There was a lot of coming and going of employees in Caney’s cafes, but the line between “boy jobs" and "girl jobs" was clear and bright.  Boys washed dishes or cooked.   I was too young to be a cook, so I became a dishwasher in “Chet’s Café” on Fourth Street.  If anyone ever makes a list of jobs that will help a kid learn to appreciate education and leaves restaurant dishwashing off that list, it's because he never spent time scraping congealed food from an endless procession of plates. The only respite was washing greasy pots, pans and skillets provided by the cook.  Waitresses collect tips and get flirted-with.  Cooks get compliments.  Dishwashers get clean fingernails, wrinkled skin, and a profound sense of futility.

After washing enough dishes to form a place setting for every dining table I Caney, I saw there was no future in dishwashing.  One night I gave Chet a 30 second notice and left him with a sink full of dirty dishes.  He retaliated by withholding my final week’s pay.   When I told Dad that Chet wouldn’t pay me my wages, Dad, who was a staunch Labor Union disciple, was furious.  He took me to see Col. Paul Lamb (Ret.), a lawyer.  Col. Lamb had served as Provost Marshal in Tokyo in the early days of American occupation of Japan.  He was not a man to be trifled with.  Col. Lamb visited Chet.

The next day I went to Col. Lamb’s office and picked up my final check.  He didn’t charge Dad anything for his service.   Maybe he was pro-union.