by Pete Jordan
Within minutes of arriving at New York City’s crowded Port Authority bus station, I felt a hand root through my coat pocket. Even though the book in that pocket was being mistaken for a wallet, I was extremely flattered to be greeted by a genuine—though pitiful—pickpocket. And because I was done with the book—Tom Kromer’s Waiting for Nothing—I pulled it out and offered it to my greeter. He turned down the offer and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Still, I felt welcomed.
Like Burt Reynolds, Robert Duvall and Richard Gere, who’d each arrived in the city and washed dishes as a first step toward their dreams of acting in New York, I hoped to wash dishes as a first step toward my dream of, well, washing dishes in New York. After all, according to the song, if I could dish here, I could dish anywhere. Therefore, it was absolutely imperative I dish here, given that my plan was to dish everywhere.
From the moment I stepped out of the bus station, the search was on. All day, every day, I prowled the streets looking for my kind of work. I trekked through all five boroughs. I hiked the entire length of Broadway from Inwood down to the Battery. I trudged from Manhattan out to Coney Island and back. I walked until my feet bled (bad timing for breaking in new secondhand shoes). And when I wasn’t walking, I was riding. I clocked hundreds of miles, going back and forth on the entire length of all twenty-five subway lines.
With my insatiable appetite for seeing cities and their old neighborhoods, I was in heaven. The job-search expeditions became so intense that even when I did see “Dishwasher Wanted” signs, I kept on moving. Getting pinned down in some formal job would’ve only left me with less free time to meander—and too tired to meander in the free time I’d have left over.
I looked up everyone in town who’d ever written to me, which led me to explore neighborhoods and streets I hadn’t gotten to yet and meet people who were, for the most part, pleasantly surprised to find me on their doorsteps. Many of them would go on to invite me over for dinner or have me apartment-sit or dog/cat-sit for them while they were out of town.
One such dinner was on Staten Island. Returning from the meal on the Staten Island Ferry, I took in the ride and the view, thinking that if I were to ever settle in New York after I was done with the quest, I’d live on Staten Island just so I could ride the ferry every day.
After a couple weeks of expeditions to look up people and to scare up a job, I received a letter with the return address Late Show with David Letterman. I went to toss the letter in the trash, but then, recalling my promise to Jess, reconsidered. Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of him standing in for me on television. Not only would it allow my friend to fulfill his lifelong dream of appearing on TV, but he’d also get to fly to New York for free, we’d get paid and—most appealing of all—we would eat an unimaginable amount of free food backstage. I say “we” because if there was going to be free food, then I was going to be there too.
I called Jess, told him to call the show as “Dishwasher Pete” and gave him carte blanche to say or do whatever he wanted in my name. The show’s staff was thrilled to get his call. Every day for a week, Jess was on the phone with a producer. They discussed more than a single appearance; the producer talked up the idea of having “Dishwasher Pete” appear as a recurring guest, checking in from his dish jobs around the country.
Then the producer called and told Jess to be on a plane that very night. He’d be filling in for a canceled guest the following day. Jess rushed to catch the red-eye from San Francisco. When he arrived at the Rihga Royal Hotel on West 54th Street, the desk clerk tried to squeeze a room deposit out of him. The hotel wanted a credit card, but he didn’t have one. They wanted $150 cash; Jess didn’t have that either. After much resistance, Jess eventually agreed to a $20 cash deposit.
By the time I met my pal at the hotel, he’d already heard from Letterman’s people that they didn’t need him for that day’s program after all. So we sauntered around the city all day and all night, returning to the hotel as the sun rose.
Ten days later, Jess flew to New York again. This time, I met him at the airport and we rode into Manhattan in a stretch limo. And this time, our reception at the Rihga Royal was less than welcoming.
“Oh yeah,” the desk clerk grumbled. “I remember you.”
Jess told the clerk that if he wanted a deposit, he’d have to get it from Letterman—my alter ego wasn’t forking over a dime this trip. When the desk clerk called the show, whoever was on the other end, while agreeing to cover the deposit, apparently explained that Jess washed dishes for a living.
