Sunday, March 25, 2007

Chapter Seven

When Ben worked at the restaurant, he tried to start a union with his co-dishwasher, Juan. This was unsuccessful because Juan didn't speak Englsh and Ben didn't speak Spanish. Ben had to use charades to get his message across.

He pointed to Juan, then to himself. Then he held up his hands and clasped them together: the two dishwashers coming together in a union.

Juan raised his eyebrows, pointed at Ben, and made a limp wrist gesture.

"No no no!" Ben shook his head. "A Labor union."

Juan had probably gotten the wrong idea when Ben read him a poem.

Now Ben wanted Juan to come to the garden party and to bring his friends. Ben wondered how he could pantomime, "Would you like to come to a garden party with me?" without coming across gay.

When Ben walked into the restaurant, Reggie looked up from his enormous meatball sandwich.

"Well, well, well," Reggie said. "Look who came crawling back."

"I'm just here to pick up my last paycheck."

"All right. I'll take you back. Everybody's entitled to one walkout."

"I have a new job. I'm a professional poet now."

It felt good to be able to say that.

Ben started towards the entrance to the kitchen and dishwashing aea, but Reggie stopped him, putting out his hand and getting meatball sauce on Ben's shirt.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to visit Juan."

"That area's for employees only."

Ben considered making a mad dash for the dishwashing area. He could outrun Reggie, but he would need some time to communicate the invitation to Juan. Plus, he didn't want to be arrested for trespassing. Poets didn't fare well in jail. So Ben said, "Can you give him a message for me?"

Reggie shook his head.

"I'm not going back there. Juan's got the hose." Reggie licked meatball sauce off his thumb.
"On second thought, go right ahead." Reggie stepped to the side.

Ben walked over, pushed open the door to the dishwashing area, and peered inside. It was quiet back there. He didn't see Juan behind the dishwashing station. Maybe Juan heard him arguing with Reggie and was now laying in ambush. Or maybe he was out in the alley, having a cigarette break.

Ben looked at the dishwashing station and felt a pang of nostalgia and regret. He had lost the purity of his desire to raise up the workingman. He had wanted to make real changes and now he was just trying to pretty it up with flowers.

Wasn't that what they gave to sick people? A get well card and flowers? Wouldn't it be better to get them health insurance or a better doctor so they wouldn't die? Why give them flowers?

As Ben was thinking this, Juan snuck up behind him with a big bucket of cold water and dumped it on Ben's head.

***

Tyrone opened his door, wearing only monogrammed blue silk pajama bottoms and smoking a cheroot. His chest hair was spiked like a porcupine. He grinned, revealing the large gap between his two front teeth.

"Ben Hugh!"

Hugh Grant was British so Tyrone had dubbed Ben with the nickname Ben Hugh.

"Hello," Ben said. "I want to invite you to a garden party."

"Dat some kinda British ting?"

"Sort of."

"Dere gonna be tea and crumpets?"

"I don't think so."

"I never had me a crumpet." Tyrone scratched his ear and puffed on his cheroot. "What is a
crumpet?"

"A pastry of some sort, I guess."

Tyrone smacked his lips.

"Always wanted to try me a crumpet."

"I'm sure it can be arranged."

"And tea."

"Sure."

"Earl Grey. Hot. Like Captain Picard. And barbecued ribs."

Ben promised Tyrone there would be tea, Earl Grey, hot, and barbecued ribs, and told Tyrone to bring his friends.

But Ben still didn't have nearly enough downtrodden people for his party, so he made an invitation, went to Kinko's, and made lots of copies.

Ben got on the bus and handed an invitation to the large, unshaven bus driver.

"What's this?" the bus driver snarled, turning the invitation around to look at it from all angles.

"We're having a party," Ben said. "You're invited."

"What is this? A frat party?"

"No. I'm not in a fraternity."

"Why not?"

"I dropped out of school."

"Why?"

"I'm a poet for the workingman."

"Get behind the yellow line."

Ben got behind the yellow line. The bus driver closed the door and started to drive.

"It's a flower party," Ben said.

"Yeah, I see why you couldn't get in a frat," the bus driver said.

Ben gave invitations to garbage men, construction workers, and even handed out invitations at the steel mill. Now plenty of people would come, but he had another problem. Since almost all of the workingmen were men, his guest list was turning into a major league sausage festival. There just weren't enough Rosie the Riveters or Gertrude the Garbage Mistresses. It was going to be a bunch of dudes, standing around, looking at flowers, with Ben reading them a poem, inspired by cactuses.

