Chapter Thirteen
Most of the gardeners quit. Only Manuel, Frederico, and Hey Zeus agreed to become truck drivers. Ben recruited Marcy, but they were still short on employees so Elizabeth decided to put an advertisement in the newspaper. She asked Ben to write the ad, since he was a writer.
Ben didn’t want to. Help wanted ads were a waste of his creative juices and he hated wasting creative juice. It would start him down the wrong path: the path of writing dry nonfiction, legal documents, and instruction manuals that nobody read. He supposed his close friends and family would read an instruction manual if he wrote it, just to be nice. They would tell him how great it was, how clearly he explained the steps of putting together an electric fan. It would be the first thing he wrote that his father actually liked.
On the other hand,if he wrote the ad, at least he would be published. He supposed a help wanted advertisement counted as being published. Elizabeth was having it printed in all the major newspapers and it would be distributed all over the city.
So Ben agreed to write the ad. His first published poem was titled: “Help Wanted.” He tried to make it creative. Drivers were wanted, the poem said, like water on thirsty lips. Generous compensation. Generous like a drunken philanthropist. Or a philanthropic drunk. Comprehensive health insurance, covering everything, like the feathers of a penguin, or the burka of a Muslim. Valid driver’s license needed. Needed like the earth needs the rains, the stargazer needs the stars. The salary competetive. Competitive like a sporting event, with balls and sticks and rackets, running, jumping, leaping! Onward Ho Ye Mighty Flower Caravan!
Then there was a phone number for people to call if they were interested. Interested like a narcissist in a hall of funhouse mirrors.
Ben bought copies of the newspapers and gave them to his family and friends. He was now a published author. Tyrone was impressed. “Makes you tink bout what really impo’tant.”
Ben’s father was not impressed. They sat in his parents' kitchen, the newspaper spread out on the table. Max read the poem silently and shook his head.
“You’re an addict,” he announced. “This poem is a cry for help.”
“No it isn’t,” Ben said.
“Then why is it titled, “Help Wanted?”
“It’s a help wanted ad.”
“You said it’s a poem.”
“It’s both. It’s functional poetry. The idea that art is just there to look pretty is used by owners to mistreat their employees. Remove beauty from the daily grind and people think their jobs ought to be miserable. Then they tolerate it.”
“And I suppose rhymes are a tool of the oppressor?”
***
“I guess I should invite you inside for a cup of tea,” the hermit said. “I suppose that would be the hospitable thing to do.”
The hermit turned and walked towards the dilapidated shack. They followed after him. Ben saw that Derrick looked a little pale, possibly worried that being a hermit was contagious.
Mayby Derrick already had hermit. He was basically a hermit in his parents’ basement, just sitting there, strumming his guitar. Derrick rode the proverbial luge.
“Derrick,” Ben whispered. “You should be on the hermit’s bobsled.”
Derrick looked at him and squinched up his brow.
“Why would I wan’t to do that?”
“It’s good exercise. You need the exercise.”
“It’s not exercise. You just sit there.”
“You have to shift around, back and forth. You have to scrunch up inside the hollowed-out log to cut down on the wind resistance.”
“I’m not getting in a log with him.”
They went into the shack. The place was a real dump. It looked like the kind of place Tyrone would own. It had a dirt floor littered with broken glass. A torn blanked covered a lump of dried straw that looked dry enough to draw blood.
The hermit set a blackened kettle on a small portable gas stove which he then lit with a match.
“Hope you like corn tea.”
“That will be fine,” Elizabeth said.
Ben looked at the selection of mugs resting on a wobbly wooden table. They all seemed to have a black mold growing on them. It was inspiring. If only Ben could spend the night there, drinking corn tea, he felt sure he could get a good poem out of it. He picked up a mug with a good amount of black mold and sniffed. Plight. It smelled like plight. Ben realized he didn’t know the hermit’s name; didn’t know whose plight he was smelling.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The hermit opened his mouth to speak but then froze. His eyes went wide. He seemed to have forgotten his name. The hermint looked embarrassed and Ben felt embarrassed for him.
“I’m Ben,” Ben said. He’d stall for time. He’d introduce everyone and maybe by the time he finished introducing a couple dozen drivers, the hermit would remember his name.
“This is Derrick. Toby actually. He has two names.”
“He has two names?” The hermit said petulantly. “Why’s he get two names?”
“One’s his handle.”
“I ain’t got a handle. I ain’t got nothin to hold onto. Can’t even remember my name. And he gets two?”
The kettle shook in the hermit’s hand, his lips trembled, and he looked like he was about
to burst into tears.
