Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“Is that your defense?”

“Yes. Those are them, what do I have that’s better? Strongarm stuff so nobody would do my pickup, etcetera. I must’ve left lots out, but how’ll it help me? And everything I did to get rid of the trash worked in reverse to the point as I said of this long scar and metal plate in my head that I can show you.” I bend over. “So how about just fining me what you have to, returning my health permit and letting me make a living again and thinking of ways to deal with my garbage problem so I won’t have to come here anymore?”

“What your conflict with this private carter might mean to me personally is another matter. All the tribunal can be concerned with is if you presented a valid reason for operating in violation of the Health Code. You haven’t, so I’ll have to fine you”—her finger runs down a page—“three hundred and twenty-five dollars. I also—”

“Three twenty-five? I thought one twenty-five, one-fifty at the most. You’ll have to lower it.”

“You can appeal the fine and ruling. You’ll still have to pay the fine to get your permit back today, but if you win the appeal, the fine or reduction of it will be refunded plus the minimum savings bank interest for the time we held it.”

“Where will an appeal get me? No proof, so same business. Few people who feel for me and can speak with information about my case will run into the same trouble I did with this company if I used a subpoena to drag them here to talk, which they’d be too afraid to anyway. No, three-twenty-five’s got to be okay, though how’d you reach that figure? Forget it. Just hope my check doesn’t bounce, for that’s how far into hock I am with this garbage, but thanks. Have a nice day. You too, gentlemen. Where do I pay — the clerk outside?”

“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—”