Chapter 5

Whodathunkit?

Well, now what?” said a young member of the dish room team, with a tone of anxiety in her voice. “George comes back in two days and you know what he said. There’ll be hell to pay.” Together, now routinely over coffee in the cafeteria, we met to regroup. Sal and Mr. Fuentes spoke first about looking again at the gearing problem. Jodell engaged and encouraged everyone. And then the discussions were halted with two words from the most unlikely source.

“Baking soda,” Daisy said, shocking everyone at the table. “My grandmother used to say that baking soda would take the paint off a Chevrolet. I tried and sure enough I got a whupping from my grandfather to show for it.” We all, of course, laughed a good deal at Daisy’s “misfortune.” I was taken aback by how, only a few short days before, Daisy had had nothing constructive whatsoever to say. Now I could see she had joined the team.

Everyone immediately saw the wisdom in her idea. Sal jumped in right away. “Mr. Delightful,” he said excitedly, “oil change pans, those large flat ones we change oil with. We can lay the cutlery out flat and fill it with baking soda.” Daisy, rolling her eyes and taking charge, replied, “Well, honey, you need to know the right mixture of baking soda and water. You get the pans, and you just leave the baking soda to me.”

At that moment everyone at the table scattered, some running for the truck maintenance unit and others following Daisy like chicks as she marched headlong for the supply room. Jodell and I lingered a while at the cafeteria table and she looked at me with a little smirk over the whirlwind we had inspired.

When Jodell and I entered the dish room, the floor was strewn with a dozen huge plastic bins heaped with cutlery, over which Daisy’s brew had been poured. At her instruction, we let it soak overnight. The next day, we assembled at the mouth of the dish machine, Daisy with her hands on her hips, and Mr. Fuentes and Sal at the other end. We looked at each other and Jodell said casually, “Well, here goes nuthin’.” And in an instant, the conveyor was loaded with our hopeful passengers. “Well, let’s just see what we have for the little thug,” she smirked.

Then came the wait.

The conveyor turned at a snail’s pace. The cutlery made its way through a shower of water, then was rained on by detergents. Then it went to the steam and rinse. Piercing the steam and the noise came a voice . . . “Hey! Mr Delightful! Fugetaboudit! Who’s better than us!”

The cutlery was sparkling.

The team let out a roar and Daisy hoisted me, taking my breath away, and spun me clear around. Jodell stood by, shaking her head from side to side with a glow like I’d never seen before. I have seen many things in my career: victories, corporate leaps, business achievements, elections won, but never, and I mean never, have I seen faces like those of these wonderful people in their moment of triumph. No one deserved it more.

Standing near me as the conveyor discharged one gleaming row of cutlery after another, Jodell whispered, “Told you they’d help you . . . .” Then, with extra emphasis, to needle me, “. . . Mr. Delightful.”