Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“Then I’d say you must be a jerk.”

“Let’s see the bent bars.”

“They’re repaired. Think I wanted them coming back the next night?”

“Who repaired them?”

“A craftsman. Someone I know. I’m not letting you bother him because that part’s none of your business or his.”

“You reported it?”

“Sure I did. How else can I get my legal theft insurance and also put the loss plus all the other unstolen things I declared stolen on my income tax form?”

“Well, I do believe you and I don’t.”

“Then to me you’re still a jerk. I’m your friend. Though we don’t see each other twice a year, we know how hard we work and our fathers go back in this trade ages ago for years, so think I’d choose those thieves over you?”

“You did to pick up your trash.”

“That was them over Ecomolos, not you.”

“If you’re my friend, forget the money. Just go along with me and tell whatever officials need to hear it to stop Stovin’s about how they pushed the garbage pickup in our faces like dung.”

“I go only so far for friendship as I do for being Mr. Easy Touch behind the bar and then, like I know you must, I stop. My life, that’s first. My business, second. You want to switch them around, that’s your business, your life. But now you better believe I was robbed also because if you don’t then I can’t talk to you again like this like friends. And why you so worried? You’ll come out ahead on the robbery too. Like me tell the income tax people I was holding a couple-thousand for you and I’ll back your every word.”

“How much of mine you report missing?”

“I was smart for you. I only told them a big roll and why.”

“No, I’ll tell them the hundred-thirty or so Hector said he left. I’m strictly by the books.”

“Even when you can’t be insured for it?”

“Even.”

“Then maybe you really are a jerk or your head got hit worse than it looks. But I got a lot of bookwork and setup to do, so what do you say we shake friendly and part solid old pals?”

We shake. I go. It’s cold with another inch of snow on the ground. I flip up my collar, take out my flop hat. I bought it today three sizes too large for me regularly. It’s the only size that can both protect and be set lightly on my head. Every now and then for the past day the wound bleeds through the bandage and I change it myself. The stitches are still in though the doctor promises they’ll evaporate. My head still aches, probably because I don’t take all the pills I’m supposed to. I don’t want to get so groggy with them where I can’t work or will slip on the little spilt water that’s always on the bar slats, try as I might to keep that area dry, and get hurt even worse. Maybe I shouldn’t go to work. No, I know I shouldn’t but I have to make money because if I don’t I won’t have any. And I also don’t want to just stay in my hotel room alone with nothing else to do but drink, which I never liked that much and along with it just to pass out or think, though with all the booze I own it’s probably the one thing I can afford to.

So I open up. Place looks in okay shape. Nothing much missing: some soda, several fingers of scotch. Two minutes after I’m there someone barges in, runs to the john and I get so scared at this man throwing open the door and running past me that I drop my broom and back up against the liquor shelf and knock a bottle over, catching it as it falls. He comes back, sits on a stool, says “Beer, Shaney me boy, and I’m in a rush.” I draw a beer, he puts a dollar down, looks at me and says “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“Haven’t seen you open for days.”

“Been away.”

“Vacation?”

“No,” and I give him change and go about my business. He orders another beer and when I give it to him he stares at me and says “You know, I only now noticed. What’s wrong with your head? Trip on your stairs, get mugged?”

“Sort of. I don’t want to go into it.”

“Don’t. You’re not married, right?”

“No.”

“I am. So I thought, well, it happens, I’m not saying it does to me, but what happened with you?”

“I really don’t want to go into it, Curtis, mind?”

“No. We all have our troubles. I don’t tell you mine, you don’t to me yours. If I did, but you don’t want to go into it. But if I did it’d be traditional — customer: bartender, not bartender to customer. Not that I’m not interested in what might have happened to you, but we’ll forget it. I will. I’m sure with that face pain on your face and bandage, you can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t keep my mouth quiet. Tell me to shut up, tell me to go, even, if I continue to talk about it. But I think my problem is I’m too overconcerned with people’s problems. This ridiculous social consciousness in me. Chasing kids down the street who rob old ladies, which some people might not find a problem of mine. The old ladies, I mean, but forget it. I’m sure it’s a sick need in me, a compulsion, I’m sure. Like I wasn’t a good little boy and am overcompensating for it now, but that’s not what I wasn’t. So I have to look after everybody and have all these ethical even religious ideals when I probably deep down don’t and hate people. But give me a last one quick. I’m in a rush and talked too much.” I do, he drinks, stands, says “Do me a favor. And I’m sorry, you’re going to dislike me for sounding so well-meaning when I just admitted I’m probably really not, but take care of that head,” and goes.

Sanitation inspector comes in and says “Chief’s driving around today, Shaney, so shovel the snow from your front or I’ll have to write out a summons.”

“I’ll do it now. Have a beer.”

“The chief inspector.”

“Just shoot it down. What can he see from a car and my window isn’t even clean.”

He sits. “I’m afraid to ask, but what happened to your head?” I give him a beer and a bag of peanuts. He never pays for them though sometimes he tries. It’s not for favors from him, which are so small as to be almost just neighborly, but because he’s on his feet all day and deserves a break like any public servant patrolling the streets and keeping the law and order of things.

“Shaney, can you hear me in there? What happened to your head or don’t you want to say?”

“Garbage happened to my head. You know garbage so you know how it can come from nowhere sometimes and hit your head. A brick filled with it — a private one — but maybe the less said of it the better for me and quicker the garbage brick hitters will go away.”

“I don’t understand you but do that you don’t want to talk about it, so okay.”

I give him another beer, get my shovel, go outside and clean the sidewalk of snow, throw rock salt, come back, dishwash, pour, mix, cook, make sandwiches, drinks, tap a keg, fill a three-pound coffee can with grill grease, pack two huge plastic barrels with whole liquor bottles I’m by law supposed to first break and cover them with kitchen scraps, clean out the toilets and urinals, mop the washrooms and bar floors, scour the refrigerators inside and out, dust every bottle on the bar, place phone orders for food, beer, liquor, soft drinks and different kitchen and bar accessories for the coming weeks, stock the deliveries that come in, do some accounting, pay my bills, send out laundry, work like this for only ten hours today.

I’m tired through most of the day and at midnight I shoo everybody out early but one regular who says when he’s about to step out the door “Need some help, Shaney?” and I say “Nah, I can do it myself,” and he says “What are you talking — you can’t handle those big cans,” and I say “I don’t know — sure, if you can manage it, as I’m really feeling too weak to and the garbage has already been here three days.”