Chapter Seventeen

Fortunately, they managed to convince the sheriff to let them leave with their flowers and poet intact. Ben didn’t feel at all embarrassed that a small town sheriff ran them out of town; he felt too inspired to feel anything else. From the top of the gazebo, he scribbled furiously into his notebook verses about the Fire of Flowers. The five-alarm Fire of Flowers. The Great Chicago Fire of Flowers.

As they pulled out of town, Elizabeth whispered softly to herself, “The siege begins.”

The pen slipped and Ben accidentally tore a hole through the paper.

“What siege?"

“Ben, you didn’t think we were going to accept defeat so easily, did you?”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“Aren’t we fleeing?”

“That’s what I want him to think.” She looked over her shoulder at the town shrinking in the distance and the corners of her mouth curled upwards.

“Let’s just go to the next town,” Derrick said. “That sheriff is going to lock us in jail…or worse.”

“Derrick, Derrick, Derrick.” Elizabeth shook her head. “You’re always thinking negatively. We have to work on that.”

“I’m not being negative. I’m realistic. We’re going to be lynched. He has a volunteer fire department.”

“Don’t be silly. Our only problem is the sheriff. It’s just like The Wizard of Oz. As soon as the Wicked Witch is gone, all the people there will be on our side.”

Ben hoped she wouldn’t expand on this metaphor, but she did.

“Yes, I’m Dorothy. Ben is Toto. Derrick, you’re the Cowardly Lion.”

“WHY AM I THE COWARDLY LION?!”

“That can be your new handle,” she suggested.

“I don’t want to be the Cowardly Lion,” Derrick moaned.

“At least you’re not Todo,” Ben said.

“The point is that we just have to get around the sheriff. The volunteer fire department won’t give us any trouble. Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“No no. You tell me your plan first.”

“What?”

“I read a book on leadership in preparation for our journey and it said I should ask you your ideas first. If I said mine first, it would influence you. You would be afraid to contradict me. So go ahead: tell me how we can get rid of the sheriff.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Ben said.

“Sure you do. How can we show our flowers to the townspeople?”

“I don’t know. Ghetto Traveler, maybe?”

“Ben, Ghetto Traveler is a lovely fluid, I’m sure, but it can’t be of much help in our present situation. Derrick, what’s your idea?”

“Okay,” Derrick said. “We could support the other sheriff, Joey Bob. You know: the resistance.”

Elizabeth mad a sour face. “But he deceived us. He took fifty dollars from me and sold us a worthless parade permit that we never even received.”

Derrick shrugged. “Lesser of two evils. He’s our Northern Alliance.”

“Hmmm.” She rubbed her pointy chin.

“You’re not actually considering this?” Derrick said. “I was joking, you know.”

“It’s a good idea,” she said. “It’s actually better than my idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea.”

“Then why’d you suggest it?”

“I was joking. Couldn’t you tell I was joking?”

“You sounded so serious.”

“I have a very dry sense of humor. What do you want me to hit two drums and a cymbal every time I make a joke? Doo-doop-CHING!”

“This is no time for jokes. This is serious business. You need to express your feelings better, Derrick.”

“Why don’t you tell us your idea,” Ben suggested.

She grinned and clasped the tips of her fingers together like Mr. Burns.

“Okay, first we’re going to need a diversion.”

“A virgin?”

“No, Derrick. A diversion.”

“Oh. Okay, right.”

“And then when the sheriff is diverted, we sneak the caravan in and quickly put on a flower show.”

“What diversion?” Ben asked. They would need a pretty big diversion to sneak in an entire caravan.

“Well,” Elizabeth said. “I have a good idea for a diversion, but I’d like to hear your ideas first. Ben?”

“Ghetto Traveler.”

“No. Derrick? And please be serious this time.”

“Chloroform and a rag.”

“I told you to be serious.”

“I am being serious.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “We don’t want to stoop to the sheriff’s level.”

“So what’s your idea?” Ben asked her.

“Well, I lied. I don’t have one. I thought it would encourage you to think of something if you thought I had an idea. I’ll ask the gang what they think.” She picked up the CB radio. “This is Grey Goose here. I need some advice. What’s a good diversion to distract the sheriff while we sneak in the flowers? Over.”

A staticcy voice came through the CB radio. “I have an idea. Why don’t you strip down to your underpants, lather yourself in some pig’s blood, and streak down Main Street?”

“Who said that?” Elizabeth asked. “You didn’t identify yourself. Over.”

“It’s the sheriff,” Ben said. “He’s on the CB radio.”

