Ben Soul

by Richard George

felt like his breath was running away from his body. “I’ve only been in the City since last spring. I’m still exploring.”

  “You’ve got a job? And a place to live?” Ben tried to read Justin’s eyes, but they were guarded.

  “Yes. Took care of that right after the big temblor cleanup was done.” Ben took a deep breath. “I got here just before the quake.”

  The girl brought their bagels to them. Each paid her for his bagel. Then they took them to a small table in front of the window. Justin took a bite of his bagel. Ben marveled more at how white Justin’s teeth were.

  “Do you have a steady?” Justin asked.

  “No,” Ben said. He smiled shyly. He was beginning to choke up. Not now, he thought to himself. Play it cool. “I’m in the market, when Mr. Right comes along,” he said.

  “Do you play around while you’re waiting?” Justin’s smile was teasing, and Ben read a mocking invitation in his brown eyes.

  “Yes,” Ben said, “sometimes.”

  “Have to try out the merchandise, right?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, hoping he was coming off as a man of the world.

  “Are you free tonight?” Justin’s voice dripped with seduction.

  Ben considered. He didn’t want to appear too easy, but it had been several weeks since he had had any intimate contact. “Well, I did, but they fell through. That’s why I’m here at the Fegele’s Bagel,” he improvised. “The guy I was going to date got sent out of town on his job.”

  “Bummer,” Justin said. He ate more of his bagel. Ben nibbled at his bagel. “I’m free tonight,” Justin went on.

  “You? A hot guy like you?” Ben blurted.

  “You’re sweet to say so. Yes. Want to go visit some bars?” Ben thrilled.

  “Yeah, sounds like fun,” he said.

  They finished their bagels, and made their way to one bar after another. Ben was careful not to drink too much at any one bar, but he was mildly drunk by the end of the evening. When Justin invited him home for the night, Ben said yes without any hesitation. That night was as glorious as Ben had hoped. He and Justin parted over breakfast bagels at the Fegele’s Bagel. Justin gave Ben his number. Ben gave Justin his number.

  Later that week Ben dialed the number Justin had given him. A battered women’s shelter answered. The receptionist was rude, presuming Ben was a battering spouse looking for a battered wife. She had his phone call traced. Fortunately, he had called from a pay phone, so the police didn’t harass him.

  The next time Ben saw Justin he had a bubbly redheaded boy on his arm. The boy was staring up at Justin with adoration. Justin walked right past Ben and didn’t notice him. Ben gave up bagels for years.

  Later he wrote Professor Doe a short letter.

  December 21, 1977

  Professor John Dilbert Doe

  1868 Forgotten Lane

  Greeley, Colorado

  Dear Dill,

  I apologize for going several months without writing. I’ve been involved on the job and in my private life. I met a guy I thought might be Mr. Right. Justin Thyme. Blonde, six-foot tall, swimmer’s build, hung. We had great sex for one weekend. We exchanged phone numbers. He gave me a phony one. I’ve seen him once or twice around town, but he never sees me.

  My job is going rather better. I’ve gotten a promotion, from managing the console to providing technical support. I’m learning how the system works, both the computer part of it and the paper part of it. At least my little gray cells are challenged.

  You and Hi Ewall sound so happy. May your every holiday be as happy as this Christmas is.

  Ben

  On the Street Where We Met

  “April Fool’s Day party,” Minnie Vann said to Ben. “Are you going?”

  “What?” Ben looked up from the stack of 9 X 12 envelopes he was sorting.

  “Are you going to the April Fool’s Day party?”

  “Didn’t know there was one. Haven’t been invited, anyway.” Ben turned back to his envelopes.

  “It’s open house,” Minnie said. “At the Groovy Garter.”

  “That’s one I hadn’t heard of.”

  “It’s a girls’ bar, a block off the Street.”

  “I don’t think a girl’s bar is quite the place for me. I don’t do drag.”

  “I need an escort. My girlfriend’s got to work. I could pass you off for a real butch girl.”

  “I’m flattered, Minnie, but 1 don’t think I’m quite that tough.”

  “What you going to do, stay home again? Feel sorry for yourself, like you have since you tangled with that Justin whore?”

  Ben put the envelopes aside. When Minnie was in a confrontational mood, he’d learned it was better to deal with the matter right then and there.

