Chapter Twenty-Seven

The county coroner pronounced Howard dead and tried to give Elizabeth the death certificate. Elizabeth wanted a second opinion. The county coroner said she would have to go to another county; he didn’t tolerate second opinions on his turf.

The guests started to shuffle towards the valet; the party had died along with Howard. The baggers stood in line for their short bus.

Tyrone climbed up on the ambulance’s roof. “Stop!” he shouted. “The party has to go on! The professor woulda wanted it that way!”

“No,” Natasha said. “He wouldn’t.”

She was right. He would want them to be miserable.

***

When David got on the bus home, his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty with inspiration. He whipped out his notebook and wrote about the tropical greenhouse massacre, describing it in literal and graphic detail.

When he got into his apartment, he looked over what he had written and realized it was no good. It was too realistic. He had planned to tell Elizabeth what Lugo and Black had done; he couldn’t let Tyrone’s friends and the baggers take the blame. But now…he wasn’t so sure.

Anyone who heard his poem would know what had happened, and if Elizabeth in her weakened state found out about the dead flowers, it could drive her over the edge into an abyss of despair, insanity, and catatonia. He had to hide the truth from her, at least temporarily. His plain, realistic workingman style wouldn’t do any good here; he would have to use metaphors.

The goddess of agriculture’s bouncing breasts (Lugo and Black—he couldn’t use their real names) burned down the rainforest (tropical greenhouse) killing all the endangered Bengal tigers (flowers) to make living space for farmland (protect America’s agriculture.)

Some day, after he became a famous poet and was long dead, people would look for secret codes in his poetry. They would find the secret meanings. For now, however, if someone starting reading into it, he would have to say, “You’re crazy! It’s just a poem!”

***

The next morning, David was reading his new poem, Jungle Fire, to the tulips, when Elizabeth came up to him. She wore all black, mourning clothes, and her face looked puffy behind her black gauzy veil. She apologized to David that he wasn’t able to read his poem, again. He told her not to worry about it. She told him she wanted to have Howard’s funeral in the garden. “Howard wasn’t religious,” she said. “He wouldn’t want a preacher. I think it would be best if you gave the eulogy.”

David said he didn’t think he could; he had never given a eulogy before. But his inexperience wasn’t what worried him—he had no idea what there was nice to say about Howard Roseman.

He went to the library to find a book on the subject of eulogies: something like the Idiot’s Guide to Eulogies, or Bereavement for Dummies. He found one helpful book on public speaking that had a chapter on eulogies. It advised the eulogizer to find a life-affirming meaning in the deceased’s life. But what was the moral of Howard Roseman’s life? Maybe it was: don’t round up a bunch of odd-looking strangers and have them jump out and scream at an old man. Especially when he doesn’t know it’s his birthday.

***

Lugo had chipped several of David’s teeth when they were fighting. David grinned into the mirror at his broken teeth and wondered if he should leave them that way. Workingmen didn’t have dental insurance; their teeth were yellow and crooked. Meanwhile, the wealthy winked at each other and smiled with perfect straight white teeth. The emoticon was a semi-colon followed by an end-parentheses.

;)

No. He had to get his teeth fixed. His vanity demanded it. Unfortunately, the health insurance that Elizabeth gave him didn’t cover dental, so he had to get his father to fix his teeth.

He went to Max’s office on the seventh floor. The waiting room was stuffed with people. There weren’t enough seats and many people had to stand.

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked.

“He’s my father,” David said.

The receptionist was new. Max made it a point to fire his secretaries every six months. He didn’t want them getting too comfortable. Patients who came for a checkup twice a year never saw the same one. Max thought this was classy.

“Why do you need to see him?”

David smiled, exposing his shattered teeth. The secretary screamed.

Everyone in the waiting room jumped. The door to the office swung open and Max ran out, brandishing a dental drill.

“What happened?!” he shouted.

David smiled, baring his teeth.

Max walked close, peered into David’s mouth, and grimaced. “They didn’t like the poem?”

“I didn’t get to read it,” David said.

Max gestured to the waiting room. “I’ve got a full schedule. Why didn’t you call ahead?”

“And give you a chance to call Pat Henderson?”

“All right. Come on.”

Max walked back into his office and David followed him. They heard the waiting people complain angrily at this brazen display of nepotism. There was no budging, they claimed. One woman threatened suicide.

In the antiseptic office, David heard the familiar easy listening music. Max thought art should be easy to listen to. Well, David’s art wasn’t easy to listen to. The truth was never easy.

David went over to the sink, took out a disposable toothbrush, and began to brush. Max took stainless steel instruments out of the cabinet and set them on a small table.