Ben went into the grocery store. All the cashiers at the checkout counters were women. Working women.

Ben waited his turn, and when he got to the front of the checkout line, he saw the hefty, middle-aged woman who was the cashier. She was a working woman and couldn't afford fancy beauty treatments like facial hair removal. The mole over her lip could have been called a beauty mark if it wasn't so large and hairy. She was just the type of person who needed to see some flowers.

"Hi." He smiled at her. "I'm Ben."

"I'm Marcy."

"I know. I see it on your nametag." He handed her an invitation. "We're having a party. I hope you'll be able to come."

Marcy looked down at the invitation and her eyes welled with tears.

"Who put you up to this?" she asked. "I guess you think it's funny to play a cruel hoax on Marcy."

"No. I'm serious."

She wiped her eyes with her checkered apron and squinted at the invitation. "A flower party?"

"Yes."

"Why would you want me at your flower party?"

"It's for people who work for a living. People who need beauty in their lives."

Marcy's face hardened and she glared at Ben.

"Do I look like I need beauty in my life?"

"Excuse me," said a short, tired-looking man in line behind Ben. "Isn't this the ten items or less line? I expect it to move faster."

"He doesn't even have any items," a shrill woman said. She had a shock of white in her hair that made her look like a skunk. "He's asking big Marcy out on a date."

"Look what you've done," Marcy hissed at Ben. "You're gonna get me in trouble."

A thin man with a wispy moustache came gliding over. He was only a few years older than Ben.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm the manager. What's going on here?"

"That boy's asking her to a party," Skunk Lady said. "She should do that on her break, on her own personal time."

The manager looked at Marcy like she was an unruly puppy who just soiled the carpet.

"Marcy, we've been through this before, haven't we?"

Marcy cast her eyes down and her face flushed.

"Yes, Mr. Jennings."

The manager turned and looked at Ben.

"Don't I know you?"

"No," Ben said.

"Sure I do. You came in here looking for a job. You wanted to bag groceries."

The manager (Rod Jennings according to his nametag) hadn't given Ben the job. All of the grocery bagging was done by the residents of a local "Assisted Living" center for adults with severe developmental problems. Ben probably shouldn't have announced his intention to unionize them at the job interview. He probably couldn't do it anyway. Flowers couldn't make up for missing chromosomes.

"I found another job," Ben said. "I read poetry to flowers now and we're having a garden party. All of your employees are invited."

"I love a party," said the bagger, clapping his hands. He had Down Syndrome.


March 26, 2007
Eilat, Israel

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Chapter Six

The flowers turned out to be a difficult audience. They didn’t give Ben any positive feedback, just stared up at him, their stamens like confused antennas. At least when he read a poem at a coffeehouse, people would clap afterwards. Still, the flowers were a better audience than his family. Last summer, Ben had read a poem at the dinner table. When he finished, there was no clapping.

“It’s too long,” his father had complained.

“It’s a haiku,” Ben told him. “It’s only three lines.”

“It seemed like more.”

The garden started to influence Ben’s poetry making it more the kind his father would like. Flowery poetry.

The Hispanic gardeners wouldn’t speak to him. They just gave him dirty looks, as if reading poetry to flowers wasn’t real work. Ben would have a difficult time unionizing the gardeners. It would probably be easier to unionize the flowers.

Since it was so humid outside, Ben tried to spend a lot of time in the greenhouse where it was a dry heat, sitting under the shade of a cactus. The cactuses started to inspire his poetry and his cactus-inspired poetry disturbed him. “Your sharp pricks make me bleed inside.” Sounded kind of gay. Cactuses were definitely male plants—they were hard, unyielding, and dry. Roses were obviously female. Their petals were feminine, soft, and delicate. There was nothing phallic about their thorns; they were like sharp fingernails running down your back.

Ben impressed girls when he told them he was a professional poet, but they still wouldn’t go back to his apartment with him. They were afraid of his neighborhood.



Ben’s friend Derrick didn’t go to school and didn’t have a job. He lived in his parents’ basement and played the guitar. His parents offered to get him guitar lessons but he refused. He didn’t want anyone telling him how to play the guitar. His guitar was missing two strings and he didn’t replace them.

The only time he got out of the house was when Ben took him hiking or out to play Frisbee golf. Derrick was a good person to do outdoor things with. This was because all the mosquitoes would only go after Derrick and leave Ben alone. Bug spray was useless. Derrick’s attraction to the mosquitoes (and all other insects) was too strong.

