My Dishwasher Turns Out To Be A Time Machine

There's a phenomenon I've been dealing with for the past several years now, and it's something I wonder if others experience. It's happening frequently enough now that it's a little frightening, frankly.



Every time that I do the dishes (which is often, beacause Jeanette loves to cook and hates to wash dishes), I am transported to my past. As I get into the automatic machinations of rinse, place on rack, rinse, place on rack, I get these little memory flashes -- snippets of Bushwick, Brooklyn and my drive over to Bushwick High, where I worked briefly in 2006 with several small high schools housed in that building. I immediately recall the sense of excitement I had in that building, and how promising it felt there. Yes, this was a neighborhood in flux, for sure; you could feel the gentrification pushing in, running parallel to the elevated subway line, the brand new red brick condos displacing the dispossessed. But there, in that building that felt too small for the gangly, play-fighting adolescents who peopled its hallways (had it once been an elementary school, for much smaller children?), there was a palpable sense of pride and enthusiasm. These young people were succeeding in a building that had previously been known for failure for so many years. I often had that feeling when I worked for New Visions, in many buildings; now, for some reason, when I do dishes, I am transported back there.

I also shoot over to Madrid, Spain sometimes, while scouring and scrubbing. Usually it's my final summer there, 1989, after Susan and I had split up and I was "on my own" there, for the first time, really. I had some "adventures" that summer, some of which I review as I finish pouring the Cascade into the soap compartment. Mostly, it's the walking I remember from that time -- down cobbled streets, into antique cafes with ornate tin ceilings, or brightly lit restaurants where they greet you with "Hola!" and you answer "Una cerveza, por favor!"

Like I said, I'm not sure why this time travel happens; maybe you can help me explain it. Perhaps it's one of those Oliver Saks-type neurological phenomena, like the guy who bumped his head and woke up able to speak Swedish, even though he'd never heard the language spoken. Not even once.

Or maybe I'm just bored....