In the summer of 1976, a couple months before my 16th birthday, a brand new Roy Rogers opened its doors in our area. My friend Tim, who in addition to being one of our school’s leading marijuana peddlers, had a natural leadership air about him, quickly secured one of the coveted minimum wage jobs. When it opened, I remember walking through the line to get lunch and being green with envy as my buddy dropped the fries at his station. I wanted a real job! Cutting lawns had grown old long ago, and besides, there were a host of Churchill High’s prettiest Tim now counted as coworkers. My hormones wanted to be a part of all that! Finally, like Tim, I had a bit of a pot business myself and needed to launder the proceeds. My mother was already suspicious about my burgeoning album collection and the new stereo I purchased to play them on. Legitimate employment had become a must!
Unfortunately, when Roy’s was staffing up in early summer I had yet to turn 16, which disqualified me from consideration. Indeed, Maryland law made clear anyone under 16 carried a host of liabilities employers were not interested in dealing with. Until my birthday it would be the indignity of lawn mowing and babysitting my little brother, a task my parents were delighted to keep in-house. As luck would have it, another friend of mine had secured a job washing dishes at a restaurant called Emerson’s. Welcoming the prospect of having a familiar face to work with, he talked to the manager, who assured him as soon as I was legal a position would be waiting… lucky me!
Emerson’s Steakhouse found success by pioneering the all-you-can-eat salad bar. That’s right, what is now standard fare in 1976 was revolutionary, and quite popular. Long waits for seating on weekends was the rule, as patrons lined up to fill their refrigerated plates with roughage and all the fixings. Where Roy Rogers seemed idyllic, sort of an extension home economics class, Emerson’s was the real deal, and I quickly found out washing dishes wasn’t dropping in and salting up fries; this was hard work. Moreover, it took but an hour or so for me to understand what rung of the kitchen’s food chain I occupied, only the rodents that revealed themselves after hours were lower.
Initially, though, the gig really wasn’t so bad. In fact, the several times I worked with my buddy it was downright enjoyable. In between waves of bus tubs we would ogle the gorgeous waitresses, most in their twenties and wholly uninterested in us past getting them some clean flatware on the fly. The operation was set up to be manned by three people. One emptied the tubs and scraped leftover food off the plates. The second placed the dishes, glasses etc on racks and sent them through the “Hobart” conveyor-like machine for washing. Last, the third man removed the clean, still hot items from the rack and stacked them back at the various kitchen stations.
A full team of three could handle any rush with fairly effortless efficiency, and more importantly close everything up after hours so we could clock out by 11:00 pm even on a Saturday. However, as I was soon to learn, three guys showing up, or even being scheduled, was a rarity. After only a few shifts I would discover just how high the turnover rate was for a job like dishwashing, and toil through the consequences.
By the second month my friend had left, securing a cushy job at a furniture store as a stock boy. Worse, it was becoming clear, only moronic high schoolers like me and felons transitioning back into society constituted the dishwasher applicant pool. Mind you, I had no problem working with felons; it was they who had trouble showing up! By my third month it was the norm for me to struggle alone throughout busy weekend shifts, doing the work of three as bus tubs became stacked on the floor awaiting my frantic attention. But it wasn’t serving hours that I minded, it was the long hours after things had closed, when I was alone and couldn’t leave until every dish was done and the disgusting floor mats were sprayed down. One Saturday shift I didn’t clock out until 3:30 AM, a stinking and exhausted mess.
And so it was I showed up for work at 5:00PM on what promised to be another very busy Saturday night. Suffice it to say my patience and good faith as an Emerson’s employee was nearing its limits. The novelty of a real job long expired, even lawn mowing had regained lost luster. As I entered the kitchen I was disheartened to see nobody else on the schedule to help me, another very long night awaited.
