Garbage

by Stephen Dixon

  “Not so fast. Your final inspection’s in three weeks. Fail it and your place will be subject to being closed for a month. You’ll have to show the inspector that your violations have been corrected and refuse is being removed regularly. Manage that any way you want to long as you get it out of there: by hand, van, dump, private carters of any criminal background or even burning it on the street if the smoke doesn’t go in your bar and end up a health hazard to your customers and so a violation from us. I also suggest suing that carter if what you say about it is true—this is off the record, stenographer. If you win it’ll have to reimburse you for your fines it was responsible for and probably pay heavy compensatory damages to you. I also wasn’t serious about burning garbage on the street. That would only be another violation of a city statute, but one regulated by Sanitation, Fire or Police.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what to do with my trash now without making a fool of myself again, so it’s going to be okay.”

  “Fine. Goodbye.”

  Guard hands me a slip to give to the clerk and opens the door for me. I write out a check for her, get back my health permit and keys and start for the elevator.

  “That was stiffer than I thought it’d be,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I was calling the next customer. Eugene Smit? Mr. Smit?” Man stands. I leave the building and go to my bar.

  I phone a barowner I know and say “Know of a good cheap linen service?” and he says “Who rents linens anymore?” and I say “Not for me, it’s for the son of a dear friend who’s opening a bar not anywheres near us. But it’s going to be much higher class than ours—the new look: stained glass—”

  “That’s new?”

  “Then the new old look or old new. Hanging live plants and brown ceilings and walls and younger clientele—backgammon, fancy dried sunflowers in the shithole and stuff. He’s got a few estimates but thinks they’re steep and wants me to see if it’s because he’s new in the business he’s being cheated much more than an oldtimer would.”

  “This dear friend or son of one isn’t you by chance? Because you still have troubles with an unnamed company I won’t name and want to cut down on your garbage bulk, wrong?”

  “All right, it’s me and you’re right, that’s why, but you know of a good cheap one?”

  “I don’t know if you heard but word’s out you’re bad news and even a worse troublemaker and nobody’s supposed to touch you even by phone.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Skywriting. You can see it on any clear day.”

  “It’s been snowing mostly and I never learnt to read skywriting. Who?”

  “Then the stars in the sky one night when it didn’t snow coming together to light up your name and reasons why, so just look up, it’s there.”

  “Come on, let’s see how gutsy you can be. Name names.”

  “Brains, not guts. And where you come off with this gutsy stuff when you lied to me about linen service for that son without caring one way what this unnamed company might do if they found I not only spoke to you but helped. Not that I know anything about them or could with linens for you, because if you ever find a service both good and cheap not to say dependable and I didn’t in the future for now want to hear from you, let me know. For now, try the yellow pages.”

  I phone another barowner I know less well and say “I need a good cheap dependable linen service to cut down on my garbage bulk because of what you must’ve heard is my trouble with Stovin’s and the Health Department.”

  “I don’t know any service. But go to a phonebooth and tell the operator you’re having a hard time dialing my number and could she personally dial me?” and hangs up.

  I lock the bar, cross the street to the booth and tell the operator what he asked and she does her business and he picks up and she says “Linix Bar?” and he says “Yes, this from a public booth, Miss?” and she says “It is, here’s your party,” and he says “You off, operator?” and there’s nothing and he says “That wasn’t infallible but best I could do spur of the moment. Honestly, my heart bleeds a thousand miles for you, Shaney, but I always thought you were much smarter than this. What happened to you?”

  “You went through all this to ask, then you know.”

  “I meant what happened to your smarts? In the past if I ever needed advice in this business I’d pick up the phone first to you. But with this garbage thing and an outfit like Stovin’s and your not dealing in directly, something in you must have snapped. Hey—and I mean it and will always be your pal from way back—give me a ring when things stop sizzling for you,” and hangs up.

