Anything for a cool job!

Its a “warm” day in The Middle East. To be more specific, it’s a hot day in Tel Aviv, which is completely normal. It’s early-September and the country is suffering from a permanent heat wave, day and night. I’m lethargically lounging on one of the benches in the television room. The ad for this youth hostel proudly offers “air-conditioned” facilities. In the corner, above the television set to the right, with brackets mounted to the wall, is an industrial sized air-conditioning unit. My eyes drift towards it every now and again and I’ve noticed others in the room having the same tendency. It’s out of order, on a long term basis, but we have felt its power weeks ago. The wide-screen television and bright bar fridge pale in comparison to the universal magnetism of the big brown air regulator overhead. They sure know how to make them around here. In fact, the air conditioning repairman was around a few days ago, fixed the unit at reception, but miraculously neglected to get around to this one.

It’s equally hot everywhere else in the hostel, except at the reception area where cool-air groupies and new arrivals fight for standing space. The heat outside is in a different league, reserved for the brave and the desperate. Its late summer and shadow worshipping is the new religion. On CNN the reporter is going on about the latest financial scandal on Wall Street. “Blah-blah; blah-blah; blah-blah”. I don’t even have the energy to change the program via remote control to scan amongst the 200-and-something channels on offer with the local cable company. Today I’m alone in my misery. Everybody else is either insanely working outside doing construction or landscaping for cash, poor buggers, or are braving it on the beach which is scorching hot with lukewarm, dirty sea water or have by now already departed for cooler shores. A fly buzzes and circles around and around and around. My eyelids are like lead and I feel how I slowly start dozing off, when it happens: There’s a crackle on the intercom system. All my senses perk up and are perfectly alert. Could it possibly be? And then I hear it:

“A-A-A-A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y F-O-R A D-I-S-H-W-A-S-H-I-N-G J-O-B . . . !!?”

I scramble for the intercom phone on the wall, pick it up and shout:” Benny, it’s mine, I’ll take it! The ‘peep, peep, peep’ in my ear tells me that somebody might have beaten me to it, but I might still get it. I run up the stairs, three steps at a time and get to reception in 10 seconds flat, sweat dripping as I notice one of the Slovakian girls on the public telephone. “Damn, they want a guy for this job”, she says. “Mercy has come my way!” I think, and grab the phone from her. “Yes? 33 Sheinken Street? Okay No problem. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” I head straight down the stairs, all the way out the front door and on my way across Dizengoff Square. As I pass the McDonalds just after the bridge, a security guard asks me if I have a cigarette. I hand one over and hope for no more delays on the way to Sheinken Street. As I approach my favourite kiosk, where I normally buy the paper from, I cross the street to the other side in case the owner tries to start up a conversation with me. As much as I enjoy our usual chats there’s no time for pleasantries now. He sees me, I wave at him from the other side, show the peace sign and head straight on.

I speed up my already fast pace and carry on down Pinsker Street until I find Allenby Road, turn left and carry on past “My Coffee”, which was recently renovated and partially rebuilt due to an “incident”. The outside tables are deserted, but it looks jam-packed inside. Feeling a bit dehydrated and light headed, I make a quick left-turn into Sheinken Street and the scenery changes. I slow down to take it all in. Trendy people are striding the sidewalks, briefly stalling at boutiques and music stores for window shopping, or licking on their 2 Shekel Burger King ice creams. But there’s no time for day dreaming. I check the number on the nearest shop: no. 27. Almost there. A few seconds later I spot the copper numbers of no. 33 gleaming in the sun. It’s a funky coffee bar, packed to the brim. The security guard asks me something in Hebrew. “I’m here for the dishwashing job”, I reply in English. “Got a gun?” he asks in a strong Israeli accent as he checks me with a metal detector. “No.” I reply. “WELCOME!” he says with a big smile. In I go and then the SHEER BLISS of an icy cold, well air-conditioned room hits me with a shocking force and embraces me. Instant relief.

“I’m the dishwasher” I tell the barman. The lady at reception: “Eric! We just got worried that you might not come.” I tell her that my name is Jean-Jacques, not Eric, but I’ve been through this scenario before. At some places you are always Eric or Tony, no matter your real name. “Want to drink something before you start?” she asks. “Yes a Cola please.” I refrain from making the mistake of asking for a Coke, which in Israel could be close to confessing to a drug problem you don’t have. So COLA it is. “With Ice, bevakasha” [please]. I get shown to my kitchen porter post, next to three deep basins stacked high with dishes and two trolleys waiting in queue, laden with pots, pans and cutlery all in need of serious attention. “Embaya.”, I say. No problem! I can hear the sound of the ceiling fans cutting through the air and the rhythmic buzz of the overhead air-conditioning units. The perspiration has already dried from my face and a soft breeze is stroking my skin. I can feel the goose pumps starting up and I know that soon I might even feel a slight chill.

Six hours later, at 12:30 am, a cooled-off dude walks out of Harbavaz [The Duck], with a smile on his face and shekels in his pocket. Sometimes doing the dishes can be the best job in town.

Loosely based on events in 2002. Written on location – rewritten in 2008.

Article and photo by Jean-Jacques  @ Gypsy Café

© 2002 – 2008