Ben Soul

by Richard George

fit. Like I usually don’t fit.” Ben pushed himself up from his dresser support and looked at Dickon who had raised himself to one elbow. Dickon’s green eyes were red-rimmed. Ben was glad Dickon was suffering, too.

  “We need to talk some things out, I suppose,” Dickon said. He sighed. “I’m not very good at talking things out.” He pushed himself to a sitting position. “I suggest we take a shower and get some breakfast.”

  “The shower, yes. Breakfast? I don’t know. I poisoned myself last night. I should have quit a lot sooner.”

  “I poisoned myself, too. I can’t keep up with the likes of Harry anymore. My head’s swimming. You shower first, or me?”

  “I’ll go first. I’m already on my feet.” Ben grinned weakly.

  Dickon grinned back. Hope fluttered in him; maybe they could salvage something yet. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get used to sitting up.”

  When they had each showered and dressed, they went downstairs to the Little Boys’ Room Restaurant attached to the Lost Resort. The waiter took one look at them, and silently brought them a concoction to drink. It contained egg white, a mildly sweet juice—mango, Ben guessed—with dashes of nutmeg, cayenne pepper, and one or two ingredients they couldn’t identify. They sipped it while the chef prepared their omelets. By the time their omelets arrived, their stomachs and heads were ready for food. Dickon tried to get the recipe for the hangover cure from the waiter, but he declined, claiming it was proprietary to the restaurant.

  “Let’s check out,” Dickon said. “We can stop at the State Park up river a few miles. A stroll through the trees could clear our heads. Then we can go on to the clinic in Las Tumbas, if we still want to.”

  Ben got behind the wheel. The play of sun between the dark redwood trees dappled the road, making driving difficult. At the turnoff to the State Park he slowed. “Maybe it’s better if we keep on going, Dickon.”

  “Okay,” Dickon said. “Maybe so.”

  In a Dog’s Ear

  The sun still rode above the sea as Ben and Dickon arrived at San Danson Station. Long afternoon shadows stretched east, waiting to touch the cloaking night. Ben’s back-brain was uneasy. He knew he needed to be by himself for a while. Too much had happened in too short a time. Dickon spoke as they drove into the garage area. “Fancy a bit of dinner at the Four Rosas?”

  “No,” Ben said, “thanks anyway, but I’ve been away from Butter too long. She needs some one-on-one companionship tonight, I think.”

  “And you need some space, I think,” Dickon said, with a sigh.

  Ben thought about equivocating, but said, “Yes, Dickon, I do.”

  Dickon opened the car door and put one foot on the ground. “I’ll open the garage,” he said. He looked at Ben. “When should I come around again, or should I?”

  “I’m not sure. A few days?”

  “Whenever, then,” Dickon said, and swung out of the car. Ben wondered if Dickon was angry. Then he decided he didn’t care right then. Ben pulled the car into the garage as Dickon loped off. He shut off the engine and sat in the dim building listening to the motor tick as it cooled. When he judged Dickon had had time to collect his mail and start up the path toward the village, he got out, locked the car, and closed the garage door.

  Harry had stopped by to let Butter out for a run. He had also made sure she had water and food. He hadn’t spent a lot of time being a companion. Butter had been lonely. She went into spasms of barking joy when Ben put his foot on the porch. She pranced around him in circles as he made his way to the treat cupboard for her boss-is-back treat. Ben was surprised at how glad he was to see her. He had missed her very much, indeed. Ben fixed them both a simple supper. Then they went into the living room and sat in their chair. Ben rubbed Butter’s back, scratched behind her ears, and stroked her in other ways she delighted in. She snuggled down on his lap and drowsed contentedly. Her world was good, and, for a change, she enjoyed having Ben all to herself.

  “Oh, Butter,” Ben said, “I’m not sure what to do.” Butter wisely did not respond. Ben kept on rubbing her soothingly. “Dickon showed parts of himself I hadn’t suspected existed,” Ben went on. Butter kept her ears pricked up, listening. She knew Ben was distressed.

  “I was careless,” Ben said into the air above Butter’s ears. “I let myself get involved without finding out enough.” He sighed. “Too long out of the dating game, I guess. Not that I was ever that good at it, or had that much practice.” He was quiet for a while. Butter raised her head and looked at him, as if to urge him to get back to the point.

