries for Christmas, and decided I’d pick her up a box of Queen Anne’s. After all, she washes every single plate, and cup, and fork, and she’s been in love with both genders, and even kissed a woman in the pouring rain. I saw it.

“Ah’ya closin’ tanight, Jen?” she’d say, looking for a ‘yes.’

“You know it.”

Cathy rammed another load through the machine as flecks of water collected on her glasses. She flashed me a gummy smile.

Cathy is intehwesting ta me, because ah wondah how anay’wan who wah’sis dehshes couhd lauve life sow mauch…

Ah jaust daun’t knaw.