Chapter Eight
Ben wasn't a very good mime. He couldn't communicate nonverbally to Juan the invitation to the garden party. Juan thought Ben was giving him a marriage proposal.
Fortunately, Ben was a poet of the workingman, not a mime of the workingman. His father wouldn't take it too well if Ben told him he was dropping out of school to become a mime.
Actually it would probably be about the same. His father would get Pat Henderson to hold an intervention and tell him he was addicted to miming. "You've been able to fool a lot of people," Pat Henderson would say, "with your unorthodox miming style: using words."
It was probably better that Juan wasn't there--he might have brought a Super Soaker and sprayed the other guests.
Plenty of other working people came to the party: bus drivers, construction workers, garbagemen, busboys, Tyrone. From the supermarket, Marcy and the other checkers, the manager Rod Jennings, (Ben decided that lower management was close enough to working,) and the developmentally-challenged grocery baggers. All of the baggers were live-in residents at Abbott's Home for Exceptional People, a home for people unable to take care of themselves. When Abbott's Home for Exceptional People heard that their Exceptional People were invited to a garden party, they insisted on sending a member of their staff along to chaperone.
Mrs. Roseman approved of the idea, hoping the chaperone would stop the baggers from picking the flowers, or trying to bag them. Derrick, however, was disappointed. "Now we won't have any fun at all," he complained.
But Derrick changed his mind when he saw the chaperone. Stephanie was a shapely girl with a sparkling smile and hauntingly blank eyes. Her long golden hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight when she chased the baggers around, trying to stop them from eating the petals off the flowers.
The other guests all huddled in the gazebo around Derrick, their protection from the mosquitoes. Caterers walked among them, carrying trays and offering tea and crumpets. Tyrone seemed to be enjoying the pastries. Crumbs spilled out of his stuffed mouth and got stuck in his gelled chest hair.
Bobby, one of the baggers with Down Syndrome, ran in circles around the gazebo, waving his arms like windmills and shouting, "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!"
"Who's he?" Derrick asked Ben.
"He's a workingman," Ben replied.
"That's a workingman?"
"He lives by the sweat of his brow."
"That's quite a brow he's got there."
"He has Down Syndrome," Ben explained.
Derrick ran a hand over his face and and looked worried. "I think I have Down Syndrome."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
Whenever Derrick heard about a disease, he thought he had it. Once he thought he had Terrets Syndrome.
"You don't have Terrets Syndrome," Ben had told him.
"But people always tell me I speak without thinking first."
"You don't have Terrets. People with Terrets shout out swear words and racial epithants."
"Maybe I have a mild form of Terrets."
"You don't have Terrets."
Now Derrick thought he had Down Syndrome. He felt the bones in his face nervously.
"My brow's too big."
"It's male pattern baldness," Ben said.
"I can't be losing my hair. I'm only nineteen."
"Is there hair in the drain after you shower?"
"I don't know. I don't look down when I shower. I don't wanna see anything down there."
"Well, you're losing your hair. Get some Rogaine. With Minoxydyl."
"My face is too flat."
"Actually it kind of juts out."
"And my ears are too small."
"Last week you thought they were too big."
"They were."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
"Maybe I have a mild form."
"There is no mild form. You either have it or you don't."
"I think I have it."
"You don't."
Ben looked around at all the people standing around inside the gazebo, drinking their tea and eating their crumpets. His plan wasn't working. The workers were supposed to see the flowers and realize how much beauty there was in the world and want to make their lives better and form a labor union, but the flowers couldn't inspire them if the people just stayed in the gazebo, drinking tea and eating crumpets. They needed to get up close and smell the flowers, see the details in their petals. Only the baggers were meeting the flowers and it didn't seem to help them. Maybe if Derrick walked around the garden, they'd follow him.
"Derrick, why don't you go stand by the flowers?" Ben said.
Derrick looked down at the piece of tape between his feet.