“Oh, is that what he does?” the clerk snorted.
Before we went upstairs to our suite, I emptied the front desk’s candy dish into my pocket.
That night, we hung around the hotel and turned on the TV right in time to hear Letterman announce the next night’s guests: “Ron Howard, Alison Krauss and Dishwasher Pete.”
Hearing my name announced was surreal. My gut tightened and I began to wonder if I really wanted to bother going through with the plan. I turned off the TV. Jess wasn’t so sure either. To get our minds off the show, we roamed the hotel in our complimentary pillowy white bathrobes and raided the leftovers from room-service trays abandoned in the hallways.
In the morning, I went to a friend’s apartment downtown and picked up my disguise: a suit. When the lender of the suit finished tying my tie, he stepped back and said, “There! Now you look like a suave Italian banker!” The figure in the mirror looked more like a forlorn Mormon missionary to me. Either way, I felt safely disguised; it was only the fourth or fifth time I’d ever worn a suit.
I moseyed back to midtown, pausing to use my tinkered-with Radio Shack gizmo that afforded me free long-distance calling. Every couple blocks I’d stop at a pay phone to call Cheryl, Colleen, Jeff and other friends around the country. The message was: Watch Letterman tonight.
“You’re really gonna go on that show?” was the common question.
“Watch and see” was my standard response.
I couldn’t tell them what they’d see; I wasn’t sure myself.
When I called my dad, I explained that I’d be on—or rather, not be on—television that night.
“But the TV listing in the newspaper says ‘Dishwasher Pete,’” he said.
“I know, but you just gotta see for yourself what happens.”
He didn’t like the sound of it, but agreed to tune in.
When I returned to the hotel room, Jess was pacing anxiously. He’d just learned that the TV show had a researcher on my trail. Since we didn’t know what the researcher had uncovered, we didn’t know what Jess might have to answer to. Even worse, we didn’t know if they’d dug up a photo of me. If they had, then we needed to be able to explain why Jess was “Dishwasher Pete.” So we grabbed a few beers, snuck up onto the roof of the fifty-five-story hotel and, for an hour, developed various stories.
Satisfied with our many alibis (and hungry from fasting all day in preparation for the free eats), we descended from the roof. Waiting for us at the hotel entrance was a limo, a thick-necked chauffeur and a thicker-necked bodyguard—and the most bizarre car ride I’d ever taken. The Ed Sullivan Theater was right around the corner from the Rihga Royal Hotel. By foot, the theater could be reached in two or three minutes. Despite my penchant for checking pay phones for quarters and my habit of picking up stray scraps of paper, even a slowpoke like me could’ve made the trip in five minutes. Yet, with midtown Manhattan’s traffic locked in rush-hour gridlock and all the one-way streets working against us, the several-block trip by limousine lasted an agonizing half an hour.
At the theater, a small crowd of celebrity hounds huddled around the limo, expecting a star to emerge. I suggested Jess appease the autograph-seekers with signatures like “Jacques Cousteau” or “Jesus Christ.” Instead, he sprang from the car and bolted through the crowd—like a real celebrity!
Inside the studio, an assistant showed us around the stage while that evening’s musical guest, Alison
Krauss, ran through her sound check. When Jess was invited to sit in Letterman’s chair, I was playing my role—tagalong friend “Jerry,” a graphic designer from SoHo—so low-key that I didn’t even step forward to snap a photo of Jess at the desk, lest I unwittingly focus any unwanted attention upon myself.
Upstairs in the dressing room, the assistant asked if we’d like a beer.
“Sure,” Jess said.
“How does a bunch of imported beer sound?”
The offer was supposed to impress us. And the sad truth was—we were terribly impressed.
“Sounds good!” Jess said.
“And what would you guys like to eat? I’ll go down to the deli and get whatever you want.”