“Did you get in a fight with a Venus fly-trap?” he asked.

“No,” David said.

“You know how I feel about fighting.”

“I know. Don’t fight unless you know you can win.”

“Well? Did you win?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Who did this to you? Was it that old lady? Were you hurt doing some strange flower cult initiation ceremony?”

David couldn’t involve his family in this. He didn’t want to see them in Guantanamo Bay, stacked in a naked human pyramid.

“I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me? What are you—a battered woman? Do I need to find you a women’s shelter?”

“I was beat up by an agent of the Department of Agriculture because I tried to stop him from destroying rare, tropical plants.”

Max sighed. “Well, I can’t force you to tell me.”

David spat in the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Then he went and lay down on the examination chair. Max pushed the pedal with his foot, lowering the chair, and fastened a paper bib around David’s neck.

“I’m going to read a poem at a funeral,” David said.

“The guy you were in a fight with?”

“No. Someone else.” David explained how Howard had had a heart attack, and Elizabeth asked him to deliver the eulogy at the garden.

“She made you high priest already?” Max asked.

“High priest?”

“Of your cult. You’re giving the eulogy at a funeral.”

David couldn’t respond; Max was pricking his gums with a needle. The swelling pain of Novocain filled his mouth.

“There’s nothing wrong with religion,” Max said. “Sure, it’s a scam to take money from weak-minded people, but if you’re the one getting the money, it’s fine.” Max worked in silence for a little while before speaking again. “You shouldn’t be in a cult. You should pick a more established religion. Maybe Islam. It’s the world’s fastest growing religion, you know. And Muslims are always dying.”

Max turned on the drill and went to work.

