Countertop Dishwasher
Chromakopia – Caleb Finley
Countertop Dishwasher
Sachin Lakshman
Trent conducted his daily symphony of countertop appliances. With the precise hand he inherited from his surgeon mother, he cued in the mellow humming of the kettle to accompany the toaster’s buzzing. The devices harmonized in a grand crescendo until ending with a sequence of perfect beeps. The toaster rang out, followed immediately by the percussive pouring of black coffee into his tumbler. Last came his soloist, the countertop dishwasher, with a synthetic jingle. As steam rose from its mouth, Trent counted down the seconds for his plate to cool down. He marveled in his own genius- the genius that his parents were entirely responsible for.
Expecting flawless execution, like always, Trent nearly collapsed at the chaos before him. Everything was flipped: Bowls lay open, filled with stagnant water. His utensils were inserted so as to perfectly wash their hilts alone. Grime covered all of the bowls, forks, spoons, cups and – Oh, dear – His daily breakfast plate, the bearer of two slices of perfectly browned (as Trent had determined through meticulous experimentation) whole-wheat toast. It was disgusting, bearing yesterday’s butter and jam. Trent felt violated, as if his sacred ritual had been taken from him. When he was a boy, he was taught that transgressions must be punished with extreme reaction. All he needed to do was figure out who the subject of his revenge should be, and his distress paved the way to a single conclusion: Wherever his trashy roommate might be hiding, Trent would find him.
Though Mick only planned to study for his Chemistry exam, he’d brought his laptop, his math folder, a Latin textbook, and a broken calculator to the library. He alone entered the group focus room, and designed a perfect facade by leaving out his belongings on the table. He had delayed his preparations to the weekend before the exam, so he needed to guarantee a long-term study spot. As he closed the blind just far enough to cover the vacant seats, Mick reminisced about that time in ninth grade when he needed to escape his chaotic New Jersey home to study for his SAT. He built his set, acted his role, and basically lived out of that public library focus room. It also reminded him of leaving lights on, setting up coathangers in windows, and blasting music in his house the summer prior. It was supposed to be his graduation party, but none of his classmates cared to show up, and his family had Home-Alone’s him for their annual road trip to Palm Beach. Just like in the library, his set was convincing. So convincing, in fact, that the cops were called in for a noise complaint. Right as Mick gained awareness of how distracted he’d become, he heard the door swing open behind him. Anticipating an irked study group, unwilling to turn and face them, Mick falsified: “Sorry, my group’s out of the room right now, but we need it for a project.”
“What did you do?”
“We’ve got a… A Latin project! Would you- Trent!? What are you doing here?”
Trent responded with a grimace, as Mick popped open his phone. “Didn’t I tell you I needed time to focus?”
“I’ll ask again. What the hell is this?”
From behind his back, Trent produced his sullied plate.
“It’s a plate? What do you want me to say?”
Mick, in ultimate confusion, further provoked his roommate “Look, there’s like, five things you could be saying right now, and none of them make sense.”
“Michael, you broke my one rule. You loaded the dishes.”
“Broke your one rule?” Mick, now peeved, mocked. “Yeah, I did load them last night. I did you a favor.”
“Well good, I’m glad you admitted to it.”
“Cool, are we done now?”
“I’m kicking you out.”
“Kicking me- Dude, what?! You can’t kick people out of a dorm!”
“Like hell I can’t! Look at what you did!”
To Mick’s frustration, Trent kept pointing at his plate, as if it meant something to him.
“What did I do? You never told me not to load the dishes. In fact, when you bought that stupid portable dishwasher, you made me learn how to use the damn thing!”
“I mean, what do you want to hear? Yeah I loaded it, sorry I loaded it wrong? By the way, will you please close the door? There’s people trying to work.”
“SCREW THE DOOR!!”
Trent hurled the plate behind him. To Trent’s credit, the throw was quite perfect. It followed a beautiful trajectory, missing the astounded bystanders, flying directly out of an open window across the narrow hall, and out onto campus quad, where it was caught by a surprised frisbee player. Mick verbally blocked (even though the projectile flew away from him): “Whoa! Dude, you need to calm down! Stop, and think about what you just did-”
“Don’t put this on me!”
“I’m not, just, c’mon. Be serious”
“What do you mean ‘be serious!?’ There’s nothing to be serious about! Not my rules, not the dishes… All I’m serious about is kicking you the hell out!”
“No… Please, don’t! Think about this for a second. We have such a good deal going on right now. You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and we just coexist peacefully. All of that goes after one plate gets dirty?”
“It’s not just one plate, Michael. It’s everything about you. Your laundry pile-”
“Which I keep on my side!”
“Odor’s don’t recognize roommate boundaries, asshole! Anyway, it’s that, it’s the no noise rule, the leaving the toilet seat up, the everything! Michael, it’s you, not me. How could it be me!?”
“Have you ever stopped to consider you’re putting way too much value in a plate? Like, back home, we ate on paper plates. I promise, this isn’t that important.”
“What in the world would you know about, ‘important,’ Michael? I mean seriously, I don’t blame you for your deeply flawed upbringing, but don’t think for a second that our priorities exist on the same plane!”
“What are you talking about, dude!? You went to public school until you were nearly killed by that asshole who found out about your peanut allergy. You told me the settlement money is still funding you! You get one lucky break and think you’re a goddamn oil baron? Let’s be realistic for a second, who’s gonna make more: the hard-working pre-med, or the crashout music major? Huh? That’s what I thought.”
Trent looked distraught. It was the same question brought against him by his parents, during the last conversation they’d had. Frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to relive his horrible admission of, “giving up on himself,” as his parents had worded it, Trent was left wide-open.
Mick, raised by a legendary bar-boxer, knew exactly when to strike: “Hey Trent, if you’re kicking me out, I ought to tell you that I was the one who put sugar in your salt shaker.”
Trent bent over, laughing hysterically.
“Wow, Michael. It’s really funny. Wanna know what I did? Haha… I SET YOUR FILING CABINET ON FIRE, IDIOT! All of your high school math packets? GONE! Review materials, incinerated. It’s all mine! The dorm is ALL-”
“It’s on fire, Trent. The room is completely on fire.”
Mick tilted his phone upwards so that Trent could view the conveniently-timed notifications: “HOUSING: FIRE ALERT” and “DAMAGE REPORT.”
“Ok look, I don’t think everythings alright with you right now, man. You probably should go back and see what happened, though. I gotta study, so I’m gonna stay here, and, uh… I think I’m gonna… Yeah, no. I guess I’m gonna submit a Room Change before I leave.”
“Yeah, I’m not fine…wait, you’re doing what?’”
“No, and hey, look, I don’t blame you at all, right? How about this? I’ll stop by Target and pick you up a new plate, huh? A little going-away gift?”
Trent looked down at Mick, and before acknowledging his innocence, hurried out.
Hours later, when Trent finally got back to the dorm he saw two notifications: “HOUSING: FIRE ALERT” and “DAMAGE REPORT.” Trent’s vigilance returned, and he was immediately overcome by an ominous odor. He followed the scent of charring plastic into their bedroom, and immediately slipped in a puddle from the ceiling-mounted sprinklers. The back of his head collided with the ground with a great velocity, and, if it weren’t for Mick’s last minute decision to follow Trent back to the room, it would’ve never been caught on video. From his new vantage point, Trent saw his dishwasher. His pride and joy was in shambles, a molten hunk of its former glory. As Trent chuckled at his own misfortune, Mick slowly joined him on the ground to silently mourn the ashes that used to be his worksheets. Mick and Trent might have been the worst possible roommates for each other, but at least they were unified in their idiotic grief.