  “Minnie, I happen to know your girlfriend is not working tomorrow night. You told me so yourself, just yesterday. Why are you worried about my social life, anyway?”

  “You’re so sad; you bring the room down just sitting there. Just trying to brighten the corner where you are.”

  “With all due respect, Minnie, a date with a bunch of Lesbians isn’t likely to do much for my social life.”

  “How long has it been since you went somewhere on a weekend?”

  “I usually go to the library on Saturdays.”

  “Yeah, and your nose is buried in books the rest of the week. Big thrill. Young man like you has a lot of juice. You should be sharing it.”

  “Yes, Minnie, I suppose I should. I just haven’t felt like going anywhere.”

  “Douse that torch you’re carrying. It’s not lighting your way anywhere but down in the dumps.” Ben took up the stack of unsorted envelopes and began tucking them into the proper bins.

  “You hear me, Ben Soul,” Minnie said, shaking a finger at him, “you better spend at least a couple of hours out of your apartment, and out of your library and books, this weekend. I want a full and detailed report on Monday!”

  “Yes, Minnie,” Ben said, sighing the phrase as he had sighed “Yes, Mommy,” as a small child.

  “Ben!” Minnie said. He looked at her, almost cowering in his chair. “A full report!” He nodded, and sighed inwardly. He would sacrifice one of the quiet evenings with a good book he had planned for this weekend on the altar of sociability.

  Ben determined to get Minnie’s mandate over with quickly. After work he stopped at his favorite Chinese restaurant, The Pregnant Prawn. Szechwan Beef and steamed rice filled him up. Then he went for a stroll on the Street, just to look at window displays of condoms, sex toys, young muscle studs in erotic poses, and the latest in fashions for men. None of it stirred him to excitement as it once had done. By now such displays were part of the comfortable background of the quarter. So were the buff bodies in tight jeans and small Tee shirts, leather chaps, and even the occasional business suit. So much sex on display that the truly remarkable figures were the few that sagged out of shape, or were too thin, dressed wrong, or otherwise anomalous to the parade endemic to the Street.

  That was why he noticed Len, or Mr. DeLys, as he thought of him then. Len was dressed in sports slacks, and a dress shirt with the collar open at the throat. His waved hair was touched with gray at the temples. He was altogether too old looking, despite his trimly muscular figure, to be part of the pageant of promenading pansies.

  “Mr. DeLys?” he said, stopping next to the man who was looking over the street scene.

  “Yes?” Len said. “Oh. I know you. It’s Ben, isn’t it? Ben Soul?” Len extended his hand.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “I helped with the earthquake relief”

  “I remember,” Len said. “Your first week or so in the City, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite an introduction,” Len said. “You decided to stay, I take it.”

  “Yes. Not much point in going back to Colorado. I feel like I belong here.”

  “Are you with someone this evening?�
�

  “No, just out walking and looking.”

  “Same for me. I’ve been down south for several months. I just got back last night. Thought I’d come out and reacquaint myself with the City.”

  “Welcome home, then.”

  “Do you have time for a drink? There’s a bar on the corner where I go when I’m in the City. The Patriotic Pirate.”

  Ben knew of the bar; most of the young men around the Street scoffingly referred to it as the Glass Coffin, or the Bar of the Last Resort. Mostly older guys went there (older defined as forty or more years old). Ben had been curious about the place, but never had worked up the nerve to stand and stare through the windows that made up the bar’s wall along the Street. “Sounds good to me,” he said. He checked his pocket for money as Len turned and started for the Patriotic Pirate. He had more than enough for a payback round or two. When they went in the bar, Ben was suddenly self-conscious in a way he hadn’t been since he first got used to the City’s bars. Every eye in the place seemed to be raking his clothes from his body. None of the patrons appeared to be as young as he was, and some of them were quite old indeed. Gray heads and bald ones abounded, with evident sagging abdomens and wrinkled necks and hands. Geriatric clientele made Len look like a youth.

  Len felt Ben stiffen at his side under all the scrutiny. Len appreciated Ben’s modesty, as so he interpreted the man’s hesitation.

  “Down, girls!” Len said to the assembled barflies. A general murmur of merriment meandered around the room. The assembled company turned back to their drinks and conversations. Thereafter those who glanced at Ben and Len did so discretely enough to avoid discomforting Ben.