“Don’t cry,” Elizabeth said. “You can have one of Derrick’s names.”
“What!? No!!” Derrick kicked at a pile of dried corn cobs, sending them scattering.
“You’re giving my name away?”
“Let him have Toby.”
“No! Toby is my name!”
“Toby,” the hermit mused. “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”
Ben couldn’t help giggling. Toby was such a funny name. Derrick shot Ben an angry glance.
“So Toby,” Elizabeth said to the hermit, “Is there a place close by where we can find more people? More people like you?”
“Ain’t nobody like me. I’m unique, like a snowflake.”
“Other people we can show the flowers to?”
“There’s a little town up the road a stretch. Sometimes I head there to trade corn for some sour candy and licorice. But they don’t like flowers there.”
“Really?”
“Don’t remember ever seein a flower there. Not a one.”
“Well, that’s about to change.”
***
The caravan sped down the road toward the town. Ben, Derrick, and Elizabeth sat up in the gazebo, the wind whipping their scarves. Ben read a poem to the flowers through the CB radio about how everyone was a snowflake, everyone was unique, and when they came together with other snowflakes, they became snow and made a path for the bobsled. Ben wasn’t sure what the bobsled was a metaphor for, but it sounded good. He tried to focus on his poem, but was hard to concentrate with Derrick and Elizabeth arguing.
“Why’d we bring him along?” Derrick asked. “What do we need with a hermit? Are we going to bring everyone along that wants to follow their dream? The caravan is cramped enough as it is.”
“We need someone who knows how to take care of flowers,” Elizabeth said. “Especially since we lost Pablo.”
“How can he take care of flowers? All his corn died.”
“Because you wouldn’t help him. You should have made the bugs come after you.”
“I couldn’t. I can’t tell the bugs what to do. If I could, why would I tell them to bite me. I’d send them to picnics to steal me sandwiches.”
“You can’t stop the bugs from getting in our teeth either. Apparently you’re losing your powers. You’re having a slump.”
“Why does he have to be Toby? Toby’s no name for a hermit.”
“He’s not a hermit anymore.”
“He can be Herman. Herman the hermit. Or Kermit. Kermit the hermit. Oh, gimme the CB. I just made a poem.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “You can’t talk through the CB until you have a handle.”
***
כ' תמוז תשס''ז
ירושלים
July 6, 2007
Jerusalem
Ben didn’t want to. Help wanted ads were a waste of his creative juices and he hated wasting creative juice. It would start him down the wrong path: the path of writing dry nonfiction, legal documents, and instruction manuals that nobody read. He supposed his close friends and family would read an instruction manual if he wrote it, just to be nice. They would tell him how great it was, how clearly he explained the steps of putting together an electric fan. It would be the first thing he wrote that his father actually liked.
On the other hand,if he wrote the ad, at least he would be published. He supposed a help wanted advertisement counted as being published. Elizabeth was having it printed in all the major newspapers and it would be distributed all over the city.
So Ben agreed to write the ad. His first published poem was titled: “Help Wanted.” He tried to make it creative. Drivers were wanted, the poem said, like water on thirsty lips. Generous compensation. Generous like a drunken philanthropist. Or a philanthropic drunk. Comprehensive health insurance, covering everything, like the feathers of a penguin, or the burka of a Muslim. Valid driver’s license needed. Needed like the earth needs the rains, the stargazer needs the stars. The salary competetive. Competitive like a sporting event, with balls and sticks and rackets, running, jumping, leaping! Onward Ho Ye Mighty Flower Caravan!
Then there was a phone number for people to call if they were interested. Interested like a narcissist in a hall of funhouse mirrors.
Ben bought copies of the newspapers and gave them to his family and friends. He was now a published author. Tyrone was impressed. “Makes you tink bout what really impo’tant.”
Ben’s father was not impressed. They sat in his parents' kitchen, the newspaper spread out on the table. Max read the poem silently and shook his head.
“You’re an addict,” he announced. “This poem is a cry for help.”
“No it isn’t,” Ben said.
“Then why is it titled, “Help Wanted?”
“It’s a help wanted ad.”
“You said it’s a poem.”
“It’s both. It’s functional poetry. The idea that art is just there to look pretty is used by owners to mistreat their employees. Remove beauty from the daily grind and people think their jobs ought to be miserable. Then they tolerate it.”
“And I suppose rhymes are a tool of the oppressor?”
***
“I guess I should invite you inside for a cup of tea,” the hermit said. “I suppose that would be the hospitable thing to do.”