If not for this, Ben probably would have just left Derrick at home. Derrick was always complaining. He’d say things like “Why do the mosquitoes always go after me?” or, “Stop laughing. It’s not funny. I’m allergic to bees,” or, “Get me an ambulance. Seriously. I’m dying here.”

When Derrick complained, Ben would try to cheer him up.

“You’re looking at this the wrong way,” Ben said. “You have to accentuate the positive.”

“What’s positive about being a human citronella candle?”

“You have a marketable talent. People would pay for you to stand around at their church picnics”

“No church picnic would have me.”

“Barbecues then. You should rent yourself out for lawn parties.”

“Who would be crazy enough to hire me to do that?”

Ben knew just the person.



Mrs. Roseman thought it was an excellent suggestion. Now she wouldn’t have to put the mosquito netting on the gazebo.

They tested out Derrick’s mosquito-repelling radius. If he stood directly in the center of the gazebo, his range covered the entire gazebo. Mrs. Roseman put duct tape on the ground directly in the center of the gazebo so Derrick wouldn’t forget where to stand.

On Friday evening, a party was held in the garden to commemorate Mrs. Roseman’s eightieth birthday. Ben was there to read a poem to the guests. The men wore suits and ties despite the hot, sticky weather. The women wore gaudy evening dresses. The sun was setting, the sky was turning purple on the horizon, and the mosquitoes were out in full force. All of the guests crowded into the gazebo, into Derrick’s circle of protection. They held their drinks close to their chests so as not to spill them.

Ben was there too. Mrs. Roseman had invited him to read one of his poems to the guests. Ben squeezed his way through the throng of guests in the gazebo and up to Derrick. Derrick was swatting at his arms and neck, which were already covered with little red mosquito bites.

“How’s it going?” Ben asked.

“I’m going to quit.”

“What are you talking about? You’re doing a great job.”

“You don’t know how this feels.”

“Sure I do. I’ve had mosquito bites before.”

“No. I mean being treated this way. Everyone wants to be around me but only because I soak
up all the bugs. No one will talk to me. They treat me like I’m an employee.”

“You are an employee.”

“Well they don’t have to act like it. They could try to make it more pleasant.”

“You’re not supposed to like your job. No one likes their job.”

Ben was a little disturbed by how much he sounded like his father.

“You like your job,” Derrick pointed out.

“I’m the exception.”

“There’s no room for advancement here. How do I ask for a raise?”

“It’s only your first day. You can’t ask for a raise yet.”

“What if a tic bites me? I’ll get lime disease.”

“All jobs have risks.”

“Yours doesn’t.”

“No,” Ben admitted. “Reading poetry to flowers is pretty safe.”

Derrick smacked an exceptionally juicy mosquito on the back of his neck.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could commiserate with other employees, but the caterers won’t even speak to me. They act like I’m not doing real work.”

“I know how you feel,” Ben commiserated. “The gardeners won’t speak to me. Just stick it out. This job could lead to big things.”

“No it won’t. What’s this going to look like on a resume? Human citronella candle?”

“Pretty soon you’ll be standing on the White House lawn, keeping mosquitoes away from visiting foreign dignitaries.”

“I feel woozy. I need a blood transfusion.”

“I’m gonna go get some punch.”

Ben squeezed through the crowd of people. He envied Derrick. Derrick seemed so in touch with the suffering of the workingman.

Ben walked out of the gazebo, out of Derrick’s circle of protection. A mosquito landed on Ben’s wrist but he didn’t swat it or brush it away. He just looked at it, watching it suck his blood. Then he looked up at the gazebo. There were two swarms of mosquitoes swarming around Derrick: the actual mosquitoes and the people. Ben guessed that not one of them broke a sweat when working. All of them probably lived off the sweat of their workers, sucking the blood of the workingman.

Ben slapped the mosquito on his wrist and it splattered.

“So, what do you think of my party?”

Mrs. Roseman had snuck up on him. Ben was embarrassed that he had blood all over his
hand. He surreptitiously wiped it on the inside of his pocket.

“I used to think that flowers were just there to distract people,” Ben told Mrs. Roseman. “But I’ve learned that flowers can help people to see that there’s more in life than their daily drudgery. Beautiful things. It can make people want something more.”

Mrs. Roseman smiled. “People and flowers were meant to be together.””

“Exactly!” Ben exclaimed. “So why are you only letting the rich and wealthy in to see your flowers. You should let the poor and downtrodden into your garden.”

“What if they steal my flowers?”

