Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“What was such a hazard? Garbage bags in the basement that weren’t picked up? He could’ve given me a hearing here first before closing me or a third inspection or just fined me without taking my business away for a week. And that garbage was downstairs, just a couple of days old and not even smelling, and the customers up.”

“Then you probably had exposed food near that garbage area and he asked you to remove the bags or make arrangements where they could be removed in the next day or two and you couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t because I’ve been honestly trying to get rid of those bags and can’t.”

“That’s presumably why he closed you then.”

“What if I tell you that he might’ve closed me because he’s on the take from a private garbage company who besides doing other things to me are trying to drive me out of business?”

“I’d tell you that that’s a very serious charge.”

“It’s not a charge, just an idea.”

“If that inspector were here and heard you make that idea, he could charge you with libel and probably win easily if you couldn’t prove your idea, because I’d be both his adviser and witness.”

“But he isn’t here.”

“But I’m here and telling you to control yourself or else I’ll bring you to court and charge you with libel in his or the Health Department’s name and this office will be my witness.”

“I heard what this man said,” the guard says, “and I’d be willing to, Mrs. Fortiago, I would.”

“Sure you’d be willing to,” I tell him, “sure you would. You’re all such a bunch of damn robots for your positions and salaries — saying anything anyone higher up wants you to just to secure your jobs.”

“You retract that or I’ll institute a libel suit against you and use Mrs. Fortiago as my witness.”

“I would for him too, Mr. Fleet, no matter how many wasted days I’d have to spend in court waiting to appear. Because you can’t run around libeling people left and right and think they won’t sue you.”

“All right, I apologize to the health inspector through you. I also apologize to you and this officer too. And to the clerk over there. I apologize,” I yell to her, “for whatever I said to you good or bad — no, just bad. Now,” to Mrs. Fortiago, “isn’t there something you can do to bring my hearing nearer to today?”

She takes my summons. “I accept your apology by the way,” without looking up at me. “I do too,” the guard says.

Seems to read my summons through. “Believe me. Your hearing, probably because yours is a small operation and so might suffer undue financial distress, was actually scheduled sooner than if it were a bar owned by a large company, so be thankful for that.”

“I am thankful. Thank you.”

“And from what it says, you’ve had multiple garbage offenses lately, not only with us but the Sanitation Department and Police.”

“Where’s it say that?”

“These tiny code marks on the side here. Your inspector must have done a city computer readout on you and after it thought it wiser to use his discretionary emergency powers to close you down now.”

“All right. Honesty’s so far gotten me nowhere. But it’s true those little marks, but I can explain all of them.”

“Do that at your hearing Friday. If I’m the examiner that day I’ll listen to you as I do with every violator: intently and sympathetically. We’re hoping for the economic survival of this city as much as any department, so we’re not out to vengefully close anyone down for good.”

“No, I want you to listen now or at the very latest tomorrow in that room.”

“If I am selected examiner on Friday, then try as I might to stop this prospect from happening, what you say today can always influence me emotionally and psychologically against you. So I advise you not to burn all—”

“But you get cancellations, don’t you? The clerk told me so. Several a day, maybe more on Tuesdays, so slip me in. I’m confident I’ll win no matter what you might carry inside against me.”

“King. If Mr. Fleet isn’t off this floor in one minute, call another officer and walk him to the street.”

“You can do that with anyone you want to, right?” I say. “Like in some country without our laws against it, right?”

“If I’m badgered in the hallway and where all my hearings are delayed because of it, then that’s also considered contempt of court. Believe me, I’m being lenient. I could have the cuffs put on you right now.”

“All right. I’m sorry. I’ll wait till Friday like you say and have a very nice day,” and I take back my summons and leave.

I go to the bar and clean it up good. I find paint under the basement stairs and start painting the inside front door and end up doing most of the walls and some ceiling and then have to sand down the messier paint spots on the floor with steel wool and then stain and wax every inch of floor including the kitchen linoleum and washroom. I next clean and paint the washroom. That place wasn’t half so bad as the rest but I like to see the walls and toilet and mirror and sink there shine. That’s what I want for myself in other restaurants and bars or would if I went to them so that’s what I want my customers to have too. Not that one in maybe the last ten thousand ever thanked me for it — paid me a compliment like “I really appreciate a clean seat and washbowl in there,” or even “One thing I can always depend on here aside from your snide remarks and flat beer is a nice-smelling and — looking john.” Maybe they think that’d be stupid to say, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it.

All this takes me most of the next two days. I don’t do it just to keep busy but to make the best use of my free time. My hopes are way up I’ll be reopening right after the hearing, with according to what Mrs. Fortiago and the inspector said, just a moderate fine against me and final inspection set for a few weeks later. So maybe other people who never would come in before will come in now when they see the place looking so great and I can in the time before the final inspection make up for the money I lost. How I’ll get rid of my garbage to keep my health permit I haven’t figured out yet, but on that score I’m hopeful too. Maybe through something to do with the courts. Or from now on I’ll use linen service instead of paper napkins and things and buy no plastic or glass throwaways except the liquor bottles I by law have to and get one of those dicing-up disposal units installed in my sink where I’ll reduce my total garbage to just what I can carry out at night in two to three shopping bags and dump in my hotel’s trash cans.

I also at the bar watch some late night television by myself and drink my own booze. Not that much drink because I don’t like this new feeling of waking up slow and cranky when before it was mostly fast and bright and also with my stomach sour as it’s been becoming and head like lead.

Every so often when I’m working or resting someone knocks on the window to be let in. If I don’t know him or can’t ignore his knocks, I wave him away. If I both know him and he insists with a “What’s this, a business or one-man social club?” I open the door and without letting him past me say “Read the sign. They might even be watching me now.” Most ask me to make an exception this once: “The next bar’s three blocks away and it’s ballbreaking cold out and I’ll need a drink just to walk there and who draws a faster draft than you?” but I tell him I have to stay firm and for him not to take my no so personally. If he still urges me to I say “When you buy your bar you break the law the way you want, but I can’t afford it anymore,” and nudge him a little ways back onto the sidewalk so I don’t catch his toes, and close the door.