***

October 28, 2007

Jerusalem

ט''ז בחשוון תשס''ח

ירושלים

Chapter Twenty-Six

Elizabeth took Howard out to a restaurant. When they were on their way home, she would send the bartender a text message letting him know to turn off the lights and hide. It was time for the surprise party.
***
The massacre in the tropical greenhouse continued. David couldn’t just stand there and let the Department of Agriculture agents massacre the rare flowers. He had to do something, so he leapt on Lugo’s back, wrapped his legs around his gut, his arms around his neck, and squeezed with a sleeper hold.
“You just made a big mistake, flower boy,” Lugo growled.
Lugo grasped David’s legs to cut off any escape route, flopped down on his back, and crushed David under him. David’s lungs flattened painfully but he kept a tight grip around Lugo’s neck. They wrestled, rolling through the moist tropical soil, steamrolling rare flowers underneath them. Agent Black helped his partner by kicking David in the ribs.
Suddenly, everything went pitch black. David thought he was dead. A nuclear terrorist attack had killed him so quick he hadn’t even felt anything.
No. That wasn’t it. Aside from sight, his other senses were there. He felt the piercing pain of Black’s steel-toed boot in his groin, smelled the acrid armpit stink of Lugo’s headlock, tasted the bitter mud when Lugo shoved his face into the ground, and heard Black voice squeal, “EAT IT!!! EAT IT!!!” His senses became sharper, in fact.
He wiggled away from Lugo’s grip, grabbed the large sturdy branch of the chocolate tree, and tried to pull himself up. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw the two agents as dark figures swimming through the dim, filtered moonlight. All the lights outside had shut off.
David remembered the party and dropped to the ground. “There here,” he said.
“Who’s here?” Black asked.
“Didn’t you read the invitation?” David asked. “It’s Howard’s surprise party. We’re all going to jump out and shout surprise.”
David felt his way across the greenhouse, stumbled over stray cocoa pods, and pushed the tin door open. The cool evening air blew over his face. He scurried through the dark, moonlit garden, past the tulips, past the roses, towards the gazebo. The two agents followed after him. Lugo panted heavily and his footsteps were uneven; he seemed to be limping.
“Are you okay?” David asked.
“You should see the other guy,” Lugo said.
“I’m fine,” David pointed out.
Lugo slapped David in the mouth causing him to bite his tongue. He tasted salty blood and ground his teeth to stifle a scream. He would have kicked Lugo in the shin, but he didn’t want to alert Howard.
“Quit it,” he said and then felt embarrassed at the whiny tone of his voice.
Agent Black set a hand on Lugo’s shoulder. “That’s enough,” he said. “We have to hide now. We’ll settle this later…in the ring.”
They got up to the gazebo and saw it was completely stuffed with crouching, hiding people.
“No room fo’ you,” Tyrone said. “You gotta find somewhere else.”
A car door slammed in the driveway.
“Come on!”
David grabbed Lugo and Black by their collars and pulled them after him, his eyes darting around, looking for a hiding spot. They dove behind the strawberry bush just as two dark figures rounded the corner of the house towards the garden. Howard’s skinny frame and sunken shoulders came shuffling along next to Elizabeth’s airy glide. It was too dark to make out their faces.
“Can’t you show me tomorrow?” Howard asked. He could speak again, but his voice rasped and crackled.
“I stabbed him in the neck,” David whispered to Agent Lugo.
“Ooooohh,” Lugo mocked. “Scary.”
“Shhhhhh!” Agent Black said.
“I want you to see it right now,” Elizabeth said.
“Last time I went in the garden, Florence Nightingale stabbed me.”
“This flower’s special. They just delivered it this evening. You won’t believe your eyes.”
They stopped walking a few feet from the strawberry bush. David held his breath and made his body still.
“Why are the lights off?” Howard asked.
“Because of the flower,” Elizabeth said. “It only grows in the densest jungles where barely any sunlight can get through. It doesn’t like light.”
“Well, what are you going to do when the sun rises?”
“I’ll put a blanket over it tonight. That’s only a temporary solution, of course. Tomorrow I’ll get it a new greenhouse and paint the greenhouse black.”
“But you don’t have a blanket.”
“The flower deliverers said they’d leave a blanket next to the greenhouse, right next to the door.”
“How am I supposed to see the flower if there’s no light?”
“They also left infra-red goggles for us.”
“All right.” Howard sighed a raspy sigh and started to walk into the garden. “Your gardeners better not have left a rake out. I don’t want to step on it and get hit in the face.”
Elizabeth sashayed after him.
“Please God no,” Agent Black murmured. “Not the Congo Skull Blossom.”
“She didn’t really get a new flower,” David whispered. “She’s just saying that to get him into the garden.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Black said. He lifted up a pant leg and pulled a small pistol out of an ankle pistol. Its cold steel flashed in the moonlight. “We’re making our move.”