“They won’t do that.”

“They’ll try to pick them.”

“No they won’t.”

She was probably afraid that the workingman, with his thick workingman nose, would sniff up all the pollen. Then the flowers wouldn’t be able to reproduce.

Mrs. Roseman rubbed her earlobe, thinking long and hard about this.

Finally she said, “Where can I find these downtrodden people?”

Ben realized with some sadness that he didn’t know any downtrodden people that well. He wasn’t much of a poet for the workingman.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Roseman asked. “You look like you’re going to cry.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ben said. He would ask Tyrone for his help. Tyrone knew a lot of downtrodden people. Tyrone would bring his downtrodden friends to Mrs. Roseman’s garden party.


March 22, 2007
Jerusalem, Israel

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Chapter Five

Now Ben had hit rock bottom just like Pat Henderson, intervention counselor, had predicted. He had lost his job as a dishwasher, a job they wouldn’t even give to Americans. He wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. Tyrone would evict him. Soon Ben would be out on the street, muttering poetry to himself. Maybe he ought to spend a month out in the woods, drying out from poetry.

No. He was just paying his dues. This would make him stronger; help him to feel the plight of the downtrodden.

He bought a newspaper, sat in the park under a tree, and looked through the help wanted section, circling potential jobs with a red felt-tipped pen.

Then he saw it. Right there between podiatric assistant and police stenographer.

Poet.

The ad said, “Poet Wanted,” and gave a phone number to call. It didn’t give any specifics about the job, like benefits or if he could join a labor union.

He circled it. Then he decided to circle it a second time so it would stand out from the other jobs. He drew an asterisk next to it. Then he drew a couple little stars next to it. He started to go on down the column, looking for other jobs, but couldn’t concentrate. He needed to find a phone immediately and call.

He probably wouldn’t get the job. There were undoubtedly other more qualified applicants, people with advanced degrees in poetry and decades of suffering behind them. Pat Henderson, intervention counselor, might relapse and take the poetry job.



Florence Roseman filled up Ben’s glass with iced tea. Ben was glad there was no straw. He remembered his last interview when he made the rude noise, sucking air through the ice. Reggie hadn’t minded, but this woman seemed a lot classier than Reggie. She wasn’t the type to share hairnets.

They were sitting in her garden, out in the warm sunshine. It was the largest private garden Ben had ever seen. All around them, Hispanic men were planting brightly colored flowers into the dark, rich soil. Ben didn’t recognize most of the flowers and assumed they must be very rare.

Mrs. Roseman leaned back in her wicker chair and smiled at him. She looked Chinese from too much plastic surgery.

“Do you like flowers?” she asked Ben.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

He felt guilty about liking them. Their “beauty” was just used to trick workers into being happy and distract them from rising up. That was why wealthy people always funded botanical gardens and art museums.

But he didn’t tell her about that. He didn’t want to seem negative, and this woman seemed like the type who funded art museums.

“What’s your favorite flower?” she asked.

“Lily of the valley.”

Mrs. Roseman frowned. Ben realized he had made a mistake. Why had he picked such a common garden-variety flower? He might as well have said dandelion.

She poured herself another glass of iced tea. The pitcher had a whole, unpeeled lemon floating in it. Ben didn’t think it did any good if it wasn’t peeled.

“Flowers need love,” Mrs. Roseman said, sipping from her glass carefully. “That’s a scientific fact. Do you agree?”

She was asking him if he believed in Science. Ben was pretty sure that it was illegal to ask him that at a job interview, a violation of his civil rights. But he didn’t want to come across as difficult, so he said yes.

“All the best botanists agree,” she continued. “They’ve done experiments. They hooked up machines and measured the reactions of the flowers to different stimuli. They found out that flowers grow stronger and have brighter colors and more distinct scents when someone reads poetry to them. I need someone to read poetry to my flowers.”

Ben wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. The job was reading poetry to flowers? Was that a working class job? Ben wasn’t sure what class it was. It was in a class of its own.

“I need someone reliable,” she continued. “There were problems with the old poet.”

“What happened?”

“He killed my flowers.”

“His poetry was that bad?”

“No. He used a riding lawn mower. He mowed them down. That’s why I’m putting in new flowers. One day, his mind simply snapped and he went on a killing spree. I don’t know why.”

Ben knew why. The old poet probably felt very alienated, being in a class all by himself, having no one to relate to.

Mrs. Roseman gazed over at the greenhouse. “The only survivors were the cactuses,” she said. “Cactuses are tough. But they still need poetry.” She took a sip of iced tea. Her face looked deep in thought. “Do you say cacti or cactuses?”

