A piece of writing is never definitively done, and often, the author feels uncomfortable letting a story out for publishing. But, alas, the deadline always wins!

Below is a reworking of my story “The Barbarian and the Dishwasher (Part One: An Artist’s Sketch)” recently posted on Vocal. Enjoy.

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“A Dishwasher and a Barbarian”

Plates shattered everywhere as George had a robust, whimsical imagination, which was fortuitous since most of his life revolved around an endless routine of wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.

He was a dishwasher. 

George worked at a restaurant called Rodeo Ribs for a quick-tempered, penny-pinching man named Mr. Witherson, who flew into a rage any time the supply of clean dishes ran low. 

“George! What the devil are you doing down there? Plates! I need plates!”

Gee, Mr. Witherson, maybe, I don’t know, spend some money to get more plates so we don’t constantly run out, the overworked dishwasher hollered silently to himself. 

“On it, Mr. Witherson! Plates coming right up, Sir!”

George knew his current job, the latest in a long line of menial gigs, would only last for a while. He invariably quit or found himself fired within the first month or two. 

Why am I still working here? I’m drenched down to my underwear every night, constantly smell like an old sponge, and the waterlogged skin on my hands is practically rotting off, George thought.

Despite being intelligent, college proved disastrous for George. When a class disinterested him, he simply didn’t do the work. He dropped out after one semester. But he wasn’t completely devoid of ambition. George had two passions: art and role-playing. 

George had tried every gaming system and actively participated in several role-playing groups. When not playing, he endlessly sketched the fantasy characters he played.

Recently, a friend had initiated George into the world of live-action-roleplaying. LARPing, as most called it, made George feel authentic and alive. All his current time and attention went into detailing every aspect of his chosen role. 

George imagined his LARPing alter-ego, a courageous barbarian named Jockular, taunting his adversaries gleefully with horrific puns. George took pride in inventing Jockular’s name, confident its pronunciation cleverly suggested the character’s ubiquitous laughter and prodigious sense of humor. At the same time, George felt its spelling emphasized the barbarian’s athletic prowess. 

“George! Where are those plates?!” 

George paused to envision the barbarian issuing a sassy retort, liquefying Mr. Witherson’s bowels with threats to destroy the restauranter’s beloved crockery. 

“Blast it all! Now, I’m out of plates! George!”

Sighing, George scrabbled upstairs, shouldering a rack of clean dishes upstairs, asking himself, as ever, why anyone would put a restaurant dish sink in the basement.

“Here, Mr. Witherson,” George said.

“That’s it? This won’t last five minutes! More, George! I need more!”

George sputtered, eyes wide, face red, before fleeing the hectic kitchen. He skidded to a halt at the top of the wet stairs. 

I really need some non-slip shoes, or I’m going to kill myself, George thought.

He clutched the banister and rushed back to the pile of dirty dishes waiting for him. 

Scrapping food into the slop sink, George returned to daydreaming about the upcoming weekend. His LARPing group had volunteered to host this month’s regional adventure.

George thought happily about having two whole days of LARPing. He couldn’t wait to show off the new armor he’d constructed. If he could deliver the jokes and taunts he’d been rehearsing, he felt sure he’d have a good chance of winning MVP.

Look at all these dishes! Jockulur would never spend hours scrubbing like some kitchen wench, George fumed. 

“Hey, George. Do you have those plates yet? Mr. Witherson’s legit going to have a coronary,” a waitress called down.

“For crying out loud, tell him I’m coming!” 

Shouldering a fresh load of plates, George sped up the stairs, two at a time, until one foot failed to connect with the last step. 

George landed with a sickening pop on the basement floor. 

“George?! Are you ok?” the waitress clamored down. 

Click the link below to read the full story on Vocal.