Lugo also pulled out a pistol from his ankle holster and the two agents briskly walked after the Rosemans. David scurried after them.
Elizabeth walked straight across the lawn towards the gazebo and Howard followed after her.
“Why are we going this way?” Howard asked. “The greenhouse’s over there.”
Suddenly, bright lights lit up the whole garden. David had to shield his eyes. Everyone in the gazebo jumped to their feet and screamed, “SURPRISE!!!” The garbage men popped out from behind the garbage bins and screamed. The baggers came running out of the rose bushes and screamed.
Howard straightened up, his eyes popped wide and he looked up at the group in the gazebo. Tyrone, Derrick, Downs Syndrome Bobby, Marcy, and the rest.
Howard was wearing a grey suit, yellow shirt, and no tie. Thick gauze was taped over his Adam’s apple. He sucked in a couple quick breaths, clutched his chest and a pained expression spread across his face. His eyes rolled back in his skull. He fell over dead, face first onto the grass.
Several people screamed.
“It’s a heart attack!” Marcy yelled.
“Naw, he just fainted,” Tyrone said. “Fortunately, Ghetto Traveler is also a smelling salt. And even mo’ fortunately, I always carry a bottle. Just in case.”
Tyrone ran down the gazebo steps, taking them two at a time, pulled a bottle of Ghetto Traveler out of his jacket pocket, broke the seal, and unscrewed the cap. He slid in the grass, stopping next to motionless body. He waved the bottle under Howard’s nose. There was no response. The professor remained limp, one eye half open, his mouth gaping.
“Well, that’s a first,” Tyrone said disappointedly. “Ghetto Traveler has met its match.”
“Yeah,” said Derrick. “Death.”
Elizabeth pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Certainly agents of the Department of Agriculture knew First Aid. David turned to the agents, and saw them fleeing out towards the driveway. He would have to handle it himself. Everyone else had frozen.
He knelt down and pressed two fingers on Howard’s neck. There was no pulse, or maybe the bandage was blocking the pulse. David ripped it with a single pull, taking out a good chunk of Howard’s neck hair with it. Howard was surely dead; he didn’t react to having his neck hair pulled out, didn’t shout “OW!!!” didn’t even cringe. David pressed two fingers against the scarred throat. Still no pulse. David shook his head sadly.
“CPR him!” Elizabeth shouted.
David didn’t know CPR. He had no First Aid training, but he had seen it done on TV. Now he could redeem himself for stabbing Howard in the neck.
He needed to pump Howard’s heart to get it moving again, but he couldn’t remember exactly where the heart was. During the Pledge of Allegiance, he put his right hand on the left side of his chest. Was that where the heart was or just where the right hand naturally rested? Maybe it was in the center of the chest.
He realized he had unconsciously placed his right hand on the left side of his own chest. Everyone was staring at him, wondering what he was doing and why he wasn’t performing CPR.
He placed his hands on Howard’s chest (halfway between the Pledge of Allegiance heart and the center of the chest) and started to pump.
“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! CLEAR!!!”
He pressed his fingers into the scarred neck.
Nothing. Still no heartbeat.
He squeezed Howard’s hairy nostrils shut and gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Howard’s breath was surprisingly minty-fresh.
But Howard didn’t start breathing again. David continued for several minutes: pumping Howard’s chest and blowing in air while the workingmen looked on.
A siren screamed in the distance. Its wailing got louder until the ambulance crashed through the hedges, its flashing lights lighting up the garden like a strobe light. It skidded to a stop on the lawn.
The back door of the ambulance opened and a burly paramedic hopped down. Another medic, short with a slim moustache on his upper lip, hurried after him, holding a bag. They opened the bag, pulled out a small plastic-coated machine and went to work on Howard, shocking him with a defibrillator and shoving a plastic breathing tube down his throat.
Several tense minutes passed. The burly paramedic shook his head, switched off the defibrillator, pulled out the tube. They started to pack up their equipment.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” the burly paramedic said. “He’s dead.”
“I want a second opinion,” Elizabeth said.
The burly paramedic zipped up his defibrillator bag. “It’s not my opinion,” he said. “It’s a fact. See for yourself.” He gestured at the corpse lying on the grass.
Elizabeth looked down at Howard and shrugged. “Maybe he’s in a coma,” she said. “How would I know? I’m not a doctor.”
“Well I am a doctor and I can tell you: he’s dead.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Elizabeth said. “You’re a paramedic.”
“Same thing. I just can’t prescribe medication.”
“It’s not even close to the same thing.”
Elizabeth called 9-1-1again and asked for another ambulance. They refused to send another. Their policy was one ambulance per emergency. There was no one else to call; 9-1-1 had a monopoly on emergencies.
***
ו בחשוון תשס''ח
ירושלים
October 18, 2007
Jerusalem