“That depends,” Ben said. “If I was writing a poem about them, I’d use whichever sounded right, whichever fit the mood.”

“Well, just say cactuses when you’re talking to them. They don’t like to be called cacti. They find it offensive.”

“Okay.”

“The cactologists all agree. They did experiments.”

Ben nodded. He didn’t want to offend the Cacto-Americans.

She looked down at his resume.

“I see you were a dishwasher.”

“Yes.”

“Was there any poetry involved?”

“I read poems to my co-worker.”

She smiled. “May I hear one of your poems?”

“Sure.”

Ben cleared his throat and took a sip of iced tea. He didn’t need to see the poem on paper. He knew it by heart.

“Tortellini cadavers on a battlefield of plate…” he began.

“Stop.” Mrs. Roseman waved her hand at him. “Stand up. You should always stand when you read a poem.”

This worried Ben. Did she expect him always to be on his feet when he was reading to the flowers? He was always on his feet when he washed dishes, and by the end of his shift, his legs felt numb and sore. Oh well. It was all for the best. He wanted to feel the plight of the workingman in his legs and feet too.

He stood up and recited his poem. It was about brick walls blocking views, spitting on food that no one would ever eat, having dirty water thrown at you. About how some people don’t have to earn their own bread; a busboy brings it to them in a basket. They don’t even have to pay for it; it comes free with their meal. The busboy brings them all the water they can drink. Others don’t even have access to clean water and have to die of dysentery.

He finished reciting his poem and sat back down.

Mrs. Roseman’s lower lip was quivering and her eyes filled up with tears. She was clearly very moved by his poem. She took a long swallow of iced tea and then cleared her throat.

“That didn’t rhyme,” she pointed out.

“No,” he admitted.

“How do you come up with things like that?” she asked, amazed.

“I try to take things from real life.”

Her voice was hoarse. “That’s the most beautiful poem I’ve ever heard,” she said. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Is there health insurance?”

“Of course. I can’t take the chance of something happening to my poet.”

“Is there a union?”

“You’d be the only poet. I suppose you could have a union if you wanted, but if wouldn’t do much good. You’d be the only one.”

There would be gardeners. He could unionize them. Although they might not speak English. Maybe he should have stayed in school and learned Spanish.

“Follow me,” Mrs. Roseman said. “I’ll introduce you to the flowers.”

Ben was thrilled. He would be a professional poet, actually getting paid for it. Tyrone had been right. He couldn’t make it as a dishwasher, and now he had to fall back on poetry.

Chapter Four

Ben and Juan were washing dishes when Reggie came chugging up to them, out of breath.

“Ben, there’s a problem in the dining room. I need your help.”

“Dirty dishes?”

“No. It’s a lady at Travis’s table. She’s exposing herself.”

Ben dropped a dish and it shattered on the floor.

“Travis asked her to stop, but the man with her grew abusive, and you know how sensitive Travis is. Could you handle it?”

“Handle it? Sure.” He wasn’t sure why Reggie was asking him to do this, but he wasn’t going to miss a chance to see this.

“You’re the best.” He clapped Ben on the back. “Give me your apron. I’ll take over till you get back.”

Ben gave it to him. Reggie put the apron over his neck and tried to tie the straps behind his backs, but he couldn’t. He was just too big.

Ben walked towards the swinging door that led to the dining room.

“Ben.”

Ben looked back over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Hairnet.” Reggie pointed to Ben’s head.

Ben took off the hairnet and stuck it in his pocket.

“Here, give it to me.” Reggie held out his hand.

Ben just stared back at him. “Why do you need it?”

“Come on. I don’t have cooties.”

Reggie’s scalp was peeling and if his greasy hair didn’t have lice, it had something much worse.

Ben reluctantly gave him the hairnet.

When he walked through the swinging plastic doors into the dining room, he saw the offending table, right in the middle of the restaurant. The narrow and seedy-looking man was stuffing pasta in his mouth gluttonously. The pale and petite woman had her pink blouse undone, and a fat baby was drinking from her breast.

This was the exposing? Ben was disappointed. He walked back into the dishwashing area and saw Reggie getting a faceful of hose, courtesy of Juan.

“I don’t have a problem with her doing that,” Ben said.

“Neither do I, but some of the other guests complained.”

“Shouldn’t you do this? You’re the manager.”

“Yes, but you’re good at talking to people. Very diplomatic. I thought you could handle it.”