“Don’t be tryin’ any diversions!” the sheriff shouted through the CB. “Just keep goin’ straight outta here! DON’T MAKE ME COME AFTER YOU!!!”

***

They drove from town to town setting up the flower show. It was always the same routine and always without much luck. No homicidal sheriffs ran them out of town, but they didn’t get any ecstatic receptions either. Everyone told them how “pretty” the flowers were, but no one wanted to drop everything and join an aspiring bobsled team. Elizabeth thought the sheriff had laid a curse on them.

They ate at greasy little truck stop diners. Since Elizabeth always picked up the tab, Derrick always ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. All of the truck stop diners were similar: a layer of grease coated every surface: the tables, the plastic-tiled floors, the plates, the silverware. It was as if they used deep-fat fryer grease for mop water and to clean the table-tops and dishes, their own multi-purpose cleaning fluid, a truck stop Ghetto Traveler.

Ben’s shoes stuck to the plastic tiles and made suction cup sounds when he lifted his legs. He wanted to get in touch with the working people so he took off his shoes and socks, and walked around, leaving greasy footprints on the plastic tiles until the waitress told him to stop; the health inspector demanded the wearing of shoes.

Just like the gardeners and caterers before them, the truck drivers shunned Ben and Derrick, thinking that reading poetry to flowers and absorbing mosquitoes wasn’t real work. Ben hoped this would change with time and the truckers would accept him as one of their own. Dian Fossey wasn’t accepted overnight when she joined a tribe of gorillas. These things took time.

And Dian Fossey’s parents probably didn’t support her decision to join the gorilla tribe. They probably called Pat Henderson (or a Pat Henderson equivalent) and he probably told her that she was addicted to Anthropology.

Ben and Derrick were sitting alone at a window booth facing the highway. Derrick took a packet of Sweet n Low from the sugar carrier and rolled it around in his hand, grinding up the crystals inside into a fine powder. Then he packed it back in with the other sugars and Sweet n Lows.

“Stop that,” Ben said. “People are gonna use those.”

“So? I’m not hurting it.”

“You shouldn’t manhandle other people’s food.”

“I’m not manhandling, I’m not even touching it. There’s a wrapper between me and the Sweet n Low.”

“People are gonna see it’s all powdery and they’ll think there’s something wrong with it.”

“What’s the difference? It’s all gonna dissolve anyway when they put it in their coffee.”

“Just stop doing it, okay? As a personal favor to me, stop grinding up the Sweet n Low.”

Derrick threw a packet of Sweet n Low that hit Ben on the nose and fell in his minestrone soup.

“Sorry,” Derrick said. “Got carried away.”

He plunged his fingers into Ben’s minestrone soup and pulled out the pink packet of Sweet n Low. He wiped the reddish-orange liquid off with a paper napkin and squeezed the packet back into its container.

“Don’t put it back!”

“Why not? I wiped it off.”

“You got the Sweet n Low all soupy!”

“No I didn’t. It’s inside the bag. And there’s a wax coating inside to protect the granules.”

“You still shouldn’t put it back.”

“You want me to waste it?”

“I can’t eat my soup now after you stuck your hand in it.”

"Why not?”

“You’re disgusting. I’m going to go sit with Toby.”

Ben hopped up and stormed over to the booth where Toby sat alone. Toby was still a hermit even within the caravan. The truck drivers didn’t like him because Toby would never order off the menu. He wasn’t used to such a wide range of food and always asked for corn. Just plain corn on a plate. “Who does he think he is?” the truckers would grumble. “A movie star?”

“Hi,” Ben said, sitting down.

“Hi,” Toby mumbled.

“So,” Ben said, trying to start conversation. “You’re a Muslim, eh?”

“Yep.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I converted.”

“Oh.” Ben watched Toby spoon corn into his mouth with a soup spoon. “Was that before or after you became a hermit?”

“After,” Toby said. “There was this fella travelin’ through. First I thought he was a salesman. I don’t like salesmen.”

“Right. I know.”

“He stopped an’ tol’ me all bout his religion, how all I had to do was believe on this Jesus feller and be saved. So I figured, what have I got to lose, so I went and joined.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

Toby took a big spoonful of corn and chewed it up happily.

“I think you might have converted to Christianity,” Ben said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a different religion.”

Toby shrugged. “I get ‘em all confused. Bein’ a hermit, sometimes I mix things up. And the corn don’t correct me.”

Ben felt disappointed. Now he couldn’t say that one of his friends was Muslim. It lessened his desire to befriend Toby and made him wish he hadn’t sat down at the table in the first place. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the meal.

***
כ''ח באב תשס''ז
ירושלים
August 12, 2007
Jerusalem