But it wasn’t until I saw my work station that what would evolve into a signature temper began to boil. Apparently, management had hosted a private gathering that afternoon of way too many. Every bus tub in the establishment was filled and taunting me as I put on my apron. I stared in disbelief, realizing virtually every dish, glass and fork in the Emerson’s inventory was caked in residue. An entire shift of work needed to be finished before the night even began. Clarity seized me as never before, rebellion consuming my being. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go…. “ the assistant manager I already disdained ordered indelicately. Whoever was present certainly still remembers my reply as I stormed for the exit, keeping their apron, perhaps to burn later. I’ll admit here I cried driving home, my anger matched by my feeling of shame for quitting so unceremoniously my first real job.
These recollections flowed fresh this morning as I read in the Washington Post about the travails of Mikaela Sakal, a young Detroit ER nurse. She is a hero who now will spend a long time traumatized by her recent experiences in the ER of Sinai-Grace Hospital. Pushed to the breaking point, she quit because continuing felt implausible and torturous. From fully committed and determined to do her best under the most difficult circumstances she could find, to angry and defeated for no better reason than the catch-22 situation she found herself in only promised insurmountable disillusion, making a light at the end of the tunnel impossible to even imagine. Covid-19 hell.
Sakal, fresh out of school and looking for the toughest challenge available, thought Sinai-Grace in the heart of Detroit ideal for her ambition to test herself under the most demanding circumstances. “This place will make you a great nurse,” she was promised. However, when Covid-19 detonated in Detroit, Sinai-Grace was quickly overwhelmed. In the ER a sensible ratio of nurse to patients is 1 to 4; 1-8 is considered the outer rim where quality of care becomes dangerously jeopardized. Sakal and her shift partners were constantly at 1-15! Seven or eight nurses staffing an ER with scores of critically ill patients, people dying, whose names they didn’t know. Resources exhausted and new incomings constantly on the way. Staff that were finishing a 12-hour shift unable to leave because to do so would put their relief in an untenable situation. “You’re lucky if you find time in a 12-hour shift to get a glass of water. You spend every minute moving from patient to patient trying to keep them stable and alive.” Imagine a place where the only noise is the constant sound of alarms going off as life-sustaining medication pumps demand to be refilled.
The breaking point for Sakal came when a colleague had to leave the ER to help transfer a patient to the ICU and she was alone with 26 critical patients. Sakal said she and her fellow nurses told management time and again they needed help, “this wasn’t ok.” She acknowledged some efforts were made to bring in more nurses but the numbers actually went backward. “We went from having 14 nurses on at night to sometimes having 10 or less,” said Sakal. Finally, because they felt only if they left would the situation no longer be ignored, she and two other night shift ER nurses, including the shift supervisor, quit.
It’s impossible to imagine the torment Sakal must feel right now. That one so talented and dedicated should be forced into such a situation lays bare the myth of American healthcare superiority, while confirming how totally unprepared it was for this pandemic. That a multitude of idiotic MAGA wretches in Michigan and beyond would zealously protest, shoulder-to-shoulder, for the “freedom” to exponentially increase the carnage this wonderful woman has been overwhelmed by confirms the life support status of America’s civic sensibilities. And last and most disturbingly, that a President we elected is permitted to traitorously encourage such madness, as nothing more than a function of his psychotic insecurity and perpetual vileness, pinpoints an existential threat to the nation’s survival. It must be confronted by any means necessary….. yesterday! Dammit, stand by her side! BC
Brilliantly written, what a great journey this was to read. You are a truly talented writer, my friend.
Yes, I know nurses everywhere are half-staff or worse. They have told me so personally.
Thanks for highlighting Ms. Saki’s plight. I find what happened to Ms. Saki and her two colleagues, as well as yourself, totally preventable if management would get its collective heads out of its asses. They generally have no response other than tough it out because they don’t see their job as being responsible for these things. It’s always someone else’s job. And then they don’t understand why so often the most promising and energetic employees burn out and leave. I had a pretty fun and cushy job organizing exhibitions for museums — it lasted 30 years and has given me a good retirement. But it ceased to be fun after the Great Recession — management knew we were losing business but was unable to work with staff to make the necessary changes. They had their niche and wanted to stay there – they wanted change without changing themselves. It was sad, unnecessary, and dispiriting. COVID-19 could easily end the organization as it has the same management; I wonder how many other cultural entities can survive.