“But isn’t it the manager’s job?”

“The manager’s job is to delegate responsibility. I’m delegating.”

Ben shrugged. It would help him to empathize with the plight of the downtrodden. Downtrodden dishwashers were always being sent out to the dining room to talk to the diners.

As he walked back out into the dining room, he wondered which customer had complained. He looked around for a stodgy old dowager, but only saw normal-looking people.

He walked up to the table and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t allow outside food.”

“It’s not food,” the man said in a nasally voice. “It’s beverage.”

“We don’t allow outside beverages either.”

“Can’t you just charge us a corking fee?”

Ben had the awful image of taking a corkscrew to the woman’s nipple. He pushed it out of his head.

“Go ahead and get the police,” the man said. “My wife’s got a right to do this here. Law’s on our side. This ain’t Burkastan.”

“I feel just like those black people at the lunch counter,” the woman said.

They both glared at Ben like he was a racist pulling black people away from lunch counters and spraying them with a fire hose. And who knows? Maybe there was some civil rights law protecting breast feeders in public restaurants. What did Ben know? That did seem like the kind of law that would be on the books. They let seeing-eye dogs beg for scraps at the dinner tables of restaurants and it was the law that all the bathrooms had to be handicap accessible. Maybe there was a law that all women could breastfeed their children in public.

“I’m not calling the police,” Ben assured them.

“Why are you all wet?” the woman asked.

“I was washing dishes,” Ben said, and then quickly added, “But I’m really a poet.” He didn’t want them to think he had to wash dishes. He wasn’t one of those people.

“So why are you washing dishes?” the woman asked. “You couldn’t pay your bill? They put you to work washing dishes?”

“He was probably in jail,” the man said. “This was the only job he could get. Were you in jail?”

“No. I’ve never been in jail. I’m washing dishes because I want to.”

“It’s a hobby?”

“Sort of. Look, some of the other customers have been complaining about this. Now I personally don’t have a problem with it. I mean, it’s perfectly natural.”

“Well, I have had a little work done,” the woman admitted sheepishly.

“A wedding gift from my parents,” the man announced proudly. “What do you think?”

Ben wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Was he asking him to judge his wife’s breasts?

“You look like a goose just shit on your grave,” the man said. “What’s wrong? Didn’t your mother ever breast feed you?”

“I had a wet nurse,” Ben said quickly. It wasn’t true. He didn’t know why he said it.

“Would you like to touch them?” the man asked.

Ben was sorely tempted. He didn’t get many dates since he started dishwashing. “No. I shouldn’t.”

“Go on. Take a squeeze.”

“Be gentle. I’m lactating.”

“No. I really don’t want to.”

“Why not? Something the matter with my wife’s breasts?”

The man began to rise out of his chair.

“No, they’re fine,” Ben assured him. “I wish I had a pair like them.”

That didn’t sound right.

“I mean, I wish I had…yeah. That’s what I mean.”

Ben tried another tactic.

“What if I found you a bottle? Would you use it?”

The woman shook her head. “The breast is best. That’s what I always say.”

“It’s true,” the man admitted. “She says it a lot.”

“Meet me halfway here. Could you at least cover up the other one? If you’re not using it,
there’s no reason for it to be out and about.”

“Jews milk cows on the Sabbath,” she said.

The worst thing about crazy people was their non-sequitors about Jewish people. Ben gritted his teeth for an anti-Semitic rant.

Her husband stared at her, awestruck. “I always wondered what they did on the Shabbat,” he said with heartfelt fascination. “You’re so smart. How do you know all this stuff?”

She beamed with pride at the compliment. “They aren’t supposed to work on the Sabbath, but they can milk a cow so it doesn’t suffer.”

Ben worried that she might be retarded. Or maybe she had autism, like Rain Man, only instead of being a math genius, her gift was spouting out annoying bits of trivia. And she was responsible for a baby.

“Heavy saddlebags,” she continued. “If one gets too full, it aches, so I rotate them. If I don’t rotate, I’m like a cow without a Jew.”

“Couldn’t you just put it away until you need it?” Ben asked.

“I want to have it at the ready,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m finished.”

The baby’s mouth popped off her nipple, making the sound of a suction cup being pulled off a window. The baby slumped in her arms and seemed to be asleep.

“Look at that,” she pointed to red marks around her nipple. “He’s teething.”

“Have a nice day,” Ben said. The woman shifted the baby around and buttoned up her blouse as Ben walked back to the dishwashing area.