"What about the duct tape?"
"Forget about the duct tape. You can leave the duct tape."
Derrick looked uneasily over at the flowers and shook his head.
"That's where the bees are. That's how Macaulay Culkin died."
"He's dead?"
"In the movie. My Girl. He got stung by bees and died. I'm also allergic to bee stings."
"You're not allergic to bee stings. People who are allergic to bee stings stop breathing when they get stung. They have to be rushed to the hospital."
"Maybe I have a mild allergy."
"You dont' have any allergy."
"I still don't like bee stings."
Ben suggested that they go into the greenhouse. The cactuses would inspire the workers and the bees wouldn't bother Derrick. Derrick agreed. They went into the greenhouse and the entire party followed, even the baggers. The dry heat was a refreshing break from the sweltering humidity outside. The workers carefully touched the cactus thorns, testing their sharpness. Stephanie squinted her eyes suspiciously up at the big green cactus, the one that inspired Ben's poetry.
"We shouldn't stay in here," she said. "Those cacti look dangerous."
Ben grimaced. Not only did she use the botanic slur, cacti--she also said they were dangerous.
Ben looked at the cactus to see how it would react. It didn't make any movement. Maybe it wasn't offended or maybe it was offended and didn't want to show it.
"They're not dangerous," Ben said.
"Then why do they have thorns?" Stephanie asked.
"They live in the desert," Ben said. "They need thorns to protect against desert predators."
"We shouldn't stay in here," Stephanie said. "Someone could get hurt."
Bobby, the one with Down Syndrome, looked ready to belly flop onto the cactus thorns.
"It's nice in here," Derrick said, probably just because he wanted to stay away from the bees.
"Ben, why don't you read us one of your poems about cactuses?"
Ben shook his head. He didn't want to read any homo-erotic poetry in front of a group of working people.
"What's that?" Marcy said, peering into the cactus. She was looking at a small pink and white flower poking out between a cluster of thorns.
"That's a cactus rose," Ben said. "Sometimes cactuses grow small flowers."
Marcy's eyes filled up with tears and her lips started to quiver. She covered her face with her great big hands and sobbed. "I never realized how beautiful flowers were." She turned to the manager. "I just realized something," she told him. "I'm a beautiful flower. I'm too beautiful to stand at the check-out line, pricing items, pricing my life away. I quit! I'm going to follow my dream. I'm going to be a plus-size model."
Ben was concerned. Marcy might not make it as a plus-size model. She was more than big enough, but in all the wrong places. Her sizable gut spilled over the front of her jeans and her bare arms had prominent chunks of cellulose pressing out. She needed something to fall back on, in case plus-size modeling didn't work out--a teaching degree maybe.
Then Ben reproached himself. He sounded just like his father. Never encouraging, always cynical. He should encourage her.
"Good for you, Marcy," he said.
Everyone else stayed quiet.
Marcy smiled at him, then bent over as if to kiss the flower, but stopped an inch away and inhaled its scent.
"I quit!" a squeaky voice slurred out. It was Bobby, the bagger with Down Syndrome. "I'm not gonna take it anymore! I'm wasting my life putting food in bags. I'm gonna follow my dream. I'm gonna be president of the United States."
Ben thought Bobby should definately get a teaching degree to fall back on.
"Good fo' you, little man," Tyrone said, his mouth full of crumpet.
"He couldn't be worse than Bush," Derrick said.
April 17, 2007
Jerusalem, Israel
Fortunately, Ben was a poet of the workingman, not a mime of the workingman. His father wouldn't take it too well if Ben told him he was dropping out of school to become a mime.
Actually it would probably be about the same. His father would get Pat Henderson to hold an intervention and tell him he was addicted to miming. "You've been able to fool a lot of people," Pat Henderson would say, "with your unorthodox miming style: using words."
It was probably better that Juan wasn't there--he might have brought a Super Soaker and sprayed the other guests.
