If you’ve ever worked in a dish pit, you already know it’s not just a job—it’s a purgatory. A fluorescent-lit, grease-slicked purgatory where the smell of industrial soap clings to your skin like a desperate ex and the soundtrack is an unholy symphony of clattering plates and distant shouting. But for me, the dish pit wasn’t just a grimy corner of the restaurant world; it was the birthplace of my third novel, “The Dish Pit.”
This story began taking shape while I was still wrist-deep in the suds myself. Well, not literally—I was in rehab at St. Christopher’s Inn, writing feverishly in my composition notebook every chance I got. The inspiration struck thanks to two men working the dish pit in the cafeteria there. To say these two drove each other crazy is like saying the Titanic had a minor buoyancy issue. They didn’t just clash; they collided, combusted, and ricocheted off each other like human ping-pong balls of chaos and frustration.
I remember watching them one day, this mix of exasperation and hilarity bubbling in my chest, and I thought, What if I took this dynamic and turned the volume up to eleven? And thus, Danny was born.
Danny, the protagonist of “The Dish Pit,” is… well, let’s just say he’s not your average dishwasher. He spends his days scraping remnants of failure—both culinary and personal—off chipped plates and stained utensils. The backroom he inhabits is more dungeon than workspace, with fluorescent lights that hum like an existential migraine and grease-coated walls that seem to close in tighter every shift. But Danny’s mind? That’s where the real action happens.
Writing Danny was like taking a guided tour of a crumbling funhouse. He’s sarcastic, erratic, and searingly insightful in a way that’s equal parts hilarious and unsettling. As the plates pile up and the monotony gnaws at him, small cracks begin to form—in reality, or maybe just in his perception of it. His internal monologue becomes a battlefield, a place where profound truths and absurd tangents collide in spectacular fashion. One moment he’s contemplating the futility of existence; the next, he’s ranting about the metaphysical injustice of wet socks.
“The Dish Pit” is, at its core, a psychological thriller. It dares to ask: what happens when a mind left to fester in the mundane begins to boil over? And let me tell you, writing it was an experience unlike any other. The story felt alive, like it was spilling out of me faster than I could scribble it down in my trusty notebook. By the time I left St. Christopher’s, I had written 75% of the novel by hand. Finishing the rest felt like tying a bow on a gift I’d been unwrapping for months.
The end result? A darkly hilarious, unsettling exploration of purpose, identity, and that thin, wavering line between sanity and chaos. It’s not like anything I’ve ever read—though I’m sure something similar exists out there in the vast literary universe. Still, “The Dish Pit” feels uniquely mine, a creation born of greasy water, clashing personalities, and the relentless hum of a dishwashing machine.
And now, it’s out in the world, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and as an eBook for Kindle, Nook, and various platforms. Holding the finished product in my hands was surreal—like finally seeing a monster you’ve only glimpsed in shadows come fully into the light. Except this monster is Danny, and instead of terror, he inspires laughter, unease, and maybe a touch of existential dread.
If you’ve ever worked a soul-crushing job or felt like your mind was a pot dangerously close to boiling over, I think you’ll find something to connect with in “The Dish Pit.” It’s a story for anyone who’s ever stared into the greasy abyss and wondered if the abyss was staring back.
So, grab a copy, dive in, and let me know what you think. Just maybe don’t read it while you’re eating… or doing dishes. Trust me on this one.
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