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The young man got a job washing dishes at a family restaurant catering to smokers, the hopelessly obese and the clinically depressed. The work was hard, but the young man enjoyed his job nonetheless. He liked his boss, the hours, and the sense of accomplishment which came from tackling a tower of filthiness. But most of all, the young man enjoyed his fellow dishwasher, a mysterious, middle-aged Asian man. What fascinated the young man about this fellow was the Asian man's silent endurance. The young man had never met-- and never would meet-- another person who worked so hard for so little, never complaining, never flinching when confronted with the tempest of a Sunday morning buffet aftermath. The young man developed unrivaled respect for the silent Asian man. When the young man needed the night off for the Air Supply concert, the Asian man filled in. When the young man underwent the operation to remove the infected wart from his sternum, the Asian man filled in. Though no words were ever exchanged, the young man knew he would always be able to count on the silent Asian man. During one particularly dark evening, a convention of bow hunters and a rally of devil-worshipping outlaw bikers had simultaneously rolled into town during the young man's shift. The dishes piled quickly and fear gripped his brow. The keen-eyed manager, noting the young man's valiant stand while sinking beneath the weight, put out the call on the Asian man hotline: "Attention Asian man! Calling Asian man! Proud, silent Asian man! Come, Asian man! Help us! Please, Asian man! For the love of God, help us, Asian man!" From across the hilly emptiness, a call resounded. Thick, rubberish clouds slid quickly and thunder rumbled in their bellies. A bat snapped a moth and devoured it in chunks. And behold! There! Upon a rusty two-wheeled steed peddled the silent Asian man, stern and proud in the banana seat, his freshly laundered smock star-like white against a bank of gloom. The ensuing hours shook and blurred. The young man and the silent Asian man held their ground, side by side, against a porcelain, steel and plastic menace, fingers pruned and sweaty upon a steaming soupish field. A delicious violence swallowed the watery dance, a clattering, clinking symphony of struggle. Scraping, scrubbing, scraping, scrubbing. Rinsing, squeaking, rinsing, squeaking. Light stretched wide into lines. Minutes bent long into years. There was only the present, and it pressed at the young man's lungs, filled his head with slow, water-logged cotton. And then the gust of calm, the glowing cushion of tranquility burst forth without warning, and the world was right again. The night slowed and morning broke. The young man and the silent Asian man rested against the metal tub, no longer co-workers, but brothers, brothers within a family intangible to those outside of it. Mutual respect flowed like wine between them as they basked in victory. The blood calmed within them until the pounding of their eardrums faded, replaced by the steady buzz of fluorescent lightbulbs overhead. And then it happened. The most amazing event occurred, and from that point onward, the young man was a different person. No longer a young man, but simply a man. The Asian man spoke! Moved by the comradery, the silent Asian man broke his long spell of silence and actually spoke! A wide, toothy smirk spread upon his deeply lined face, and this is what he said: "Do… you… like… poo-see?"
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