  “What do you drink?” Len asked Ben.

  “Rye and Seven,” Ben said. Len ordered for them, and led Ben to a quiet table near the back. The bartender brought their drinks while Ben and Len were doffing their coats and settling in.

  Time Flies at the Bar

  “Quick service,” Ben said.

  “Always is, here. Some claim the management wants to get the drinks to the clientele before they go on to the next world.”

  Ben chuckled, uncomfortably.

  “What have you been up to since I saw you last?” Len asked.

  “Well, I found an apartment, on Never-Maiden Court, and a job, with Indigent Aborigine Insurance Company. A subsidiary of Bumbershoot Corporation. You suggested I try there.”

  “I’ve heard of them. Mailroom, stock boy, file clerk, what?”

  “Mailroom. I wish I could say something more glamorous, but at least it’s a job. Nice people to work with, too.”

  “You work with Minnie Vann?”

  `Yes. You know her well?” Len nodded. “I like her, a lot.”

  “Just about everybody does,” Len said. He sipped his bourbon and water. He put the drink down and looked toward the window. Daylight was fading into the nighttime neon of the Street. He looked back at Ben.

  “I’ve wondered what happened to you,” he said. “Ever since we finished the cleanup after the temblor.”

  “You’ve wondered about me?”

  “Yes. I saw you, the day before the temblor. Watching the Carnival parade. From the look of wonder on your face, you’d never seen a parade with almost-naked men in it before.”

  “I hadn’t.” Ben took a large swallow of his rye and Seven. He breathed heavily to stifle the cough. He seldom drank hard liquor. His head threatened to swim. He promised himself to slow down. “I haven’t seen another one since, either.”

  “Wait for Carnival. You’ll see another one.” Ben grinned. Len took another swallow of his drink. “Is there any way you could advance on your job?”

  “Well, Minnie has suggested I take a test they’re offering for computers. Running the machines, I think.” Ben took another swallow of his drink. This time his throat was already numb and the booze went down smoothly. “I think I’ll try it. Computers sound like fun.”

  “Some claim we’ll have them in our homes someday.”

  “There are kits on the market now for building home computers, small ones. They’re toys, really.”

  “Do you have one of these toys?”

  “Not yet. They cost too much. I’ll get one someday, maybe. I put a stereo together once.”

  “Did it play music?”

  “Yes. It still does. I’ve still got it.”

  “On Never-Maiden Lane with you?”

  “Yes.” Ben smiled. “Of course, it’s hopelessly outdated, now. It has tubes, not transistors. It still plays records, though.”

  “Outdated? Tubes?” Len shook his head, and took a long swallow of his drink. “The first radio I had was a crystal set that my father put together.” He frowned into the melting ice and dregs of his drink. He signaled the bartender, who brought another round.

  Ben paid for the new round. He finished his first drink hastily. The bartender took the empty glasses away. Ben noticed the room was blurring a little, and promised himself he’d take this second drink very slowly.

  “Have you had dinner?” Len asked him.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “At the Pregnant Prawn.”

  “Do you have dinner plans for tomorrow night?”

  “No,” Ben said. He had been working steadily at his second drink. Without quite noticing, he had nearly emptied his glass.

  “I know a place near the downtown area, if you like seafood. We could meet there tomorrow, say about 7:30?”

  “I like seafood,” Ben said. “Where is it?”

  “It’s called the Floundering Flatfish,” Len said. “On Periwinkle Lane.”

  “I can find that.”

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  “Well, one more, but that’s my limit. Beyond my limit, I’m afraid.” Ben drank the third drink, and then paid for a fourth round. By the time he finished the fourth one, his head was swimming, and he was telling Len about the wonders of listening to opera on the farm tractor radio. Len seemed to be fascinated. Len had to go, though, he said, to another appointment. Ben bid him goodbye, and stumbled toward Never-Maiden Court.

  Examination

  Dickon surveyed the Judicial Commission Presbytery had appointed to examine him. They were a tough group to face. Reverend Phil E. Buster had got himself appointed, of course. Ruling Elder Anne Tenor was someone Dickon didn’t know. Shea Mauna Hughes and Andy Maime were staunchly conservative. Bobbo Link was the fifth presbyter.

  “Let us pray,” Reverend Phil E. Buster said. Everyone bowed a head and closed their eyes.