Chapter Twenty-Five

The rich guests gathered around Derrick in the Gazebo. The shameless display of wealth shocked David. All of the men’s suits looked like they cost thousands of dollars. The women wore diamonds, emeralds, and rubies strung all over their bodies. The woman standing next to him wore a diamond necklace that could feed the entire continent of Africa for a week.
David felt out of place in his blue jeans, working boots, workingman shirt, and poet cap. Good. He didn’t want to fit in with these people. When he read his poem to them, they would realize the error of their ways.
He left the gazebo for a stroll around the garden. He went into the darkness by pine tree alley, a small maze made out of pine trees. It was a fairly simple maze. You turned left and then you turned right. It was hard to get lost.
“Thanks for dressing up,” a girl’s voice said.
David turned and saw a beautiful girl approaching him. She had curly auburn hair, a dark oval face, and almond-shaped brown eyes. She wore jeans, but not workingman jeans, designer jeans. They complimented her figure nicely.
“I’m a workingman,” David said. “I can barely afford to put bread on the table. I can’t afford fancy designer name-brand clothes.”
“Don’t worry, you look fine. It’s a good look for you. It says: I’m an artist. I’m above society’s laws. I don’t have to brush my hair.”
David matted his hair down with his hand. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Natasha. I’m Elizabeth’s charge.”
“I’m David.” He shook her hand.
“Sorry,” she said. “My palms are sweaty.”
“Mine were dry. It’s an even exchange. You’re her charge?”
“It means I have to come to her birthday party.”
“You’re a professional guest?”
“I’m not a guest. I’m her ward. She’s my legal guardian.”
“I’m a poet.”
“I know who you are. I saw you reading to the flowers. That’s my room up there.” She pointed to the top of a high spire on the house. “You get so passionate when you read to them.”
“Elizabeth never mentioned you.”
She shrugged. “She probably forgot I exist.”
“How could she forget you?”
“Spur of the moment, Liz decides she wants a kid, but she’s too old and dried out to have one, so she goes to the pound and gets me.”
“The pound?”
“The orphanage. It’s called the pound in Orphan-speak.”
She was an orphan. David didn’t know what to say. He wondered if “I’m sorry” was appropriate. He wasn’t sure, so he stayed silent and didn’t look her in the eyes.
“What!?” Natasha said. “Why do people always get like that when they find out I’m an orphan. They get all uncomfortable. It’s not like orphan is contagious. It’s not like your parents are going to drop dead if I breathe on you.”
Now David was really not sure what to say and looked away uncertainly. He wanted to say something to show her that he it was no big deal; he didn’t feel at all uncomfortable with her being an orphan.
“So,” he said casually. “How’d you get picked?”
“Picked?”
“How’d you get Elizabeth to choose you? You know, when she came to the orphanage.”
She smiled. “Well, I had the experience,” she said sarcastically. “I mean, I’ve been trying to get adopted for seventeen years now, I know all the tricks. Honestly, I thought I was too old to get adopted, that I’d be in the orphanage until my eighteenth birthday, and then be thrown to the street. Happy Birthday, you’re homeless. Great present, right?”
“Better than socks.”
She grinned. “Most people want a baby,” she said. But Liz wanted the least amount of responsibility possible. Maybe she thought it would be fun to have her very own orphan, or she wanted to relive her glory days as a mother, or it was some psychological empty nest syndrome thing. Anyway, after a few weeks, the novelty of having an orphan wore off, and Liz decided she didn’t want to walk me anymore.”
“Walk you?”
“I’m using a dog metaphor. I thought you were a poet. Can’t you recognize a metaphor?”
“I’m a working class poet. I tell it like it really is. I don’t disguise the truth with metaphors.”
“You’re saying I’m hiding the truth?”
“No. Not you. Bourgeois poets. Poets who think they can have a quiet normal life and be great poets. See, inspiration comes from an unconscious part of the brain. That’s why true artists have to live their lives among the people, not in an ivory tower where it’s impossible to align the creative part of the brain with the oppressed. That’s why I dropped out of college: to get in better touch with the workingman.”
“I’m thinking of doing that: dropping out of college. After I start in the fall, I mean. Liz wants me to go.”
“You should. Drop out, I mean. Everyone should. Universities just reproduce the class system. The people who can afford it get to go and take over their parents’ place in the social hierarchy.”
“What about orphans?”
“What?”
“Will I take after my parents if I don’t know who they are?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how you’ll turn out.”
“I don’t have to go to college, anyway. I’ve got Liz’s credit card. I’m set for life.”
“See, I think you’re missing the point of the whole dropping out of college thing.”
There was a moment of quiet silence where they stared at each other. The garden party was heard distantly.
“So,” Natasha said. “Can I read one of your poems?”
“I’m going to read one in a few minutes. Elizabeth wanted to show me off, so I’m reading a poem to her guests.”
“What’s it about?”
“The inevitable demise of people who throw garden parties.”
She laughed. “That’s your boss.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t care who I offend. An exploited worker is an exploited worker. I’m not going to be intimidated just because Elizabeth’s husband’s some kind of billionaire industrialist or something.”
Natasha laughed.
“Howard?” she said. “Howard doesn’t have money. He’s a scholar.” She said scholar with a fancy wave of her hand. “They don’t pay scholars so good.”
“So she inherited it.”
Natasha shook her head. “Liz wasn’t always rich. She gets it from Leonard.”
“Who’s Leonard?”
“Her son. He’s filthy rich and supports her flower habit.”
“So how did Leonard get rich? Through other people’s labor, right?”
“Worse,” she said. She looked around, leaned in close, and whispered in his ear, her breath making his whole body tingle. “Bootlegging.”
“He sells pirated movies?”
“No. He sells alcohol.”
“But alcohol isn’t illegal anymore.”
“It is where he sells it.”
“Grade schools?”
“Iran.”
“Grade schools in Iran?”
“No. Just Iran, period.” She shook her head sadly. “He doesn’t even come to his own mother’s eightieth birthday party. He’d rather hang out with the Mullahs.”
***
כ''ט בתשרי תשס''ח
ירושלים
October 11, 2007
Jerusalem

