Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“I’ve been threatened too.”

“But can we immediately, in answer to my question, by anyone here?”

I look around, couple of familiar customers, wipe the bar, “No.”

“All right. Now by whom before, and what Digsby said was with a club?”

“A pipe. I only said I’d been clubbed because it seemed like not the right use of language anymore to say I’d been piped. Stovin’s Private Carting Company.”

She sips, thinks over. “You know, this Mary merits a B plus in my humble estimation and I’m an expert on them. Pepper always poisons it.”

“I don’t usually put in much.”

“You didn’t this time, did you? Even a pinch of it is especially bad for my health.”

“You said leave it out, I did.”

“Who’s Stovin’s?”

“This bandage on my head? They also set fire to my apartment and have threatened to do much worse. Now they’re dumping trash as a kind of harassment on my sidewalk and Sanitation is giving me summonses for Stovin’s dirty work.”

“Members of the Sanitation Department are involved in a possible collusion with this carter?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then why’d you call us? Your problem if there is one should be dealt with by investigators of private carters.”

“I know. Truth is I had misgivings before and after phoning you about you coming here. I only went along with it thinking maybe you’d tip me off who to go to with my complaint, because nobody else knows.”

Pushes her drink aside, looks mad. “Do you realize you’ve taken up two very important hours of my incredibly limited time, counting getting dressed like an idiot like this and traffic here and no doubt back? I don’t know. Christ I’m pissed. Oh, start with Sergeant Lars of this precinct if he still handles extortions and rackets, but other than him—”

“He was the one in on this from the beginning. He said I had nothing going for me.”

Grabs her bag, gets off the stool and starts to leave.

“You didn’t pay for your Bloody Mary.”

Turns to me. “Listen, barowner, don’t make me angrier. I might look weak and stupid but I can pull strings.”

“You want to close my place, go on and close it.”

“I don’t have to go that far. Just keep your cool.”

“Then what? Those drinks cost money. You had a hot head before you even came in here. Taking up your time, well hell, so am I–I’ve got time — your stupid recorded phone music that doesn’t work. And also losing my shirt because of this garbage thing and almost my head and no help from Sanitation, you or the police. And you yourself said a dollar’s cheap for that drink.”

“For what? You hardly put a shot in it and I hardly took a sip.”

“You wear lipstick.”

“Wash it off the glass with soap — soap!”

“I always do. I meant that it gets in the drink. Even if it didn’t I’d still have to throw it out. That’s the health law. You telling me to violate it? Actually why my getting so upset? Usually I give a police officer or anyone similar on the force or for the law a complimentary round or bite to eat if they want, just for the hard and dangerous job they have on the streets.”

“I’m glad I didn’t hear that,” and leaves.

“Who she think she is?” a customer says.

“You helped me with a trash bag last night, want to again for another drink or grilled cheese?”

“Cheese. Little lettuce-tomato on it this time. I’ve drank enough and am all out of dough, even for a tip.”

I make him a sandwich, give him a trash bag to get rid of someplace. Give another man a couple of beers for taking out two trash bags. First man comes back and says “If I haul away one more you’ll give me a shot of cheap scotch?” I pour him one, he drinks up and starts taking the bag away. “Make it two bags for the large shot I gave,” and he says “That’s too much. I’ve a bum shoulder since I was a kid.” I say “Knock off with the excuses — just take the damn two,” and he does. I put the rest of the bags in the basement, phone for a cab to take me to my hotel, lock up when I see the cab coming and next day I find twice as many bags in front of the bar than the previous morning, some when I inspect inside them the same bags I gave the two customers last night, and another summons. I bring the bags downstairs, where I’ve a pile of about thirty now.

All morning, when I’ve the time to, I take some of the smaller softer garbage and break it up a little more or just flush it down the toilet as is if I think it’s small enough. Around noon one of the customers comes back from the bathroom and says my toilet’s backed up. I go to it. Floor’s full of water and toilet paper and some of the garbage I flushed down has come back and is floating at the top of the toilet bowl with somebody’s stools. I scoop the stuff out and try the plunger, but it doesn’t unclog it. I mop the floor and phone a plumber. While he’s in the toilet with his plumber’s snake pushing the garbage to the sewer, a Department of Health inspector comes in and asks to see my basement.

“Routine?”

“More. Someone complained you have it all filled with trash and vermin.”

“Who?”

“Anonymous, but the complaint slip says the caller’s voice sounded sane and brainy enough to make us have to check it through.”

“Sure, I got trash down there. But in plastic bags, sealed tight — they don’t even smell or not much, at least not way up here. And I spray roachkiller all over them every day. You smell anything?”

“Stale beer and roachkiller, but my nose hasn’t been the same for a month.”

“What’s the matter, a cold?”

“The season. You have schoolage kids packed in crammed classrooms, they always bring something home.”

“Have a brandy and beer while you’re here — that ought to fix you up.”

“Just the second half of that — the draft,” and I pour and give him it, he says “How much?” I say “First’s on me if you don’t mind, especially when you didn’t take the brandy,” and he says “No way, leastwise today,” and gives me a dollar, I give him change and he puts a quarter tip on the bar.

“I wasn’t trying to manipulate you or anything,” I say going downstairs with him. “Not for a few cents — that isn’t what I was trying to do. Anybody, my feeling goes, even the mayor, is also a potential customer if he lives or works around here or nearby, so the first or second one free is my standard policy.”

“It’s okay. Don’t get alarmed if you are. But I live upstate and go by the rule to get for nothing you got to give for nothing, and so on on my job, so now we’re all straight.”

I show him the trash bags and tell him why they’re there.

“Hiring a carter’s your problem, ours is your clientele’s health.” He writes a violation. “I’m sorry, you think I like doing this? But get all these bags out by this time tomorrow or we’ll have to temporarily revoke your health permit which will mean you’ll have to close down till the violation’s corrected and permit’s returned.”

“At least let me keep open the bar part.”

“Beer’s food and you’ve got olives on the bar and stuff. No, Department regulations are the entire place I’m afraid, so nothing more for me to say.”

I don’t offer him anything else — not money, which I’m almost tempted to just to relieve from me some of the strain. Or whatever he might like: though I never did it before or my father if he was telling the truth. I know from other bartenders where some inspectors have taken women as payment or TV’s or sports tickets or washers for their wives or in the old days suits for themselves and radios. But I can see by his face and personality where it would only get me in much worse.