Dishwasher blues

I was sitting at one of my regular watering holes last night, where my friend Mike bartends. He and I were having a good conversation about basement plumbing and whatnot, and this guy from the kitchen got off shift and came and sat down beside me, chain-smoked and ordered a margarita. I had been in and around his conversations before, and he's one of those guys who's super-serious and overly haughty about the tiniest details of restaurant worker-life -- the existential hippie/dishwasher. Anyway, he was particularly grim last night, and he finally took a big drag on his cigarette and said to Mike, "Well, it's finnally happened. Did you hear? In fact I just got word this afternoon -- and it came all the way down from the top. The very top, mind you." Another long drag, then silence. Mike and I looked at him. "Something I've been pushing for three fucking years, man." He angrily stubbed out his cigarette. "We got the go-ahead to change the marinara."

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