Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“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 CO 2and 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.