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