Chapter Twelve

Ben’s apartment was bare again with only a few wires hanging from the walls. The cigarette burnt carpet had only the sight of the moldering brick wall for company. Ben was sure he had forgotten something but he couldn’t remember what it was.

He knocked on Tyrone’s door to give him the apartment key. Tyrone opened the door and grinned widely.

“Come here, Ben Hugh.”

He spread his arms to give Ben a hug. Tyrone was shirtless and his chest was all gooped up with hair gel. Ben didn’t want to get messy, but he didn’t want to offend Tyrone so he allowed the hug. When the hug broke up, Tyrone clasped his hands on Ben’s cheeks.

“Ben Hugh. What a’ adventure you is gonna have. Travelin about, showin folks yo’ daisies. Wish ah could join ye.”

“You can. You know that Elizabeth invited you. Someone has to keep the beat.”

“Naw man, it’s a figure o’ speech. I don’t wanna come witcha. Crazy flower people.”

Tyrone walked over to his littered kitchen table, picked up a small bottle, and held it out to Ben.

“I gots ye a goin-away gift.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Made it muh-self. Hope ye like it.”

Ben took the plastic bottle. It was filled with a clear liquid and had a homemade label, made with red magic marker in big block letters. It said, “Ghetto Traveler.” Apparently Tyrone had been brewing moonshine in his bathtub.

“Ghetto Traveler?”

Tyrone grinned broadly. “That be de name o’ de product. I’m fixin a get me a copyright. The patent be all pendin, knowwa I’m sayin’?”

“What is it?”

“A patent?”

“No. Ghetto Traveler.”

“It’s my new invention. I ain’t jus’ yo’ landlord an’ janitor. I invent. You know Thomas Edison?”

“Yeah.”

“He invent things too. See here, I been scrubbin sink an’ toilet so many years, I start to use trial and error, adjust the recipe, developed my own cleaning fluid: Ghetto Traveler. A multi-purpose fluid dat cleans like nobody’s bidness. Scrub yo’ toilet, shine yo’ shoes. Clean yo’ eyeglasses, store yo’ contact lenses.”

“You store contacts in it?”

“I don’t wear me no contacts. My eyes is all twenny-twenny, but I ‘spect you could store contacts in it. You can do jussa ‘bout anyting wit Ghetto Traveler. It’s deodorant for yo’ underarm, creamer for you’ coffee.”

“You put it in your coffee?”

“Naw man, you know I drink tea. See here, you gotsta travel light. I backpacked ‘cross China. I know what I talkin’ bout. You ain’t gotta take a lotta supplies. Ghetto Traveler be the only fluid you need. Now you can be ghetto wherever you go.”

“I feel like I’m in a commercial.”

Tyrone’s face lit up.

“You’re right. I needs me some advertising.”

Tyrone pulled a small notebook and a stubby pencil out of his back pocket and began scribbling ideas.

“I needs me a celebrity endorsement. Wonder who folks’ll truss to sell ‘em Ghetto Traveler.” He chewed on the pencil’s eraser.

“How about Rudy Giulliani,” Ben suggested. “Everyone trusts him.”

***

The caravan pulled to a stop in front of the empty shack and a man in dusty overalls who was probably a farmer walked cautiously out of the rustling corn. Ben was glad to see the farmer didn’t have a gun in his hand, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one nearby. It could be in his tractor or in the shed. Rural people had guns. Guns and paranoid fantasies. Today, all of the farmer’s paranoid fantasies were about to come true. The flower caravan had arrived.

Ben pulled off his gobbles and pulled the scarf off his mouth. He walked down the steps of the gazebo and jumped the last few feet to the dusty earth below. Derrick jumped down after him and then they helped Elizabeth down. The drivers got out of their trucks and gathered around as the trees swayed in the breeze.

The farmer had broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He smiled at them with yellow snaggled teeth. His teeth weren’t just crooked; they weren’t even in the right order. Some of the top teeth were on the bottom and the bottom teeth were on the top.

“Would you like to see some flowers?” Elizabeth asked pleasantly.

The farmer’s smile melted into a frown. “Cain’t ye read the sign?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “It says no salesmen.”

He pointed at a sign nailed to a tree. But the sign didn’t say no salesmen. It said no dumping.

Ben felt embarrassed for the farmer who was obviously illiterate. Then Ben felt useless, like a discarded bottle cap. What was his poetry anyway? Just a bunch of words. It didn’t do any good for people so oppressed they couldn’t even understand words. But flowers could inspire even an illiterate hillbilly with their beauty. Another point for flowers over poetry. Ben should have been a flower arranger.

“Where’d you get the sign?” Derrick asked the farmer.

“You sayin I stole it?”

“We’ve got flowers,” Ben said quickly, feeling like a hostage negotiator. “We’re not selling them. We just want to show them to you.”

“That so? Reckon if I were to offer you a dolla fer one o’ yer flowers, you’d say no?”

“That’s right,” Ben replied.

“S’pose I say two dollar?”