We’d expected to be greeted by a full spread of food, so—caught off guard—we weren’t prepared to give orders. When Jess voiced his meager request, I nearly screamed.
“A cheese sandwich,” he said.
Anything! We could have anything from the deli!
“And a cheese sandwich for you too?” the assistant asked.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “But, you know, with a lotta stuff on it.”
“Yeah, a lotta stuff on mine, too,” Jess added.
As soon as she left, we closed the door, relieved to have successfully cleared the first hurdle. A few minutes later, a woman walked in, introduced herself as Diana—the talent coordinator—and then said to me, “Pete?”
I shook my head and pointed to my friend. Diana shook Jess’s hand but then looked back at me.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re the guy in the photograph.”
Damn! Not only had they dug up a picture of me, she even recognized me in my disguise!
“He just poses for the photos sometimes,” Jess said.
Diana continued staring at me.
“He’s Pete,” I said. “My name’s Jerry.”
“Really, guys,” she said. “What’s going on here?”
Simultaneously, Jess and I babbled conflicting stories. Despite having come up with a half-dozen explanations, we’d never decided exactly which one we’d use. So while Jess told some convoluted story about how we were an amalgamation of a character called “Dishwasher Pete,” I told some convoluted story about a mix-up with the photograph. This wasn’t good. The whole mission was on the brink of doom—and we hadn’t even gotten fed yet!
Amazingly, our gibbered explanations somehow managed to confuse her so much that—with showtime fast approaching—she resigned herself to remaining ignorant.
Changing the topic, Diana asked Jess why an earlier invitation had gone unanswered (it must’ve been tossed out unopened). She also told “Pete” how excited the staff was to have him on the show, especially considering they’d been told it couldn’t be done.
Meanwhile, trying my best to avoid her interest, I remained silent, stared out the window and yawned.
When Diana finally sat down, she chose to straddle the arm of the couch, which minimized her miniskirt even more. Revealing all that leg appeared to be no accident. Diana’s chitchat with Jess turned flirtatious. She was obviously trying to calm his nerves before his national television debut. But instead of putting Jess at ease, all her flirtatious attention only made him nervous. He started to sweat.
When the much-anticipated food and beer finally arrived, Diana split. We didn’t get much chance to enjoy our free eats in peace, because in walked Daniel, the segment producer. Straight off, Daniel let it be known that he didn’t like what Jess was wearing. Jess thought he looked nice in his suit. Too nice, thought the producer. He tried to convince my stand-in to go down to the wardrobe department and put on something a bit trashier to make him look more like a dishwasher. Jess initially refused but then compromised by removing the tie that the producer thought was “too loud.”
Daniel then showed Jess a list of six questions Letterman might ask and six prepared replies the host could expect to hear.
“Say he asks you question number three,” the producer said. “How you gonna respond?”
Suddenly, Jess was rehearsing lines for his upcoming “impromptu” chat.
All the while, I quietly ate my sandwich, swigged my beer and watched Letterman and Ron Howard backslapping on the monitor. When Jess departed for the makeup room, Daniel stared at me.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I answered a little too eagerly. I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders and then hid my face behind my sandwich. I must’ve fooled him, because he then turned to the monitor and actually began laughing at Letterman’s lame jokes.
When Jess returned from the makeup room, he showed off his freshly painted face and said, “Pretty weird, huh, Pete?”
Thankfully, the verbal slip eluded Daniel, who was busy expressing his concern over how much beer Jess was consuming. The producer then persuaded Jess to drink a cup of coffee.
“Tough luck!” I told my friend, as I commandeered the remaining beers.
Then Daniel led us downstairs to the tiny green room beside the stage, where we sat with a couple other people and watched the show on a monitor for a few more minutes.
“Okay,” the producer announced. “It’s time.”
Jess rose, winked at me, then disappeared.