Chapter Twenty-Four

Decided I shouldn’t have my main character named Benjamin Fishbein. So I changed it.
***
Saturday evening arrived. David dressed in his workingman attire: blue jeans, old scuffed-up work boots, silk poet scarf, French poet hat (beret.) His new poem written specially for the occasion rested in the front pocket of his workingman shirt, just waiting to inspire the working masses. It was the same shirt he wore at the last party. Ghetto Traveler had miraculously removed the bloodstains.
A white banner strung between the gazebo and an elm tree proclaimed, “Happy Eightieth Birthday!” in big blue letters. The garden lights were dimmed so Howard Roseman wouldn’t suspect anything when he pulled up in the driveway. When they jumped out and yelled surprise, lights would flood the garden.
The same caterers were there; dressed in white shirts and black pants with black bowties, but this time they brought around different appetizers on their silver trays: barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, watermelon.
Elizabeth hired a medic for the party. She didn’t want David performing CPR in the event that Howard was so surprised he had a heart attack. The medic was Gorley Groats, a tall, shaggy, yellow-haired man with a scraggly beard. He was a retired paramedic who worked private parties now. He would be the one to do the Heimlich Maneuver if a rib got stuck in Howard Roseman’s throat. He sipped a glass of tea and stood in the gazebo.
The air was hot and humid, so the mosquitoes swarmed hungrily around Derrick, who stood in the middle of the gazebo on the duct tape, swatting around wildly. Tyrone and his friends gathered around Derrick in the gazebo, but the residents of Abbott’s Home for Exceptional People preferred to get up close to the flowers. Stephanie, the bagger’s chaperone, chased them around, trying to stop them from picking the flowers.
Tyrone looked down at her from the gazebo and whistled. He grinned and winked at Derrick.
“I’d like to mind her gap, knowwa I’m sayin?”
“No,” Derrick said. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand street talk.”
“Man, dis ain’t street talk. Don’t you know de Queen’s English?”
“Americans,” Loquacious Jackson muttered and clucked her tongue.
David walked down the gazebo steps and strolled around the garden. He figured he would help Stephanie stop her charges from bagging the flowers. At least he could get close to her.
A black man wearing a Chicago Bears jersey stopped David and gargled out something incomprehensible. David couldn’t understand a word the man said, but tried to be polite: he smiled, tried to nod and grunt in the right places. He felt his way through the conversation like a blind man. David wondered if this man came with Tyrone or from the residential home.
Two familiar-looking men crossed the grass to the tropical greenhouse. They weren’t on the guest list. Agents Black and Lugo weren’t wearing their trademark black suits. They had disguised themselves as workingmen, wearing overalls smeared with white paint. Agent Black’s hair, usually neatly parted, was carefully disheveled.
David hustled over to them. As short, stocky Agent Lugo was opening the swinging door to the greenhouse, David pressed his hand on the screen and slammed it shut.
“What are you doing here?”
“We came for the party,” Agent Black said, stretching his thin, angular frame and cracking his knuckles.
“You’re not invited.”
“We’re working people,” short and dumpy Agent Lugo said. “We make less than some of these baggers.”
“How’d you find out about the party anyway? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“We have our sources,” Lugo said.
“What sources?”
“The flyers you printed out and gave to everyone.”
“Oh.”
“Just get away from the door. We’re going in there.”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Nope. Read the Patriot Act.”
“I thought you were like vampires. You can’t come in unless someone invites you.”
“Patriot Act says we’re not vampires anymore.”
Lugo pushed David out of the way and burst inside. Black followed. David went in after them. The moist air struck him. Dark vines crept down from the ceiling. The dim lights from outside flickered through the opaque cloudy glass and thick brush.
Agent Black walked up to a patch of flowers, knelt down, and lowered his nose into the cup of a flower with alternating velvety petals of navy blue and forest green. He sniffed deeply and purred at the pleasant smell.
“Tasmanian Feather Poppies, he said. “A rare breed. Smells like cinnamon. The ancient Tasmanians worshipped their pollen as a deity.”
Black popped his mouth around the head of the Tasmanian Feather Poppy and started to chew.
“Stop it!” David shouted. “What are you doing?!”
“Tastes good,” Black gurgled, his mouth full of petals.
“You just gonna watch?” Lugo asked David. “Or you gonna help?”
Lugo grabbed a long stemmed purple flower and slapped its petals off. Black flopped on the soil, continued munching on the Tasmanian Feather Poppies, and kicked at long-stemmed white flowers with his feet.
“You’re the Department of Agriculture!” David shouted. “You’re supposed to protect plants!”
“Don’t act so disillusioned,” Black gurgled through the petals. “Everyone knows that Freedom requires trampling a few flowers.”
“But you’re killing defenseless flowers.”
“Look,” Lugo said, roundhouse kicking the pink leaves off of a sky blue vine. “You can’t just side with the underdog. The weaker side isn’t always right.”
“But these are rare flowers! They’re endangered species!”
“I don’t care!” Lugo shouted. “I’d club a snow leopard to death if it got in my way!”
Lugo glanced at a meter-high reed-like plant with a bright red sharp-petaled flower and sun yellow center. He licked his upper lip and strode towards it. David jumped in front of the flower.
“If you want to kill the flowers, you’re gonna have to kill me first.”
“Look,” Black said, sitting up in the soil. “She hasn’t contacted her supplier because she doesn’t need any new flowers. We’re going to make it so she needs some new flowers. Then we can find out who he is. Now she’s going to contact him.”
“No she won’t,” David said. “She’ll know it was sabotage.”
“No she won’t. She’ll blame it on her special guests.”
“Special,” lisped Lugo
“Or your urban friends,” Black said. “She’ll blame it on them. This party’s the perfect cover.”
“You’re gonna use them as a scapegoat?”
“That’s the plan,” Black said.
“It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m gonna tell Elizabeth.”
They froze. Lugo leaned in close, eyeball to eyeball with David.
“You’re not going to tell her anything,” Lugo rasped, his stinking breath cascading up David’s face. “You tell her and we’ll lock you up as an accessory to agricultural terrorism. Do you know what the penalty is for accessory to agricultural terrorism? It’s the same as if you did the terrorism yourself. By the time you get out of the penitentiary, you’ll be an old man Walt Whitman type writing about leaves of grass. Guantanamo Bay is full of poets just like you.”
David’s throat was dry. He swallowed a lump the size of a grapefruit.
“All right. Just leave the flowers alone now and I won’t say anything. You’ve done enough.”
“I’ll decide when they’ve had enough,” Agent Lugo said, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an aluminum baton. He walked up to the chocolate tree and began knocking its pods off like baseballs. One came flying at David’s head and he ducked just in time.
“What are you doing!? Chocolate isn’t illegal!”
Lugo sighed. “If we only go after the illegal plants, she’ll know it wasn’t the special guests. She’ll know it was a planned attack. We’re making it look random. I’m acting randomly.” He let out a crazed random squeal. “Hwweeeehhhaaiiiii!!!!”
He continued whacking at the chocolate pods while Agent Black trampled flowers.
***
כ''א בתשרי תשס''ח
ירושלים
October 3, 2007
Jerusalem