  “I didn’t guess Dickon was a heavy drinker,” he said; “I was sick with all I had to drink.” He was quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t the boozing that bothered me so much as Dickon spending time with that Harry Kerry on what was supposed to be our romantic getaway.” Ben’s voice roughened. He laughed without humor. “All those condoms he scored, and we never got around to using even the ones on the dresser. So much for romance.”

  Butter gently wagged her tail once or twice. Ben stared moodily into the shadows of his room. “I should have known better, Butter,” he said. She wagged her tail again when she heard her name. “I should have asked up front about his HIV status. I’m glad we haven’t gone too far. Kissing and mutual jack-off don’t spread the virus.”

  Ben frowned at the lurking shadows. “I don’t know if I’ll try to go on with him.” Ben grimaced, and turned up the lamp by his chair. The brighter light chased away the shadows. “I hope no harm done,” he said. Weariness sat like a pair of walruses on Ben’s shoulders.

  “Bed time early tonight,” he said to Butter. She followed him when he went to the bedroom. Ben undressed and got into bed and under the covers. “Damn you, Dickon,” he said into the darkness. Butter pirouetted three times, before lying down on her own side of the bed. She fell asleep immediately. Ben ran angry feelings through his mind until his exhaustion overcame him.

  Dickon sat up late in his cottage, pretending to read.

  Flies Enter the Ointment

  The Little Gate at Lechuga Prison

  The great prison gates do not open to let released prisoners out. No, the warden reserves those gates for incoming human detritus only. Released prisoners exit through a small, one person sized gate on the north side. Outside that gate a dirt road leads back to the freeway and freedom.

  Haven Fitz had served his time. He stood quietly while the guard inserted a key into the lock and turned it. The lock screeched as the key turned and the tumblers groaned as they fell into place. Maintenance seldom oiled the lock. The hinges on the gate cried out as the guard drew it open just enough to let the released prisoner through. The warden wanted released prisoners to walk away with those sounds in their memories. He believed it had a salutary effect on recidivism. No scientist has ever documented this as truth.

  Outside the gate he cast off Haven Fitz to be Haakon Spitz again. He stood a long moment on the dusty roadside looking up at the brassy sun in the bald blue sky. No one would come to pick him up. He didn’t know anybody on the outside any more. His former life hadn’t lent itself to establishing long-term relationships. The only relationship he had had in prison ended shortly before his release when another con knifed his master, Butch Hurr, in the laundry room.

  Haakon shrugged his shoulders inside the cheap blue suit the warden had given him. It fit him poorly, but, slumped as his posture was after twenty years inside, no suit would fit him well. The pallor on his face betrayed his abode for the past two decades; only fish bellies and prisoners ever had that shade of white for complexion.

  Haakon sighed. The dust had already marred the polish on his black shoes. Once he tears or fury would have overwhelmed at such a desecration of his footgear, but now it didn’t seem to matter. It was like the slow wind whistling through the chain link fence behind him, just something that was. He felt in his jacket pocket for the ticket the warden had given him.
It was still there. A one-way ticket from Lechuga to the City. Haakon nodded to himself, took one last look at the lettuce field across the road, and started trudging toward the highway and its bus stop.

  At least there was a bench, with a bit of shade from a rough wooden shelter. No schedule posted, though. Haakon sat on the bench, after dusting it off with his hand. The suit wasn’t much, but it was all the clothes he had. Aside from the clothes, the warden had provided him, and a snapshot of Butch Hurr as a boy, he had come out of the prison with nothing. His life inside hadn’t allowed for collecting a lot of artifacts, and he had no desire to come away with the two books they had allowed him, a Bible and Booth Tarkington’s Penrod. He stuck his hand in his right pocket. He was surprised to feel something there. Carefully he withdrew the paper to look at it. It was a roll of bills. Haakon was surprised. Maybe the chaplain had put it there.

  There was a note folded into the bills. Haakon read the note. “This is money you earned while you were here,” the note said. It was signed “Roy L. Payne, Warden.” Haakon slowly counted it. It was fifty dollars. Not bad for twenty years.

  When the dusty Greyhound came, Haakon got on and presented his ticket. The driver punched it, and motioned toward the back of the bus. Haakon found an empty seat and stared