“The flowers are priceless,” Elizabeth said. “Bobby, get some flowers out of the truck. We’re going to show this man some flowers.”

Bobby clapped his hands together and skipped over to one of the trucks. After a lethargic period of Cheetos and The Price is Right, he would finally get a chance to use his bagger skills.
The farmer spat into the dry dirt.

“You’d best keep your flowers in your trucks. You don’t wanna get your flowers so close or they’ll get sick. They’ll get what my corn’s got.”

“What does your corn have?” Ben asked.

“The corn sickness.”

“What’s the corn sickness?”

“See for yourself.”

The farmer turned and walked towards the corn. They followed after him. Derrick looked a little pale, like he was worried about catching the corn sickness.

Ben looked through the thick leaves of the corn and saw little multi-legged creatures scurrying up and down the green stalks. They looked liked centipedes. Or millipedes maybe.

“Corn weevils.” The farmer announced, shaking his head. “They’re eatin’ up the crop. I’ve tried everything. Pesticides, herbicides, every type of poison there is, but the corn just keeps on a-dyin’. I’ve looked at this from every angle there is. I don’t know what else to try.”

“Ghetto Traveler,” Ben suggested.

The farmer glanced at Ben and then glanced at the shed, probably where he kept his gun.

Ben doubted Ghetto Traveler would kill the bugs. It would probably just kill the corn.
“How do you keep the bugs away from your flowers,” the farmer asked.

“We have Derrick,” Elizabeth said. “The bugs go after him and leave everyone else alone.”

“Wish I had a Derrick,” the farmer said.

Elizabeth scratched her head and then nodded.

“I suppose you could borrow him until the harvest.”

“No,” Derrick said. “Take Ben. He’ll read poetry and the corn’ll grow. Your corn just needs love.”

The farmer shook his head and spat on the corn. “That corn gets enough love as it is. From the bugs. They just love corn.”

“I love corn,” Bobby said and clapped his hands.

The farmer sighed. “I suppose I should invite you to spend the night. That would be the hospitable thing.”

“It’s only ten in the morning,” Derrick said.

“You’re early then, ain’tcha?

“I suppose you can sleep in the barn,” the farmer continued. “There’s hay you can sleep on.”

“We can’t stay the night,” Elizabeth said. “We have to get going as soon as we show you the flowers. How many people are on the farm?”

“It’s just me.”

“You’re all alone.”

“I’m a hermit.”

No one said anything for a moment. Then Derrick asked, “Why?”

“I forget. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…I just don’t know. It gets lonely, being a hermit.”

“Don’t you have any family?” Elizabeth asked.

“None to speak of.”

“Do you have a daughter?” Derrick asked, looking towards the shed.

The farmer spat at Derrick’s feet. “You takin a census?”

Ben’s heart leapt. Census. Ben got nervous when people used words ending with the letters U and S. What if the hermit said censi? What if things got plural? Fortunately, there were no censuses around to hear this surveyal slur, but still, Ben had to lighten the mood.

“No family, eh? That might not be such a bad thing. My family’s pretty crazy. But you must have some friends, right?”

“Nope,” the hermit said. “No friends.”

“Loser,” Derrick muttered.

“What was that?” One of the hermit’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

“The luge,” Ben said. “The Olympic sport in the winter. Like the bobsled, only faster. He called you a luger. On the bobsled, there’s four people. On the luge, there’s only one. You’re a luger. All alone.”

The hermit’s lower lip quivered.

“Always wanted to be in the Olympics. That used to be my dream. Then I became a hermit.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Elizabeth suggested. “You can follow your dream of being in the Olympics. We’re all following our dreams here. Marcy’s going to be a plus-size supermodel, Ben’s going to start a revolution with his poetry, Derrick’s going to…” She trailed off for a moment but then started up again. “Bobby. Bobby’s going to be president.”

“Yaaay!” cheered Bobby.

The hermit peered closely at Bobby and then shook his head. “You can’t be president.”
Ben cringed. Hermits were so politically incorrect. You weren’t supposed to point it out when someone had Downs Syndrome.

“Why not?” Bobby asked.

“President has to be born in America,” the hermit said. “You’re obviously from one of those Mongolian countries.”

A light breeze rustled through the corn stalks. Ben could actually hear the corn weevils chewing on the stalks.

The hermit nodded. “All right. I’ll come on your flower caravan.” He looked around at them appraisingly. “Who wants to be on my bobsled team?”

Ben didn’t want to be on the bobsled team. He shrunk in his shoulders, trying to disappear so the hermit wouldn’t pick him to be on the bobsled team.

“I’ll be on your bobsled,” Marcy said.

Ben didn’t know if that would work. He doubted Marcy would be able to squeeze into a bobsled. Plus he was pretty sure that men’s and women’s bobsled were separate Olympic events; there was no co-ed bobsled. Although he couldn’t be sure. Ben didn’t know much about sports. He was a poet.

***
ו' תמוז תשס''ז
ירושלים
June 22, 2007
Jerusalem