When he got there, he saw that Reggie was completely soaked; he looked like he had been swimming with his clothes on. Reggie saw Ben and looked relieved. Perhaps he had a new understanding of how hard dishwashing was.

“All clear?” Reggie asked.

“I took care of it.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I just asked them nicely.”

“Nicely. That’s good. I’ll remember that. Way to think outside the box.”

He patted Ben on the back, handed him the hairnet, and walked out. Ben looked at the hair net. A couple of Reggie’s greasy, curly hairs were stuck in the webbing of the hairnet. Ben set it on the side of the sink and started washing the dishes again.

A few minutes later, Reggie came chugging back into the dishwashing area.

“I’m gonna need your help again.”

“What is it?”

“Where’s your hairnet?”

“Right here.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“I’m giving my hair a breather.”

“It’s the same table. The woman.”

“She’s exposing herself again?”

“She’s exposing the baby.”

This time Ben didn’t rush right out there. “Exposing the baby?”

“She’s changing its diaper right there on the table.”

“Am I being delegated?”

“Go.” Reggie picked up the hairnet and put it on.

Ben went out to the dining room. The dirty diaper stink almost knocked him over. Ben wondered if there were civil rights laws allowing women to change babies’ diapers in public restaurants. He hoped not.

The soiled diaper sprawled out next to the plate of lasagna like a dead raccoon. She hadn’t even taken the trouble to roll up the dirty diaper. Something the consistency of Sloppy Joe clung to the baby’s backside.

Ben ran up to the table. “You can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” the man said sarcastically. “You don’t allow outside diapers?”

“It’s not sanitary. Take him in the bathroom.”

“What?” The woman looked up at him angrily. “Do you know how many germs are in bathrooms?”

“Tell him, hon.”

“Eight hundred! And that’s just the ones we know about!”

“I’m calling the police.” Ben turned to walk away.

“You said you weren’t going to call the police,” the woman said in a betrayed voice.

“That was totally different.”

The baby started emitting piercing banshee wails.

“Now look what you've done.” The man looked up at Ben accusingly. “You made my boy cry, and when my boy cries, I cry, and then people get hurt.”

He picked up his glass of ice water and threw it in Ben’s face. The freezing water felt like a thousand needles stinging him as it splashed his face and an ice cube hit his eyeball.

Blood pulsed to Ben’s ears. He tried to control his rage, to channel it into a tight ball inside him that could later be used as creative energy.

The man sat there smirking at Ben while the woman kept digging through her oversized purse.

The time for diplomacy had past. Send home the weapons inspectors. There was nothing left to talk about. Now was the time for Ben to run. Run and hide under a bed.

He looked around for help. Travis was taking drink orders at another table, pretending he didn’t notice. Reggie was still in the back getting sprayed by Juan, and none of the customers showed signs of springing to his aid.

Then Mario the Mexican busboy came walking up to the table, carrying a pitcher of ice water. He walked straight up to the man, took the empty water glass, and refilled it with a sideways pour from the pitcher. The man grinned and held out an empty breadbasket to Mario.

“More bread, por favor,” the man said.

“Si senor,” Mario said. He took the empty breadbasket and walked back into the kitchen.

The woman gave up trying to find baby wipes in her big purse, picked up a white, cloth napkin from the table and dipped it in her water glass.

“Don’t do that,” Ben said. “That napkin belongs to the restaurant.”

But she ignored him and used the damp napkin to wipe up the dark Sloppy Joe from her baby’s backside.

Ben started to lose control of his anger. This one wasn’t going to make it to a poem. He threw his arms up in the air and gesticulated madly. “What is wrong with you? Were you home schooled? Don’t you know that other people exist? Isn’t there any consideration for anyone? Why can’t you just—DON’T DOUBLE DIP!!!”

Too late. She double dipped. She plunged the soiled napkin deep into her water glass, gave it a little squeeze, and pulled it out, dirty water running down her wrist. Brown tendrils floated in the beige water. It looked like a chocolate lava lamp.

Ben’s screaming started the baby wailing again. “Shhh, shhh,” the woman cooed, patting the baby’s bottom with the soiled napkin as if to soothe him. The man dropped a meaty fist down on the table, rattling the silverware.

“She can double dip if she wants to double dip,” he said. “Double dip all day long.”

He grabbed her water glass and threw the tainted water at Ben’s face. Ben ducked out of the way and the dirty water splashed on the white tiled floor. A great hush fell over the restaurant.