Plenty of other working people came to the party: bus drivers, construction workers, garbagemen, busboys, Tyrone. From the supermarket, Marcy and the other checkers, the manager Rod Jennings, (Ben decided that lower management was close enough to working,) and the developmentally-challenged grocery baggers. All of the baggers were live-in residents at Abbott's Home for Exceptional People, a home for people unable to take care of themselves. When Abbott's Home for Exceptional People heard that their Exceptional People were invited to a garden party, they insisted on sending a member of their staff along to chaperone.
Mrs. Roseman approved of the idea, hoping the chaperone would stop the baggers from picking the flowers, or trying to bag them. Derrick, however, was disappointed. "Now we won't have any fun at all," he complained.
But Derrick changed his mind when he saw the chaperone. Stephanie was a shapely girl with a sparkling smile and hauntingly blank eyes. Her long golden hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight when she chased the baggers around, trying to stop them from eating the petals off the flowers.
The other guests all huddled in the gazebo around Derrick, their protection from the mosquitoes. Caterers walked among them, carrying trays and offering tea and crumpets. Tyrone seemed to be enjoying the pastries. Crumbs spilled out of his stuffed mouth and got stuck in his gelled chest hair.
Bobby, one of the baggers with Down Syndrome, ran in circles around the gazebo, waving his arms like windmills and shouting, "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!"
"Who's he?" Derrick asked Ben.
"He's a workingman," Ben replied.
"That's a workingman?"
"He lives by the sweat of his brow."
"That's quite a brow he's got there."
"He has Down Syndrome," Ben explained.
Derrick ran a hand over his face and and looked worried. "I think I have Down Syndrome."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
Whenever Derrick heard about a disease, he thought he had it. Once he thought he had Terrets Syndrome.
"You don't have Terrets Syndrome," Ben had told him.
"But people always tell me I speak without thinking first."
"You don't have Terrets. People with Terrets shout out swear words and racial epithants."
"Maybe I have a mild form of Terrets."
"You don't have Terrets."
Now Derrick thought he had Down Syndrome. He felt the bones in his face nervously.
"My brow's too big."
"It's male pattern baldness," Ben said.
"I can't be losing my hair. I'm only nineteen."
"Is there hair in the drain after you shower?"
"I don't know. I don't look down when I shower. I don't wanna see anything down there."
"Well, you're losing your hair. Get some Rogaine. With Minoxydyl."
"My face is too flat."
"Actually it kind of juts out."
"And my ears are too small."
"Last week you thought they were too big."
"They were."
"You don't have Down Syndrome."
"Maybe I have a mild form."
"There is no mild form. You either have it or you don't."
"I think I have it."
"You don't."
Ben looked around at all the people standing around inside the gazebo, drinking their tea and eating their crumpets. His plan wasn't working. The workers were supposed to see the flowers and realize how much beauty there was in the world and want to make their lives better and form a labor union, but the flowers couldn't inspire them if the people just stayed in the gazebo, drinking tea and eating crumpets. They needed to get up close and smell the flowers, see the details in their petals. Only the baggers were meeting the flowers and it didn't seem to help them. Maybe if Derrick walked around the garden, they'd follow him.
"Derrick, why don't you go stand by the flowers?" Ben said.
Derrick looked down at the piece of tape between his feet.
"What about the duct tape?"
"Forget about the duct tape. You can leave the duct tape."
Derrick looked uneasily over at the flowers and shook his head.
"That's where the bees are. That's how Macaulay Culkin died."
"He's dead?"
"In the movie. My Girl. He got stung by bees and died. I'm also allergic to bee stings."
"You're not allergic to bee stings. People who are allergic to bee stings stop breathing when they get stung. They have to be rushed to the hospital."
"Maybe I have a mild allergy."
"You dont' have any allergy."
"I still don't like bee stings."