Chapter Twenty-Three

Almost all of the truck drivers shunned Ben, thinking he didn’t do real work. Only Johnny “Rattlesnake” Richler, the driver of the rose-truck, would speak to him. Johnny Richler was in his early thirties, but looked prematurely middle-aged. He had a potbelly and greasy, thinning black hair on his round head. Two beady dark eyes peered over his narrow nose. His only exercise was walking between his truck and the truck stop diners where he would sweat while he put away enormous helpings of greasy trucker food.
At one truck stop, Rattlesnake sat down with Ben. Rattlesnake took the lid off the salt shaker and poured out salt onto his buttery mashed potatoes. This simple act started him perspiring.
“So you’re a poet?” Rattlesnake said conversationally.
“Yeah.”
“I’m a poet too.” He looked thoughtfully into his mashed potatoes. “Used to be at least.”
“Used to be?”
“Naaa, you’re right. Once a poet, always a poet. I’m a poetryholic.”
Ben thought he recognized the glazed-over brainwashed look in Rattlesnake’s eyes. It was the handiwork of Pat Henderson.
“You know Pat Henderson?”
“Sure!”
“Were you in his hospital by the lake?”
Rattlesnake nodded.
“Did they give you electroshock?”
“No. They just helped me to see that poetry had taken over my life.”
“Well, I’m not addicted to poetry,” Ben pointed out.
“So you could stop at any time? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Well, Elizabeth would probably fire me if I stopped. It is my job.”
“See, I thought I was writing the poetry,” Rattlesnake said. “Truth is: the poetry was writing me.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Ben said enthusiastically. “Sometimes when I get really inspired, the poetry just writes itself. I feel like I’m just the vessel that the poetry is coming through.”
“Exactly,” Richler said. “It isn’t you writing the poetry. Sure, it’s your mind doing the writing, but it isn’t YOU. It isn’t the essential you.”
“Yeah it is,” Ben said.
Richler shook his head and stuffed his cheeks with mashed potatoes.
“I used to think like you Ben. Then I came to see the truth. I was a slave to poetry. I had to do what my real purpose was.”
“What? Driving a truck?”
***
Ben and Derrick found a steep path overhung with thick, thorny branches. They panted heavily as they climbed. Derrick mused on how his life would change, now that he was brain-damaged and had to go live at the residential home with Down Syndrome Bobby.
Ben pushed one of the thick overhanging branches out of his way and let it swing back and hit Derrick in the face.
“Owww!” Derrick rubbed his nose.
“Sorry.”
“I need a machete.”
“Is that a threat?”
“For the branches.”
They continued to climb. The only sound was Ben’s wet shoes squishing with every step. He had it better than Derrick, who had lost his shoes and one of his socks.
“I think I have post traumatic stress disorder,” Derrick said. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”
“That’s not post traumatic stress disorder. It’s only in a couple months if you can’t function ‘cause you’re thinking about what happened all the time. Not immediately afterwards.”
“What are you, a doctor now? You can’t even perform CPR properly.”
“What are you complaining for? I brought you back to life.”
“My chest hurts. I think you broke one of my ribs.”
“Does it hurt when I do this?” Ben asked. He broke off a branch and swatted Derrick upside the head.
“OWW!!! What’d you do that for?”
“Sorry. Thought it’d be funny.”
“They’re going to leave without us,” Derrick predicted dismally. “They’re going to leave us out in the middle of nowhere.”
***
Ben and Derrick stumbled through the bushes out onto the highway.
“They’re back!” Down Syndrome Bobby announced.
There was scattered applause. Everyone approached them and circled around.
Rattlesnake walked up to Derrick.
“Derrick, I’m sorry.”
He held his hand out for Derrick to shake.
Everyone gazed at Derrick to see how he would react. Derrick’s hand remained immobile at his side. He looked around and asked, “Why isn’t he hogtied?”