  “Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, guide us today with thy wisdom and compassion that we may fairly judge this man’s fitness to be your servant in the gospel ministry. Set aside all human jealousy, bitterness, and partisanship, from our hearts that we may truly render the verdict the Spirit moves us to arrive at. We ask it in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  The rest present chorused, “Amen,” raised their heads and opened their eyes.

  “Reverend Shayne,” Phil said, “you understand you are here so Presbytery can review the circumstances of your pending divorce?” Dickon could smell the mouthwash on the man’s breath; it was so pungent it plunged across the table. On its back it carried the sickly lilac scent of the pomade that kept his gray coiffure rigorously swept in its temple wings and forehead wave.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why do you seek a divorce?” Phil’s voice oozed oil. Dickon opined, silently, the man would have been perfect as an undertaker.

  “I don’t. My wife wants the divorce.” Dickon felt the dryness in his throat, and took a sip of water from the glass in front of him.

  “Why?” Shea Mauna Hughes asked. Accusation riddled her tone. Her lace dickey quivered at her plump throat as she spoke. With her ample bosom and short stature encased in gray wool, she reminded Dickon of a fat pigeon.

  “She says it’s because I’m insufficiently ambitious,” Dickon answered. He
barely choked back a crack in his voice.

  “Strange reason,” Andy Maime said. He made a note on the pad in front of him. Dickon tried to read it upside down but couldn’t.

  “Surely there’s more you can tell us,” Bobbo said kindly.

  “I can’t tell you any more about her reasons, because that’s all she has shared with me,” Dickon said. “I’m not sure she knows all her reasons, herself.”

  “Have you sought counseling?” asked Phil. Again the unctuous tone reminded Dickon of a funeral parlor.

  “Not together; Vanna refuses. I have consulted Reverend Link, and will find Christian counseling for myself based on his recommendation.” Dickon heard himself rushing his words, and reminded himself to slow down in his next answer.

  “I would recommend Dr. Senda Sicknell,” Bobbo said.

  “Her Christian credentials are impeccable,” Phil said. “Will you see her?”

  “Yes, I will,” Dickon promised.

  “What effect has this divorce had on the Two Tree congregation?” Rev. Hughes asked. “Has anyone from Presbytery contacted them?” Dickon sensed a hidden malice in her question. It puzzled him. They had always got on well enough, before.

  “We have a letter from the Session,” Phil said sententiously.

  “Please read it,” Anne Tenor said. The others nodded agreement.

  Session of the Two Tree Presbyterian Churchp12765 Two Tree RoadpTwo Tree, CA

  Brothers and Sisters of the Presbytery:

  We, the elders and deacons, in joint session, have severally voted, as required by the Book of Order, on the contents of this letter.

  Let the Brothers and Sisters know, that we the elders and we the deacons have deeply appreciated Reverend Shayne’s contributions to our congregation in his time of service among us. He has supported the expansion of the Sunday School, preached scripturally based sermons, founded a choir, and increased the membership and budget of the church, counseled the troubled, visited the sick, and challenged our youth to commit to Christ and the Church.

  It is with deep regret, therefore, that we feel compelled to request him to resign. While his service has been above expectations, his recent personal difficulties have made him unacceptable as a role model in a family-oriented congregation. We pray for him a new beginning and a new ministry in another situation, perhaps campus ministry.

  Sincerely,

  Ray Sincaine

  Clerk of Session

  Two Tree Presbyterian Church.

  “A very charitable letter,” Andy Maime declared. His voice was hoarse. Dickon wondered if he had strained it calling hogs. He popped a mint in his mouth and crunched down on it. His craggy face and scalp showing through straggling white hair were red as a lobster shell. His frame had once carried considerably more weight; now his skin hung, wherever visible, in creviced folds and wattles. Dickon pictured him nude, and shut down the image immediately. He had enough horror in front of him as it was.

  “What could you have done to prevent your divorce?” Anne Tenor asked. Dickon looked at her, and saw compassion on her soft face. Her gray hair framed it with gentle waves. Her blue eyes were piercing, and radiated kindness, at least at the moment.

  “Nothing that I know of, at least right now. I may learn more as I go through counseling.”

  “I think we can recognize,” Reverend Buster said, “that at times the finger of evil stirs in