Ben suggested that they go into the greenhouse. The cactuses would inspire the workers and the bees wouldn't bother Derrick. Derrick agreed. They went into the greenhouse and the entire party followed, even the baggers. The dry heat was a refreshing break from the sweltering humidity outside. The workers carefully touched the cactus thorns, testing their sharpness. Stephanie squinted her eyes suspiciously up at the big green cactus, the one that inspired Ben's poetry.
"We shouldn't stay in here," she said. "Those cacti look dangerous."
Ben grimaced. Not only did she use the botanic slur, cacti--she also said they were dangerous.
Ben looked at the cactus to see how it would react. It didn't make any movement. Maybe it wasn't offended or maybe it was offended and didn't want to show it.
"They're not dangerous," Ben said.
"Then why do they have thorns?" Stephanie asked.
"They live in the desert," Ben said. "They need thorns to protect against desert predators."
"We shouldn't stay in here," Stephanie said. "Someone could get hurt."
Bobby, the one with Down Syndrome, looked ready to belly flop onto the cactus thorns.
"It's nice in here," Derrick said, probably just because he wanted to stay away from the bees.
"Ben, why don't you read us one of your poems about cactuses?"
Ben shook his head. He didn't want to read any homo-erotic poetry in front of a group of working people.
"What's that?" Marcy said, peering into the cactus. She was looking at a small pink and white flower poking out between a cluster of thorns.
"That's a cactus rose," Ben said. "Sometimes cactuses grow small flowers."
Marcy's eyes filled up with tears and her lips started to quiver. She covered her face with her great big hands and sobbed. "I never realized how beautiful flowers were." She turned to the manager. "I just realized something," she told him. "I'm a beautiful flower. I'm too beautiful to stand at the check-out line, pricing items, pricing my life away. I quit! I'm going to follow my dream. I'm going to be a plus-size model."
Ben was concerned. Marcy might not make it as a plus-size model. She was more than big enough, but in all the wrong places. Her sizable gut spilled over the front of her jeans and her bare arms had prominent chunks of cellulose pressing out. She needed something to fall back on, in case plus-size modeling didn't work out--a teaching degree maybe.
Then Ben reproached himself. He sounded just like his father. Never encouraging, always cynical. He should encourage her.
"Good for you, Marcy," he said.
Everyone else stayed quiet.
Marcy smiled at him, then bent over as if to kiss the flower, but stopped an inch away and inhaled its scent.
"I quit!" a squeaky voice slurred out. It was Bobby, the bagger with Down Syndrome. "I'm not gonna take it anymore! I'm wasting my life putting food in bags. I'm gonna follow my dream. I'm gonna be president of the United States."
Ben thought Bobby should definately get a teaching degree to fall back on.
"Good fo' you, little man," Tyrone said, his mouth full of crumpet.
"He couldn't be worse than Bush," Derrick said.
April 17, 2007
Jerusalem, Israel
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Tuesday, April 17, 2007
1 Comments:
Mitigator Rules!
I can recommend a new “scrub” product called “Mitigator Sting & Bite Treatment”; to say that it is terrific is an understatement! It actually removes venom by exfoliating the top layer of skin, opening the pores and drawing out the toxins. I had instant relief from pain and itching and all traces of the sting disappeared within minutes. I found it on the web at www.Mitigator.net which is their military website. I called and they sold me (6) ½ ounce packages for about $2.00/pack (each resealable pack treats about 20 stings or bites). The only thing that can create a problem is if you wait too long to apply it, it should be rubbed in vigorously within the first few minutes after the bite or sting – the longer you wait, the less effective it is. I’ve used it on bees, wasps, fire ants (no blisters even appeared), mosquitoes and chiggers. They say it works on jellyfish but I’m a long way from the ocean so I haven’t needed it for that problem. No smelly chemicals, works great and is even safe for kids (the scrubbing replaces scratching so – no secondary infections). I should make a commercial for them!
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