The hermit turned and walked towards the dilapidated shack. They followed after him. Ben saw that Derrick looked a little pale, possibly worried that being a hermit was contagious.
Mayby Derrick already had hermit. He was basically a hermit in his parents’ basement, just sitting there, strumming his guitar. Derrick rode the proverbial luge.
“Derrick,” Ben whispered. “You should be on the hermit’s bobsled.”
Derrick looked at him and squinched up his brow.
“Why would I wan’t to do that?”
“It’s good exercise. You need the exercise.”
“It’s not exercise. You just sit there.”
“You have to shift around, back and forth. You have to scrunch up inside the hollowed-out log to cut down on the wind resistance.”
“I’m not getting in a log with him.”
They went into the shack. The place was a real dump. It looked like the kind of place Tyrone would own. It had a dirt floor littered with broken glass. A torn blanked covered a lump of dried straw that looked dry enough to draw blood.
The hermit set a blackened kettle on a small portable gas stove which he then lit with a match.
“Hope you like corn tea.”
“That will be fine,” Elizabeth said.
Ben looked at the selection of mugs resting on a wobbly wooden table. They all seemed to have a black mold growing on them. It was inspiring. If only Ben could spend the night there, drinking corn tea, he felt sure he could get a good poem out of it. He picked up a mug with a good amount of black mold and sniffed. Plight. It smelled like plight. Ben realized he didn’t know the hermit’s name; didn’t know whose plight he was smelling.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The hermit opened his mouth to speak but then froze. His eyes went wide. He seemed to have forgotten his name. The hermint looked embarrassed and Ben felt embarrassed for him.
“I’m Ben,” Ben said. He’d stall for time. He’d introduce everyone and maybe by the time he finished introducing a couple dozen drivers, the hermit would remember his name.
“This is Derrick. Toby actually. He has two names.”
“He has two names?” The hermit said petulantly. “Why’s he get two names?”
“One’s his handle.”
“I ain’t got a handle. I ain’t got nothin to hold onto. Can’t even remember my name. And he gets two?”
The kettle shook in the hermit’s hand, his lips trembled, and he looked like he was about
to burst into tears.
“Don’t cry,” Elizabeth said. “You can have one of Derrick’s names.”
“What!? No!!” Derrick kicked at a pile of dried corn cobs, sending them scattering.
“You’re giving my name away?”
“Let him have Toby.”
“No! Toby is my name!”
“Toby,” the hermit mused. “Yeah. That’ll do nicely.”
Ben couldn’t help giggling. Toby was such a funny name. Derrick shot Ben an angry glance.
“So Toby,” Elizabeth said to the hermit, “Is there a place close by where we can find more people? More people like you?”
“Ain’t nobody like me. I’m unique, like a snowflake.”
“Other people we can show the flowers to?”
“There’s a little town up the road a stretch. Sometimes I head there to trade corn for some sour candy and licorice. But they don’t like flowers there.”
“Really?”
“Don’t remember ever seein a flower there. Not a one.”
“Well, that’s about to change.”
***
The caravan sped down the road toward the town. Ben, Derrick, and Elizabeth sat up in the gazebo, the wind whipping their scarves. Ben read a poem to the flowers through the CB radio about how everyone was a snowflake, everyone was unique, and when they came together with other snowflakes, they became snow and made a path for the bobsled. Ben wasn’t sure what the bobsled was a metaphor for, but it sounded good. He tried to focus on his poem, but was hard to concentrate with Derrick and Elizabeth arguing.
“Why’d we bring him along?” Derrick asked. “What do we need with a hermit? Are we going to bring everyone along that wants to follow their dream? The caravan is cramped enough as it is.”
“We need someone who knows how to take care of flowers,” Elizabeth said. “Especially since we lost Pablo.”
“How can he take care of flowers? All his corn died.”
“Because you wouldn’t help him. You should have made the bugs come after you.”
“I couldn’t. I can’t tell the bugs what to do. If I could, why would I tell them to bite me. I’d send them to picnics to steal me sandwiches.”
“You can’t stop the bugs from getting in our teeth either. Apparently you’re losing your powers. You’re having a slump.”
“Why does he have to be Toby? Toby’s no name for a hermit.”
“He’s not a hermit anymore.”
“He can be Herman. Herman the hermit. Or Kermit. Kermit the hermit. Oh, gimme the CB. I just made a poem.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “You can’t talk through the CB until you have a handle.”
***
כ' תמוז תשס''ז
ירושלים
July 6, 2007
Jerusalem
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Friday, July 06, 2007
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