  I phone from a list of linen services in the yellow pages which advertise “lowest prices for restaurants and bars” and get estimates and they’re much higher than I can afford. To the last, under Z, who gives me the one halfway reasonable estimate, I say “I won’t go any further, I’ll rent from you. I want to be straightforward also, since I don’t want to lay any later headaches on you, so do you know of a Stovin’s Carting Company?” and he says no.

  “Really?” and he says “Really, and why should I? There are five million of them.”

  I tell him about Stovin’s and why I need the linens and he says “Look, my theory in business like my father’s in the same line was—”

  “Yeah? Me too. Same place and my grandfather in it too.”

  “Terrific. Like me and both our pops, we’re all good sons. But my theory is that your business is your business and mine’s mine. Mine’s to turn a profit and if yours isn’t then that’s your business too. But I can’t turn without your business’s business, got it?—so whatever problem you have with somebody else about business isn’t my business at all. You’re my business. You!”

  “I just thought that this carter could be linked to linens or something, both of you in the restaurant business or part. So I just wanted to warn you—”

  “What have I been saying?”

  “I know. And I don’t want to make a row now that you’ll linen for me.”

  “What row? You couldn’t, because I love you for your business. I love all my customers who pay. And that carter and us: you sound like you can take care of yourself, I can certainly take care of myself, so we struck oil together and let the rest of the world dig for piss. I’ll deliver a bundle tomorrow and pick up and deliver twice a week after that. In two weeks I’ll know how much you need and that’s the amount you’ll get weekly except for the big drinking holidays or if my linens start helping you double your trade. I’ll need a week’s deposit from you,” and quotes it and I say “That’s fairer than I figured.”

  “Maybe I should jack it up for you then so I don’t look like a schmo.”

  “No, it’s way above my means as it is, and thanks.”

  “Like I told you, bro, you’re not on this earth to thank me, I’m here to thank you.”

  “Still, thanks.”

  I phone my beer distributor and tell him to send someone over to exchange my unused disposables for only returnables from now on. He says “Who has returnables? You want them, join the pro-deposit rally next month, which you’ll see us there howling and maybe swinging against them, or move to another state.”

  “Then bill me for two kegs more of beer and one of ale a week of whatever you got me down for, because that’s the only kind of brew my customers are going to get,” and he says “Will do.”

  I phone my soda distributor and he says “I have no returnables nor does anyone in the city except for imported tonic and bitter lemon that’ll set you way back. What I’d do to avoid nonreturns is get one of those five-drink soda guns. It’ll cost you a pretty but in the long run you’ll wind up a saver.”

  “What are the five? Soda, ginger, cola, tonic and what?”

  “Water.”

  “Water I get out of my tap.”

  “So now you get it from the gun. It looks as if purified it shoots so soft out and with no glass cloud and I swear also tastes better in the mouth.
I bet it raises the respect of your place and so along with that the bar prices to people who love the fanciness and gadgetry of it. I’ll still send you the mixers but in big drums the gun tubes are tied to and my cousin will set up and sell the CO2 and guns. You want two or three?”

  “One.”

  “You need one for each bar side at least. Looks great with the five tiny button lights and saves plenty of wear on the feet.”

  “One. I don’t even see how I can pay for that.”

  “Don’t speak to him of not paying, we’ll worry about that after it’s in. I’ll arrange things now and get back.-”

  I tell my customers that if they want beer and soda in bottles or cans they’ll have to take the empty containers with them and leave them somewhere outside but not in front. Most say they don’t want to lug any junk out and they’ll have their drinks straight or with water or peel or this time their beer or ale from the tap. A few can live with getting rid of their empties, but after they leave I find their bottles and cans on the bar or floor or tables in back, probably because they’re just too tired or lied to me or aren’t used to taking them from a bar so forgot.

  That night I end up with two big plastic bags of garbage for the day, put them in the basement with the others, get rid of one of the smaller old ones by emptying it in four shopping bags which I drop in different trash cans on my way to the night deposit box and hotel.

  “Phone message for you,” the nightclerk says, “which I won’t, if you don’t want, relay.”

  “What’d they say this time: welcome back?”

