Stephen Dixon - Garbage

“What is it?”

“Then it is Jennifer?”

“Was when I arrived here. Who are you and what are these?” pointing to the bags. “Not that I can’t tell by the smell. Phoo. Worked here long enough to know that those two are days old, three at the least, so even if you’re a best friend of my boss and this is a private joke between you, march those things to the street. We’ll get infested here and I’ll get diseased.”

“I’m Shaney Fleet.”

“Glad to meet you, sweetie, but what’s your name supposed to mean to me?”

“You don’t remember our phonecalls a while ago? The great Shaney Fleet, the one who’s all the problems?”

“Oh you, excuse me,” and lifts the phone receiver, puts it back and says “What if I mentioned for your own benefit to also march right out of here? And you seem like a nice guy, so I’ll take care of your bags, no charge.”

“Tell Mr. Stovin senior I want to see him about these bags. They’re a present from me.”

“I know. You’re going to throw them around, smear up the walls, make a big scene. But no matter how much you’re hoping for it, you won’t be beaten up and tossed out for doing what you intend to, just collared by the police. So go, don’t make for yourself more trouble and also frighten my wits. You brought your bags in, I’ll give you a receipt for them if you want, but this is it for the day, okay?”

About twenty feet to the rear’s a glass-enclosed office with no one inside it before but now a big man walking back and forth, smoking a cigar, in a fancy dark suit, motioning hard to someone or people I can’t see to the right of the glass.

“That Stovin senior?”

She turns around, looks at the office, back at me. “Just tell me if you have a bomb or gun. You do, warn me so I can get up if you let me and walk out of here to faint. Because I promised my momma never to hang around when—”

“I don’t have weapons.”

“Didn’t think so, you don’t look the type. No, that’s not Stovin — Mr. senior or junior boy. Now scoot on out of here before whoever that is notices you.”

“Where’s senior then?”

“Not in today.”

“Who’s that then? The office door”—I stare at it—“says Mike Stovin senior.”

“Don’t make me press the buzzer. I have one under my foot. I press it three quick taps and the police will come in a flash. We’ve had trouble with disgruntled customers, which is why we have this summoning device. Hey! — ” because I moved her foot.

“You’ve no buzzer.” Man’s still motioning his hand to someone I can’t see. Maybe there’s a mirror there he’s for some reason practicing in front of. A speech or I don’t know what. He puffs on his cigar, takes it out and looks for a place to drop the ash, facing me for the first time. Looks like Stovin would look. Little bush mustache, big aviator glasses, tall and powerful as if he hauled garbage cans for years before he got smart to start his own firm and doing the things he does to make a mint and along with it, because he wasn’t working so hard anymore, gaining thirty to forty pounds. He sees me, drops the ash in an ashtray, fingers something on his desk and his voice comes over a speaker I can’t see but is somewhere near us.

“Who’s with you, Jenny?”

She shoves a pile of papers aside on her desk and says into the speaker that was underneath “He was just leaving, sir. Deliveryman got the wrong address.”

“Mr. Stovin? “I yell before she takes her hand off the switch.

He was already bent back up and about to motion to the person or mirror or people I can’t see when he leans over the desk and touches the switch and says “I’m not either of the Stovins, but what is it?”

“I’m Shaney Fleet, Mr. Stovin.”

“Who’s Shaney Fleet and stop addressing me as Mr. Stovin. Neither father or son would appreciate it.”

“You know who I am and who you are too. I brought a present for you. Garbage bags, mine, something you always wanted from me or used to, as I thought you’d like to see what goodies you missed.”

“We’ve plenty, so don’t need more presents of them, thanks. And whatever your purpose is here, even if I can tell it’s for mischief, would you please leave immediately or must I have Jenny phone the police?”

I grab a bag and run up to his office. He backs back scared. Two men appear behind the glass and a woman. Woman covers her face as if the garbage is coming through the glass at her. I throw it, bag breaks and garbage spatters over the glass, something hard in the bag cracks it and things run down the glass too. Liquid, ketchup, hamburger someone only half ate, and floor’s a mess.

“The police, Jenny,” he says into the speaker. I turn to her but she’s gone. “The police, Beth,” and the other woman goes for the phone on his desk. I run back and grab the other bag and run to his office with it. He tries locking the door but I get it open before he can lock it and push my way into the room when he tries pushing the door closed. The two men jump me from the side once I’m in. All three are now grappling with me, trying to force me down, woman’s on the phone, while I’m holding the garbage bag, trying to break free and throw it at Stovin and ruin his suit and fill his face with trash and knock off his glasses and step on them. But they got my arms tight and I’m going down so before they get me to the ground I rip open the bag from below and it spills out over our pants and shoes and bottoms of their jackets.

“You moron,” Stovin shouts jumping away and slapping at the garbage on his clothes, while the men still hold me and Beth’s on the phone.

“I got the police,” she says. “What should I tell them?”

“No, let the bum go if he wants. Tell them it was a mistake but that you might call right back. And you,” to me, “you leaving or do we really have to get them here and charge you with entering, battery, vandalism and the rest of those and sue you for my new suit and theirs and her dress?”

“I didn’t get anything on me,” she says.

“You were assaulted or almost. We too and that’s enough for a lawsuit.”

I’m being held down, one man pinning my arms, other sitting on my knees and holding down my feet. Around us is my garbage.

“Phone,” I say. “I want them here so I can make a fuss and tell them you’re a goddamn cheat and fraud.”

“Police around here are my friends and know I’m none of those things. But I don’t want to talk to you. I want to get rid of you and clean up this place. Sit on him till the police come. Beth, get them right over. I’ll get a couple of the boys to make sure he stays down.”

He leaves the room. The two men I saw sudsing the truck before come in and take the place of the two on top of me who get up and brush off their suits and shake their feet in the air. Flecks of whatever was on their shoes fly around. “I’ve got to change,” one of them says.

“I didn’t get it bad as you,” the other says. “Mustard. I bet it stains. And what the hell’s this red? — What is that,” he asks me, “wine?”

I shake my head. The one who wanted to change, leaves. Police come. I’m allowed up. Policeman says “No charges are being made against you so just go. Come here again uninvited and no matter what charges aren’t pressed, we’ll take you in.”

I brush myself off.

“Do that outside,” one with the mustard says.

I start for the door, policemen right behind me walking me out. I want to grab a lamp and throw it somewhere but don’t want to get clubbed.

“Will you thank Jennifer for me for being so nice?” I yell back.

“I’ll thank your mother,” one of the truckers says.

I leave, pass the cleaned garbage truck, start walking to my bar though it’s a long way and it’s cold and looks like snow. The police in their car follow me for a block and drive past and one waves and they make a right and when I get to the corner thinking I’ll wave back, they’re not there.