I momentarily consider approaching him when I walk into Rosie’s, but the place is a madhouse. There’s a line of people waiting to be seated, and before I even get to the counter, Dex leans across it and yells, “Asha, we need you, stat!” Which strikes me as kind of funny, like we’re in a hospital emergency room or something. But Dex’s face is totally serious.
“Monday nights are always crazy,” Asha explains as she pops behind the counter. “The dinner menu’s half off.”
“Lou’s on section two. Need you to start seating,” Dex says.
Asha grabs a bunch of menus and hurries toward the greeter stand. “On it!”
“You.” Dex points a pair of tongs at me. “I need you on dish duty.”
I stare at him with wide eyes. Me? Seriously?
“Seriously,” he says. “Andy’ll show you what to do.”
Andy, in the middle of setting a plate of home fries on the counter, stops dead in his tracks. “What? Dex, I’m—”
“Whatever you’re doing, it can wait five minutes. Now go.”
Dex is really not kidding around. I shrug off my jacket and hang it with my messenger bag on the coatrack before I scoot into the kitchen, up to the big industrial sink. There are dirty pans and dishes and cups stacked all around it, waiting to be cleaned. Andy leans against the sink and irritably blows hair out of his face.
“This—” he starts, grabbing the hose “—is the power spray. It should get anything off of anything, and anything it somehow misses, you use that.” He points to a ratty scrub brush sitting on the sink’s edge. “Spray everything down until it gets all the crap off it. Set the nozzle to Light when you’re doing glass, ’cause this sucker’s strong. When you’re done, throw as much as you can in here.” He pauses to yank open the dishwasher. “It’s a sanitizer. Crank the dial back, and the cycle will last maybe a minute or so. Then you put all the clean dishes on the racks, and when they’re dry, stack ’em with the rest. If you don’t know where something goes, feel free to bother Sam. Not me. Got it?”