  “Practically that exactly, you’re really onto their game. By the way. There’s a new truly beautiful young lady who checked in today, so pretty and bright I don’t even know why—”

  “No, I already told you—yes, sure, send her to me please if she’s not too steep.”

  “Never spoke about it with her so work it out yourself.”

  When she comes in my room I say “Lookit, I don’t want to do anything, but have so much on my mind that I’ve got to spill it out to somebody who’ll maybe only say something at the end if you like. So for the same amount you charge for the regular thing, I’ll just talk.”

  “Thirty dollars is what I normally charge for twenty-five minutes, but for just talk, twenty minutes for twenty-five.”

  “I thought fifteen dollars for half an hour.”

  “Twenty-five and for a half hour. If you want I can also get undressed while you talk or play with you while I’m dressed and you talk. But for the twenty-five you don’t touch me back either way unless you pay more.”

  “I don’t want to be touched or played with, I only want to talk. It’ll be more than half an hour also. Sit down, have a drink. Let’s act like friends. Drink as much as you want to. Finish the bottle, I’ve another. I also have a couple of tasty meat and cheese sandwiches I made and brought from my bar and they’re tonight’s, one with mustard the other mayonnaise, but make it fifteen dollars tops for the half hour and five dollars for every ten minutes after that.”

  “Twenty-five dressed or undressed for forty minutes maximum and that has to be my lowest low.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m really short. I’ve bills up to here to pay beginning tomorrow which is just one of the things I wanted to talk about, so excuse me for bringing you here for nothing.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t mind having my time wasted by a bullshit artist,” and she leaves and slams the door. I throw my glass of scotch after her. Minute later when I’m picking up the pieces the nightclerk calls saying “What are you doing to those gorgeous girls beside breaking down the hotel? I know you have problems but don’t make me toss you out of here.”

  “If you want, give her a five for her trouble and add it to my bill.”

  “You come down here and give me that five plus two bucks for my efforts and keeping my mouth shut.”

  I go downstairs and give him a ten. “You know, my instincts were right the first night when I told myself I could never talk to you about anything half-deep inside,” and walk away without waiting for my change.

  “Because you gave me three dollars more than I asked for I won’t say anything back.”

  Next morning there’s a pile of garbage bags in front of my bar and Sanitation violation under the door. I call Sanitation and say “Those bags you ticketed me for aren’t mine. Mine are in my basement—illegally—but that’s Health’s business, not yours.”

  “As I once said, anything on your sidewalk—gum wrapper, cigarette butt—is yours if we find you haven’t swept it up.” “Where do you live?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Because if I leave them in front of your house they’re yours according to your laws, correct?”

  “I live in a huge complex so I don’t care where you leave them in front.”

  “Even if they piled right up to your fourteenth floor and stunk up your kid’s bedroom?”

  “That’s just dumb.”

  “Anyway, you can’t close me down. Only Health can do that, so I don’t care how many tickets from you I get.”

  “You’ll still have to pay them.”

  I put the bags between two parked cars across the street and go in my bar. An hour later one of the cars can’t get out because of the bags and the driver sticks a few of them in front of the antique store where the car’s stuck. The antique man runs out and argues with the driver, throws one of the bags at the car and it breaks and goes over and on the car and into the street. The driver jumps at him. There’s no physical fight but almost one and a crowd forms and I can’t see anything but hear screaming and when I open the door some people saying “Let him have it, Tim, give it to him.” I’m watching this while serving drinks and making someone eggs and feeling bad I started the brawl. A police car comes, policeman gets out and stops the argument or fight and antique man goes in his store, bags stay outside and driver and police car drive away and crowd breaks up. Two other bags are still in the street by the curb where I put them and a minute later another car backs into the spot, runs over the bags and smashes them and parks with the broken bags and scattered garbage underneath. A little of it rolls and blows across the street to in front of my bar.

