The scullery was cool. No, not really but Hell has its corners. In the scullery, you scrape and spray the food off of the trays, bowls, cups and silverware before putting them through a large conveyor belt, dish washing machine. You have a partner, your only saving grace, sort of. Mine was Pruitt.
The scullery was a hot, steamy place full of mounds of scraped leftovers and stacks of crusty trays, bowls and cruddy silverware. The smell of the soggy mashed potatoes volcano building in front of you permeates your soul. I told myself it wasn't that bad at first. Hell, I had Pruitt to talk to. No lie he was the barrier between them and me and I would have lost my sanity without him.
The worst part of the scullery is the pieces of food that get spayed all over the place. It gets on your arm hair and wont wash off. If you have to wear safety goggles at your dishwashing station, your job sucks.
During a lull in the action I leaned over and put my head on my arms as they rested across the sink. I closed my eyes and fell asleep briefly but I could smell the soggy mashed potatoes on my arm and dreamt I was washing dishes. I snapped awake with a moan as Pruitt sprayed me with hot ass water. Even my barrier is a dick.
Somehow this olfactory cognitive thing inhibits your sleep. You dream whatever sense is the strongest. There is no escaping Hell. You work 16 hours a day then dream you're at work. This is maddening, I'm going to shave the hair off my arms when I get break. Fuck it, what do I care?
Petty Officer 1st Class Macklevee was in-charge of the scullery and us. I would never dare say this guy was a chef or a cook. They let this guy count and order potatoes and shit because his cooking was that bad. He would poison his own kids if they they didn't know better than to eat anything he made. He was dangerous-dumb but what did I care, he didn't fuck with me that much. And he wasn't allowed to cook... anymore.
This Bozo, Macklevee, threw a box of whole fishes into the trash room instead of making his way out to the flight deck and jettison it over the side. He just figured the 'trash boys,' Pruitt and myself would be smart enough to pick up the box with the rest of the dozen or more bags bursting with disgusting food-shit, and take it out to the Flight deck for over-the-side shit removal. If you don't specifically tell us to pick up that box in our half dozen trips down the narrow passageway with bags bursting with shit, we don't do it. Were not that smart, we carry bags bursting with shit, it's a package deal.
