Ben Soul

by Richard George

free concert in the park tonight,” Len said after he had eaten most of his fish, “if you like Gilbert and Sullivan. It’s a concert version of The Mikado. We could have our dessert, and just be in time to walk over to the park.”

  “I like The Mikado,” Ben said. “That sounds like fun.” The bus boy cleared away their plates. Mario came to inquire about dessert.

  “I’ll have hot tea, please. A black tea,” Ben said, “and a small cheesecake.”

  “Coffee for me,” Len said, “and the cheesecake, also.”

  “Okay, gentlemen.” Mario got their desserts and beverages. “If you want anything else, please let me know,” he said.

  “You’ve been in the City more than a year, haven’t you?” Len asked Ben.

  “Yes. It was a year last May, on the earthquake anniversary.”

  “Do you like it here? Or are you just earning a grubstake before you go on to the next city?”

  “I like it here. I want to stay. Maybe someday I’ll find Mr. Right, and I can settle down with him. It’s what I dream of, anyway.” Ben swirled the teabag in his cup, then lifted it, held it on the spoon, and wound the string around it to press the last of the flavor out.

  “What is Mr. Right like?” Len peered at Ben over his coffee cup.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I dream he’s a blonde swimmer. Other times I dream he’s a dark and mysterious Latin lover. Sometimes I don’t see him at all.”

  “Hard to settle on one type, huh? So many men, so little time?”

  “He’s always kind. He’s always honest. He’s never perfect. His looks are less important than his character is.”

  “Have you ever met anybody who stood a chance of measuring up?” Len studied the liquid in his cup.

  “Yes. One man. I don’t know that he’d be interested, though.” Ben glanced quickly at Len, and then studied the arrangement of silk roses that adorned their table.

  “You won’t know if you don’t ask him,” Len suggested.

  “When the time’s right, I will. What about you? What do you want?”

  Len held up three fingers, folding each one down as he iterated his list. “First off, good health. Second, enough money to live on. Third, and most important, somebody to share life with.”

  “Have you ever had a long-term affair?”

  “Yes. His name was Rick O’Shea. We were together for almost eight years.” Len shrugged. “He ended it.”

  “What happened?”

  “A young blond, female. And the pressure of his family. He got married. It didn’t last long. She found out about his past with me and divorced him. He killed himself. Drove his Ford into a Texas river.”

  “That’s a sad story.”

  “It’s an old one. I found out after he was gone he wasn’t very monogamous. I’ve been better off without him.”

  “Is that important to you? Monogamy?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure why, except it’s less complicated to live that way.”

  “I think I’d prefer monogamy, too. One man, one love.”

  Len looked at his watch. “We’d better go, if we want to catch the overture.”

  “Yes, a walk would be good for me. The meal was superb, Mr. DeLys. Thank you for it.”

  “Please don’t call me Mr. DeLys. It makes me feel like I’m your father’s ancient friend. I’m not that old, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I only wanted to be polite.”

  “Call me Len.”

  “Okay, Len.”

  Len signaled Mario to bring the check. He scanned it, took some bills from his wallet, put them on the tray, and handed it to Mario. Then he and Ben walked out into an evening tingling with promise.

  The concert delighted them both. The audience sang along with the most familiar numbers, such as “Flowers that Bloom in the Spring” and the Titwillow song. Ben and Len could hear the orchestra playing the overture as an encore as they walked away after the performance. Away from the concert band shell, the park was a place of dark shadows intermittently interrupted by turquoise lamplight. Len slipped his hand around Ben’s. Ben almost drew away, unaccustomed as he was to displays of affection in public places. There were no observers around to see. He let himself walk just a little closer to Len.

  “Thank you, Ben,” Len said. “I’ve enjoyed this performance. Not so many people like Gilbert and Sullivan these days.”

  “I’m old-fashioned about some things, I guess.” I’m old-fashioned about a lot of things, Ben thought to himself.

  “Old-fashioned is good, sometimes.” Len’s voice was almost caressing. Ben’s hand was growing warm in Len’s. They walked on, not talking, through the intermittent cones of light and large swatches of dark. From somewhere came the scent of jasmine. Ben snorted as softly as he could. He found the perfume cloying. It reminded him of urinal deodorant cakes.

