FOR MANUEL

A lifetime ago, in early 21st-century Seattle, my then partner and I began working at our favorite restaurant.

We were beloved by the family that owned it and well-liked by the Sikh cooks. It was far from the worst job I ever had. We waited tables there, enjoying a delicious free Indian meal with every shift. The kitchen’s ventilation system worked terribly, so eye-burning smoke from the tandoor oven often filled not only the restaurant, but much of the kitschy Wallingford mini-mall in which the restaurant resided.

My partner and I were particularly close to the middle-aged Salvadoran dishwasher Manuel. Both Manuel and the cooks worked from before opening till close. 

Manuel tried to teach me Spanish, but I was a poor student. My partner translated what I couldn't understand, and between that and body language, he and I understood each other fairly well.

One day, Manuel walked up to me and gestured to my hands. He then raised his own hands. They were horrendously misshapen, swollen, and rough beyond words; transfigured from decades of hard labor. The knuckles were like large lugnuts, the fingers stretched too far inwardly, and his nails looked like they were drawn on by smeared marker. They barely looked human. I felt guilty for not having noticed before.

Several months later, Manuel asked the owner and chef if he could get one day off a week. It made sense, even the three cooks got one day off a week, reducing their hours by 10 or 11 hours weekly.

Manuel was quickly fired after that request. I guess the owner felt he had no use for a dishwasher who didn't work 7 days a week. He was quickly replaced by a young Latino man. Manuel came back the next week with a translator to ask for his job back, but the owner refused to talk to him.

When I think about why I'm passionate about socialism, it's for Manuel, and how our predatory civilization completely failed him.

It's for the planet.

It's for all of us.

Manuel, I hope you're doing ok, buddy.