I looked around. Under my couch cushion I found a quarter! Then I made quick work of devouring the strawberries and grapes from the fruit bowl. As I was moving in on a plate of gourmet cookies, the television screen came back to life. Suddenly, there was Jess, without the obligatory stroll-across-the-stage entrance, already sitting next to Letterman (who’d never busted suds, unlike his rival Jay Leno, who had at Boston’s Playboy Club).
“Folks,” Letterman said, “our next guest has spent the past ten years”—he was wrong; it was actually six years—“working toward his ultimate goal: to wash dishes in every state in the union. Here he is, a true American patriot, Dishwasher Pete.”
I dropped my cookie and laughed so hard I slid off the couch.
One of the two other people in the green room asked, “Is that your friend?”
“Yeah!” I cried between fits.
“And that’s really his goal, to wash dishes in all fifty states?”
“Yeah!”
“That’s…very strange.”
“Yeah!” I said. But wait, this bozo was calling Jess strange. No, he was calling me strange. I was momentarily confused until the sight of Jess on the screen overwhelmed me once again. Laughing like a madman, I no longer cared.
Much of what Jess said came more from his own experience as a dishman, except for his answer when Letterman asked, “When will you complete this task?”
“Well, I’m in no hurry,” my proxy replied. “I’d hate to finish this whole thing—my life’s dream—by the time I’m thirty-five because there’d be nothing left.”
It was the same lighthearted, yet honest, answer I gave whenever I was asked this same question.
“Yeah,” Letterman added. “Once you’ve climbed Everest, man, it’s a long way down.”
I laughed nonstop through most of the interview until I realized Dave was steering Jess toward doing his Fire Hand trick. Though Jess had lobbied the staff for two weeks to let him do this stunt, they remained so skeptical about the trick that I was sure they wouldn’t actually allow him to perform it.
Letterman: Now, Pete, as I understand, to sometimes while away the lonely hours in the kitchen you’ve taught yourself kind of a little trick.
Jess: One of the tricks that I learned—well, after an accident I had when I sliced my hand open, I don’t know if you can see it, it’s a five-and-a-half-inch scar, it’s from slicing my hand open and I had nerve surgery and my hand is dead, but…
Letterman: So the story has a happy ending then!
Jess: But I can light cigarettes and cigars by catching my hand on fire and putting it up to the—
Letterman: He can catch his hand on fire! May we dim the lights, please?
The lights dimmed. Letterman p
ut a cigar in his mouth. Unlike the countless viewers who later pointed it out to me, Dave failed to notice that Jess lit his right hand, not the left one scarred in the knife-washing accident years before. Dave was probably too distracted to notice because he was more concerned with the flames Jess was thrusting at his face. Letterman jumped back in fright, his cigar unlit.
Before I knew it, the show was over and I was alone in the green room. I pounced on the refrigerator, but it held no beer. In fact, there was nothing else edible in the whole room except for the gourmet cookies.
I was searching for a container for the cookies when Jess poked his head through the door just long enough to say, “Hey, let’s get outta here!!”
“But wait, Jess!” I yelled. “Cookies!”
I grabbed as many cookies as I could cradle in my arms and caught up to Jess at the elevator. Up in the dressing room, I grabbed the rest of the beers and we rushed down the stairs. Outside, Jess led the charge through a much larger gauntlet of fans. He knocked aside at least one autograph book held out for him to sign. A pack of frat boys pushed toward Jess and shouted, “Pete! Pete!” Terrified, Jess dove into the limousine and slammed the door.
On the way to the airport, we sat back and enjoyed our cookies and beers. After putting Jess on the plane to San Francisco, I rode the subway back into Manhattan. When the train stalled for over an hour beneath the East River, I loosened my tie and took a long-overdue nap.
The following day, while wandering through the Columbia University campus, I stumbled into a ritzy reception that had the kind of fancy spread I’d expected at the Letterman show. As I gobbled my way up and down the buffet table, one of the food servers gave me a dirty look. Sure, I was the only person in attendance who wasn’t dressed up or socializing. But if only she’d seen me the day before—wearing a suit and all!
