Ben Soul

by Richard George

in place, despite the breeze’s toying with it. When Bobbo held out his hand, Dickon took it and shook it. “Have you been waiting long?” he asked Bobbo.

  “No, not at all.” Bobbo looked him up and down. Dickon wondered if he should have gone for the tie after all. Too late now. At least the shirt was clean, so the collar wouldn’t show a ring.

  “Let’s go on in,” Bobbo went on. “You sounded pretty upset last night,” he continued as a young woman in a very short, very tight, red dress led them to a red and gray plastic booth with a white and chrome table. She twisted a rod to close the blinds on the window. The sun had heated the vinyl upholstery to almost the blister point. “Are you doing better this morning?”

  “Yes, a little, thanks.”

  “Is it trouble with the parish?”

  “No,” Dickon said, staring at the unopened plastic menu in front of him. A hamburger with red ketchup eyes and a mustard tongue stared back at him. Below the hamburger’s picture a cow stood in a green field carrying a sword in one upraised hoof. “The Crusading Cow” spread across the menu in red and gray letters.

  Dickon cleared his throat twice, and couldn’t force the words out.

  “What is it?”

  Dickon cleared his throat again. More hoarsely than he expected, he said, “Vanna’s divorcing me.”

  “Oh.” Bobbo frowned. “Any chance of reconciliation?”

  “No, not according to her. She said she was dumping me, along with all the other trash in her life.”

  “That’s harsh.” Compassion softened Bobbo’s voice. “Did she say why?”

  “Because I’m not ambitious enough. Because she just can’t be bothered with me anymore. Maybe because she’s crazy. I don’t know, for sure.” Dickon fought back the tears. A waitress, middle aged, dressed in a teen’s miniskirt and straining blouse, came to take their order.

  “Give us a few minutes, please,” Bobbo said. She grimaced, nodded, and went to a nearby table where and elderly couple placed their order in loud voices. Dickon’s stomach churned when he heard the man order liver and onions.

  “Let’s look at the menu,” Dickon said. He wanted a break to get his feelings suppressed. Around him the clatter of diner diners chattered in his ears. The Crusading Cow specialized in beef dishes, particularly varieties of hamburgers. After a few moments with the menu, Bobbo caught the waitress’s eye, and, when she came, ordered a mushroom and Monterey Jack burger. Dickon toyed with ordering the jalapeño mushroom burger, but decided on the milder gringo chili and cheese special. They both had plain fries and iced tea.

  When the waitress went off to hand in their order, Bobbo asked him, “What about the congregation? Do you think they’ll be troubled by Vanna’s leaving?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t very involved with them. She’s been getting more distant from the church for the past couple of years. Just like she’s been getting more distant from me.” The waitress brought their iced tea. Bobbo squeezed lemon into his, and added sugar. Dickon drank his tea plain.

  “You could consider a leave of absence.”

  “But how would I make a living?”

  “I can recommend an interim position in the City. Also some counseling, to help you through this rough patch.”

  “I don’t know that I’m ready for that much change.”

  “Think about it.” The waitress arrived with their sandwiches. As so often happened to Dickon, he got Bobbo’s order and Bobbo got his. They exchanged plates.

  Bobbo bowed his head to say grace and Dickon felt compelled to follow suit. Public displays of religion troubled Dickon. They reminded him of uncomfortable moments in his childhood when a friend of his mother’s would begin proclaiming the Gospel in a loud voice in the most public places. Bobbo was thoroughly at ease with his religion, and let it show anywhere and everywhere.

  For a while they ate silently. Dickon hadn’t realized how hungry he was. His chow mein and humiliation meal was almost twenty-four hours behind him, and he’d had nothing else except the two bottles of wine.

  “Presbytery will have to examine your divorce, of course,” Bobbo said. Dickon looked up, startled.

  “I thought that rule had gone by the wayside.”

  “It doesn’t take effect until three years from now. That means it doesn’t apply, yet.” Bobbo picked up another French fry and dipped it in the ketchup pool he’d poured on his speckled white plate.

  Dickon groaned. “I suppose they’ll want Vanna to participate.” Tears rose to his eyes. He bid them sink back in their ducts.

  “Oh, yes.” Bobbo looked up at him with compassion. “In most Presbyteries we could get by with a token examination. Unfortunately, the Reverend Phil E. Buster chairs this presbytery’s Ministerial Relations Committee. He’s got strong feelings about divorced clergy serving in the church.”

