Garbage (20 page)

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.

Few minutes later the phone rings and man says “Mr. Fleet? I'm Phil Veritianien from Bee's Antiquery across the street. I'm new in the area, probably paying four times your rent per-square-foot space, but want to keep the best relations with my fellow storeowners because we need each other for protection and eyes. But I never had a store in even the most wretched neighborhood where I got my lip slit and shirt ripped off my back and myself almost arrested for not telling the police where certain trash bags originally came from because I wanted to protect one of my fellow storeowners on the street. That the way you always dispose of your shit?”

“No and I'm sorry. I'll pay for the shirt and it won't happen again.”

“I'll buy that offer. Thirty dollars. Since you're so tied up and my shop's always locked except for customers I sense I can trust, just slip it through the slot in my door.”

I stick the money through his slot, then phone him a minute later and say “Don't know why I didn't think of this before, Mr. V. You couldn't take a few of those bags off my hands for a while every night if I stacked them nice and neat on your sidewalk at the right pickup time?”

“My carter only permits so many bags per day for what I pay, so afraid I can't, nor do I appreciate your asking.”

I phone the soda distributor and he says “Take it easy. My cousin's out of town and should be back early next week.”

“You wouldn't know anyone else who sells and installs them cheap?”

“Sure I know but if Vince heard I did he'd ask what kind of relatives are we for me not to give him first shot.”

I call the linen service and tell the man who answers who I am and he says “Tough luck, Fleet, but the boss's wife says we can't take any new orders on for a long time if ever. Owner went to the hospital with a heart pain this morning and looks to be in bad shape.”

“You know that's just crap. Who'd he speak to—Stovin's and they told him not to service me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I mean your outfit for all your boss's big talk about his business is his and mine's mine and so forth was just a cover for—well is just like all the other businesses yours is in doing business with me and that's that Stovin's tells you who and not to sell to and you go along. I didn't explain myself well but you still have to know what I mean. Stovin's, that's who.”

“Listen here, you fucker. Ned Rater is my boss and also my buddy for fifteen years and he's the best sonofabitch that ever lived and fairest boss anyone's ever worked for, so don't go slurring him again or I'll drive my truck straight through your store.”

“Good, drive it. With bar linens, right into my place. Because that's what your boss promised for today: enough to last me a week, and then drive right in again to pick them up and deliver more.”

“He's sick, can't you get that in your head? He had a heart condition working long and hard hours all his life for ingrates like you. He might probably die from it tonight because he was too damn good to be true, so lay off.”

“What hospital?”

“Think I'd tell you?”

“Yes, tell me, I want to show the Attorney's office how Stovin's gets everyone in on it to dump me.”

“A hospital, stupid, that's all. But if I see you anywhere near it and you tell me who you are, I'll break your face in with a pick.”

I phone several hospitals and one says a Ned Rater was admitted today and is in intensive care. I chase my two customers out, lock up and cab to the hospital, get a pass downstairs by saying I'm his brother and get off at his floor. But I jump back in the elevator just before the door closes and ride down thinking what the hell am I doing here, where have my senses gone: have I so totally come apart where I think I'm the only one who can have miseries? The poor guy's sick. Get your head screwed back on. You don't want to see another man with a mask over his nose and piss in his bag and maybe his bawling wife asking who you are and I leave the hospital, get a double scotch at a bar on the block, say to the bartender “Have one on me or the price of a drink if you don't touch the stuff or aren't allowed, because I want to toast to Ned Rater—Ned Rater, everybody,” I say holding my glass up to the other customers at the bar. “A heck of a guy, a great boss, a brave wonderful buddy, may he live in peace or just die peacefully, whichever thereof,” and they drink with me, bartender sets down his water glass and takes the price of two drinks out of my money on the bar and drops half in his tip tray and other in the register, customers go back to their talking and I wipe my tears away, not knowing who I'm crying for or maybe both, him and me, and say to the bartender “He's in the hospital there, really a fantastic guy, kind of like my brother,” and he says “Lost one myself this year plus a baby sister the last one, so I know how you feel,” and we shake hands and I tell him I'm sorry for his own recent misfortunes and drink up and go to my bar.

“You'll drive people away with your new hours,” a regular says waiting at the door for me and I say “Nothing I could do. When a friend's sick you got to see him,” and give him a free beer for his wait, for a few minutes think about what I think I'm about to do, call the soda distributor and say “Okay, no more lies. Tell me straight off whether you were told by Stovin's not to help me in any way,” and he says “Where'd you get that? No.” And I say “Come on, George, straight off, no lying, yes or no?” and he says “Didn't I just say it? No.” And I say “George, goddammit, straight off, no more lies, don't be afraid I'll tell anyone for I won't, so yes or no, yes or no?” and he says “Okay. Yes, yes you're not going to get a soda gun from my cousin or anyone in town, new or used, or anything to help you from anyone in the state from now on from what I can tell. So you better just give up on your place, sell the bar if you're smart while you can still sell it, because you should've listened when you should've listened to them months ago. But no, you had to go make a perfect fool of yourself and risk the businesses of everyone who dealt with you and maybe your life, so goodbye already, will you? Goodbye and goodbye,” and hangs up.

I call a couple of bar supply places and give my name and the bar's and say I want to order two soda guns. Both men I speak to say something like “We're out of stock. It might take a week, might take a month, but when we get them in I'll phone you.”

I ask the regular at the bar to call “for an unopened bottle of vodka or your choice, this bar supply place and say you're Carl Frost of the Morning Dawn Pub—no, he'll look it up and see there's no bar name like that and know it's a phony call.”

“I don't want to make any phony call. I only want to drink and avoid walking down sewer holes.”

“For two bottles then. Here's the number and this time say you're Ivan Satty of the Hospital Balloon—that's a real place and I know has no soda guns because I was just there today—and that you want two soda guns installed and all the service that goes with it.”

He calls and the man he speaks to takes down the Balloon's address and says a salesman will be over by the end of the day to show him the different types of guns he can buy.

I get two bags of garbage from the basement, give the regular his two bottles and tell him to leave, lock up, cab to Stovin's with the bags and walk past two men scrubbing and hosing down a Stovin's garbage truck in the street and go in the building's front door and put the bags on the floor next to the receptionist at the desk who's the only person here and say “Jennifer if I can remember, yes? Or maybe she's at lunch or quit.”

“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?”