The kitchen door swung open and Mario walked out, carrying an overloaded breadbasket in one hand and the pitcher of ice water in the other. He stopped and looked at the brown mess on the floor.

“I’m not cleaning that up,” he said in perfect English.

He then walked up to the table that was being used as a changing table, set down the bread basket, and refilled the woman’s water glass. It had a light beige color now.

Ben was shaking furiously. He knew that as a workingman he would have to take a lot of shit, but he had always thought it was just a metaphor.

“You two,” Ben roared, his dry throat hurting, “are the most disgusting pair I have ever had the misfortune to meet. You don’t deserve to eat in restaurants with civilized people. You should eat on the floor, out of a dog dish. Or better yet, go live in the woods. Maybe there you could—DON’T DRINK THAT!!!”

Too late. She swallowed down a long deep gulp of her tainted water and then smacked her lips in satisfaction. Changing the kid had given her quite a thirst. She looked at Ben quizzically.

“That water’s tainted,” Ben said incredulously. “You double dipped in that glass.”

“But then he threw it at you,” she said.

“Did you forget that?” the man asked him.

“No,” Ben said. “I didn’t forget.”

The woman swirled her water around like a glass of wine and inhaled slowly through her nostrils.

“The busboy refilled it,” she explained. “This is fresh water.”

“But there was a residue at the bottom of the glass,” Ben said.

“You’re a residue at the bottom of the glass,” the man said. “You need to stop telling us what to do and stop trying to force your opinions on other people. Don’t tell my wife how to dress. We don’t tell you how to dress. And don’t try to tell us what to eat or drink. My wife can drink whatever she wants. And don’t’ tell us what to do with our son. We’ll raise our child any way we see fit. You may not agree, but we’re not hurting anyone. We’re happy and that’s all that matters.”

As if to demonstrate their happiness, he grasped his wife’s face in his hands and gave her a tongue kiss. Long, deep, and sloppy.

“Her mouth is dirty,” Ben said.

“What goes in your mouth doesn’t make it dirty,” the woman said. “What comes out of your mouth makes it dirty.”

Once again the man grinned at her, awestruck.

“You’re so wise,” he told her. “I’m telling you, one of these days they’re going to give you the Nobel Prize.”

“She’ll never get the Nobel Prize,” Ben said. “They don’t give them to stupid people.”

“What about Arafat,” the woman said. “They gave him the Nobel Peace Prize.”

The man bowed his head slightly like he was in the presence of greatness.

“Ever since I got you those encyclopedias.”

“Arafat died of AIDS,” she added.

“How do you know this stuff?” the man said in giddy amazement.

“Everyone know that,” Ben hissed.

The man looked at Ben and sighed. “Tell you what. You give us dessert on the house and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”

“That sounds fair.” Ben thought of the box of rat poison in the supply closet.

“And you better not spit in it. I’ll know. I can taste the difference.”

He wouldn’t spit on it. He would get Juan to do it.

“What would you like?”

“Since it’s on the house, we’ll have whatever’s the most expensive.”

“That would be Death by Chocolate.”

“Sounds rich. But we’ll try it.”

Ben excused himself, offered his heartfelt apologies, walked around the puddle of brown water, through the swinging doors into the kitchen. He realized with disappointment that he didn’t have it in him to poison their dessert.

Reggie was still soaking wet and now gasping for air as if he were drowning. Juan was giggling maniacally. Reggie looked relieved to see Ben.

“I heard it get pretty heated out there. Everything straightened out?”

“We’re giving them free Death by Chocolate.”

“How did that happen?”

“Diplomacy failed.”

“Death by chocolate? That’s the most expensive dessert there is.”

“They were unhappy so I told them dessert was on the house.”

Reggie slowly shook his head, lowered his chin, and frowned. “Only managers can comp food and beverages.”

“I thought you deputized me.”

“It’ll have to come out of your pocket.” Reggie held the hairnet out for Ben to take. “Don’t be angry. I’ll let you use a ten percent employee discount.”

Ben walked over to where his jacket hung on a peg and put it on.

“I quit!”

He hurried to the exit door. He had to get out of there before he lost control and punched Reggie in his fat face. It wouldn’t hurt him. His fist would probably just bounce off. Juan looked on, entertained by the unfolding drama.

“You have to give two weeks notice,” Reggie said.

Ben didn’t respond. He just hurried to the door.

Reggie stormed after him, his fat jiggling all about. “If you leave now, you can’t come back.”

Ben rushed out into the alley.

“Don’t use me as a reference,” Reggie called as the heavy door slammed shut.