  “I’ve met him. He seemed pleasant enough.” Dickon cut his dill pickle in bite-sized pieces. He forked one into his mouth.

  “He’s very old school about divorce. He’ll put you through a ringer, especially if you want to stay at Two Tree Presbyterian. That’s part of why I suggested an interim position somewhere else, like the City.” Bobbo’s tone was businesslike. He expressed his compassion through his eyes.

  Dickon spooned some of the chili from his burger and raised it to his mouth. Suddenly, the plastic and glass room seemed to spin around Dickon. He dropped the spoon with its chili on his plate. Red spatters dotted his white shirt. Hamburgers with ketchup eyes and mustard tongues started dancing on chrome table legs on the counter. A great wave of stale coffee smell mixed with liver and onions congealing in grease rose up and clouded his breathing. Feeling like a swimmer in a pool of molasses, Dickon fought his way back to consciousness. Bobbo stared at him.

  “Are you all right?” Bobbo asked. “You looked like you were going to pass out.”

  “I think I’ll be okay,” Dickon said, dabbing at his shirt with his napkin. “I took a sedative last night, and it’s left me a little shaky. I’m not used to them.” He thought it better not to mention the sedative had been two bottles of wine. Much of the Presbytery’s clergy abjured alcohol even though world-class vineyards grew within the Presbytery’s bounds.

  “What about taking an interim position?”

  “I don’t know, Bobbo. I’d have to think about it. That’s more change than I can handle, here, today. How soon would I have to decide?”

  “Within a few weeks, I’m sure. The Ministerial Relations Committee meets in two days. They’ll probably want to talk to you, and try to talk to Vanna. They’ll want to talk with the congregation, too. Have you told anybody at Two Tree yet?”

  “No. Vanna just told me yesterday.” Dickon ate the last of his French fries.

  “Do you want dessert?” the waitress appeared to ask. Dickon marveled again that mere cloth could restrain all that mammary flesh.

  “None for me,” Dickon said.

  “Nor me,” Bobbo said. “Our check, please.” The waitress slapped it on the table. Bobbo picked it up, scanned it for accuracy, and got up to go. Dickon got up, too. He followed Bobbo toward the door. Bobbo paid the check then led Dickon outside.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Bobbo said. “Keep a handle on yourself, but do find some time to break down, in private. You’ve had a hell of a blow.” Bobbo shook his hand. Dickon had hoped for a hug. In a church meeting, such physical contact would be acceptable. Not here, though, in the Crusading Cow’s parking lot. “I’ll pray for you,” Bobbo said, and turned toward his car.

  Dickon set off to learn to be alone.

  New Boy in Town

  June 1, 1977

  Professor John Dilbert Doe

  Dear Dill,

  I promised to write you to let you know where I am. I’m in the City, at the address on the envelope. I have a room, and I’ve found a job.

  I was here for the earthquake; I felt it. I was at a street fair, look
ing at bolos and belt buckles, when the ground rolled under me and knocked me down. I wound up under a bunch of pots and the remnants of a street booth. A few light bruises, nothing more. I spent the first several days after the Quake helping at a shelter set up in a big tent that was part of the Carnival parade and street fair. I mostly boiled water and carried things around for people who knew what they were doing with broken bones and damaged flesh.

  Flesh. Yes, it’s here. I wish I had listened to you, and not wasted a year in law school in Denver. Men are everywhere here. Gorgeous squads of them roam the Street, and one meets the nicest looking studs on the busses and the Metro. Even if I haven’t connected, yet, (yes—I’m still shy), I’ve seldom had better dreams. I’m free here. Thanks to you, Dill, and your school for young men. Until later.

  Ben

  A job secured Ben’s inclination to remain in the City. He had found work as a mailroom clerk at the Indigent Aborigine Insurance Company’s City offices. He was paid weekly, and after the third week, he had some cash left over from paying his bills. He began to dress for an evening on the town.

  Ben carefully adjusted the steer’s skull belt buckle at his waist so its brass nose pointed directly to the exposed button on his jeans fly. The jeans were carefully abraded to show wear at strategic high points. His boots were high-heeled riding boots that made him stand a little taller. His cowboy shirt was black, with an embroidered red and white rose on each shoulder and two entwined on the yoke in