  Few minutes later the phone rings and man says “Mr. Fleet? I’m Phil Veritianien from Bee’s Antiquery across the street. I’m new in the area, probably paying four times your rent per-square-foot space, but want to keep the best relations with my fellow storeowners because we need each other for protection and eyes. But I never had a store in even the most wretched neighborhood where I got my lip slit and shirt ripped off my back and myself almost arrested for not telling the police where certain trash bags originally came from because I wanted to protect one of my fellow storeowners on the street. That the way you always dispose of your shit?”

  “No and I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the shirt and it won’t happen again.”

  “I’ll buy that offer. Thirty dollars. Since you’re so tied up and my shop’s always locked except for customers I sense I can trust, just slip it through the slot in my door.”

  I stick the money through his slot, then phone him a minute later and say “Don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, Mr. V. You couldn’t take a few of those bags off my hands for a while every night if I stacked them nice and neat on your sidewalk at the right pickup time?”

  “My carter only permits so many bags per day for what I pay, so afraid I can’t, nor do I appreciate your asking.”

  I phone the soda distributor and he says “Take it easy. My cousin’s out of town and should be back early next week.”

  “You wouldn’t know anyone else who sells and installs them cheap?”

  “Sure I know but if Vince heard I did he’d ask what kind of relatives are we for me not to give him first shot.”

  I call the linen service and tell the man who answers who I am and he says “Tough luck, Fleet, but the boss’s wife says we can’t take any new orders on for a long time if ever. Owner went to t
he hospital with a heart pain this morning and looks to be in bad shape.”

  “You know that’s just crap. Who’d he speak to—Stovin’s and they told him not to service me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. I mean your outfit for all your boss’s big talk about his business is his and mine’s mine and so forth was just a cover for—well is just like all the other businesses yours is in doing business with me and that’s that Stovin’s tells you who and not to sell to and you go along. I didn’t explain myself well but you still have to know what I mean. Stovin’s, that’s who.”

  “Listen here, you fucker. Ned Rater is my boss and also my buddy for fifteen years and he’s the best sonofabitch that ever lived and fairest boss anyone’s ever worked for, so don’t go slurring him again or I’ll drive my truck straight through your store.”

  “Good, drive it. With bar linens, right into my place. Because that’s what your boss promised for today: enough to last me a week, and then drive right in again to pick them up and deliver more.”

  “He’s sick, can’t you get that in your head? He had a heart condition working long and hard hours all his life for ingrates like you. He might probably die from it tonight because he was too damn good to be true, so lay off.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Think I’d tell you?”

  “Yes, tell me, I want to show the Attorney’s office how Stovin’s gets everyone in on it to dump me.”

  “A hospital, stupid, that’s all. But if I see you anywhere near it and you tell me who you are, I’ll break your face in with a pick.”

  I phone several hospitals and one says a Ned Rater was admitted today and is in intensive care. I chase my two customers out, lock up and cab to the hospital, get a pass downstairs by saying I’m his brother and get off at his floor. But I jump back in the elevator just before the door closes and ride down thinking what the hell am I doing here, where have my senses gone: have I so totally come apart where I think I’m the only one who can have miseries? The poor guy’s sick. Get your head screwed back on. You don’t want to see another man with a mask over his nose and piss in his bag and maybe his bawling wife asking who you are and I leave the hospital, get a double scotch at a bar on the block, say to the bartender “Have one on me or the price of a drink if you don’t touch the stuff or aren’t allowed, because I want to toast to Ned Rater—Ned Rater, everybody,” I say holding my glass up to the other customers at the bar. “A heck of a guy, a great boss, a brave wonderful buddy, may he live in peace or just die peacefully, whichever thereof,” and they drink with me, bartender sets down his water glass and takes the price of two drinks out of my money on the bar and drops half in his tip tray and other in the register, customers go back to their talking and I wipe my tears away, not knowing who I’m crying for or maybe both, him and me, and say to the bartender “He’s in the hospital there, really a fantastic guy, kind of like my brother,” and he says “Lost one myself this year plus a baby sister the last one, so I know how you feel,” and we shake hands and I tell him I’m sorry for his own recent misfortunes and drink up and go to my bar.