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.