  When they reached the edge of the park Len said, “I think it’s time for me to head home, Ben. I’ve got a heavy schedule tomorrow. The auditors are dropping in on our department. That always stirs things up.”

  “Right,” Ben said. “Some sleep would be good for me, too. Which bus do you take?”

  “The number seven,” Len said.

  “I’m on the number thirty-four,” Ben said. “I go right to get to the stop.”

  “I have to go left.” Len kissed Ben briefly. Blushing Ben watched Len walk toward his bus.

  “Good night, sweet prince,” he said softly, and turned toward his own bus.

  Shrinking Dickon

  Dickon presented himself at Dr. Senda Sicknell’s office just five minutes early. He had spent long hours filling out personality tests, intelligence tests, aptitude tests, and Rorschach tests. The preparatory work for this interview included writing four essay answers to such questions as “Where will you be in 10 years/20 years/30 years?” and “What is the purpose you see for your life?” With all the trauma of his divorce and losing his job, Dickon lost interest in the process, and just reacted. Supposedly, this gave more accurate test results, anyway. The essay questions he answered in a free form stream of consciousness kind of prose quite unlike the balanced Johnsonian sentences he usually favored.

  Now he had the interview with the good doctor. She called him to her office exactly at the appointment time. He got up and went through the door the receptionist had indicated. Dr. Sicknell was behind a large mahogany desk on which nothing sat except a green-shaded accountant’s lamp, a telephone, and a fat manila folder. Dickon guessed the folder held all the paperwork he had completed prior to this interview.

  “Sit down, Reverend Shayne,” Dr. Sicknell said crisply. Dickon took the chair across from her. Dr. Sicknell resembled a bleached prune. Her hair was white, with a few black strands woven through it. Her stylist had carefully waved it to frame her wrinkled face. Dickon wondered if she’d spent her early years on a farm, or had smoked heavily. Her eyes were blue ice. Dickon wondered if she ever smiled; she had not smiled to greet him.

  “Your responses indicate several anomalies that you may wish to address,” she said. Her tone was hard, just short of angry. Dickon wondered what she was angry about. Maybe her feet hurt, or her hemorrhoids itched. Her face powder was rose perfumed; it clogged Dickon’s nostrils, suggesting suffocation to him. He forcibly slowed his breathing, taking in as much air through his mouth as he could without seeming to. Somehow, he felt appearances were very important in this interview. Gasping like a beached carp wouldn’t play very well.

  “Anomalies?” he inquired.

  “First,” she said, opening the folder and extracting a sheet of paper covered with marks, “your Meyers Briggs score is off the scale on intuition. I have never seen a man score so high on the intuition scale.” She glared at him. “Even among the clergy, who commonly score higher on this scale than the average population, I have not found so high a score. This is, after all, a feminine characteristic.” She waited for a response. Dick
on didn’t know what to say. She was stirring currents deep inside him. He erected his weapons shields.

  When Dickon said nothing, she went on. Taking up another piece of paper, she said, “You are accident prone. You do not focus well on reality. You dream too much and plan too little. This all shows in your test scores.” She laid the second paper on the first. She showed neither to Dickon.

  “I have also read your essays.” She frowned at the papers in front of her. Dickon could see upside down that they were the answers he had scrawled to the four questions. He girded his loins.

  “These are most disturbing. Your penmanship is a poor sample of what you can write. This demonstrates agitation with these questions. One wonders what you fear in answering them.” She looked at Dickon as if she would peel back the layers of his skin to get to his brain. Dickon guessed she’d enjoy the peeling more than his mind.

  ‘They are most significant for what you do not mention. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Dickon said. He felt the word tear through his clogged throat. He wished he had a fan to blow her face powder back in her face. He could see speckles of it on the navy blue collar of her suit. They were too small, round, and uniform, to be dandruff flakes. Dr. Sicknell probably slew her dandruff before it could fall.

  “You do not mention wife or children in your future.”

  “Oh. I’m still sorting that out.”

  “Sorting what out?”

  “Whether I want to get married again. Right now I’m still dealing with letting the last marriage