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Everyone makes mistakes, Derrick,” she said. “The important thing is that nobody got hurt.”
“I got hurt.”
“Just your pride.”
“Not ‘just my pride!’ I have internal injuries!”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Your feelings.”
“No! Not my feelings! My spleen!”
“Relax, Derrick,” Ben said, placing a hand on Derrick’s shoulder.
“No I won’t relax!”
He shook Ben’s hand off his shoulder. Then he went ballistic.
“I have the worst job in the world! Mosquitoes and scorpions bite me! I stand in the middle of gazebos until my legs go numb! You won’t let me go to the bathroom! My bladder almost exploded! Now it’s permanently distended! I almost get run over by a crazy person! I fall off a mountain! I almost die! I did die! I had a near death experience! I got brain damage! I almost drowned! I almost went blind! A deranged sheriff almost killed me! You stole my handle and gave it to a Muslim hermit.”
“I’m not actually Muslim,” Toby said. “I’m Christian. Just found out.”
“Well, whatever you are, you’re a terrorist. You stole my name. That’s terrorism.”
Toby smiled pleasantly. “You looked good ridin’ that gazebo,” he said. “Would you join my bobsled team, please?”
“That’s very Christian of you,” Elizabeth commented.
“Thank you,” Toby said. “Well Derrick, how ‘bout it?”
“I’m not joining your bobsled team.”
“I’ll let you ride point.”
“You don’t even have a bobsled.”
“Yet.”
“I don’t want to be on a bobsled team!”
“Well, what do you want to do?” David Shweitzer asked testily. “You don’t seem to want to do anything except grump about all the time.”
“I want him hogtied!”
“Derrick,” Rattlesnake said. “I wanted to show you how sorry I was, and I knew you might not want to forgive me, so to show you how sorry I am, I wrote a poem.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Rattlesnake, no! You know what Pat Henderson said! You’ll relapse!”
Rattlesnake nodded. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m just that sorry about what I did.”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Derrick said.
“Just listen,” Rattlesnake said.
“No.”
“It’s an apology poem.”
“There’s no such genre.”
“Sure there is.”
Rattlesnake pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and cleared his throat.
“I apologize,” he began. “On my thighs.”
Rattlesnake did the splits right there on the highway. The sound of tendons ripping and Rattlesnake’s screams filled the air. Tears sprang up in his eyes and he rolled around on the cement, his screaming and coughing battling each other as he grasped at his torn groin muscles.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You have to stretch first. And he’s in such bad shape.”
A gust of wind blew Rattlesnake’s poem. Ben picked it up before it could blow away. Impressive: Rattlesnake was without a doubt a first class poet. An apology poem. Rhyming verses of self-flagellation. Ben had never come up against anything like that. Ben read.
With an earnest moan I atone on my funny bone
“Hold his elbows!” Ben called. “He’s gonna try to smack his funny bone.”
A couple of the drivers grabbed Rattlesnake’s arms, restraining him. Rattlesnake kicked in agony with his legs.
“Let him smack his funny bone!” Derrick shouted. “He deserves it!”
Ben read on.
I beg your pardon like a repentant parson with pants of arson
“He’s gonna try to set his pants on fire!” Ben called.
Larry Shoemaker pulled off Rattlesnake’s boots and jeans while the other two drivers held his elbows. Rattlesnake kicked in pain and his tighty-whities shone in the sunlight.
“So let him burn his pants!” Derrick yelled. “He deserves burnt pants!”
Ben looked at the poem again. It went on in the same way. He felt abashed, so his kneecap he smashed. He was so ashamed, his fingers he maimed. His penitence was incontinence.
They finally hogtied him as Derrick had suggested in the first place.
“I take back my apology,” Rattlesnake mumbled.
***
י''ט בתשרי תשס''ח
ירושלים
October 1, 2007
Jerusalem