The Clay Head Benediction

by Marty Rafter

wintertime schedule in five years. It rained hard for a few days, too hard for the bivy sack, and I stayed in my apartment, not sleeping, listening to music, but as soon as the rain was gone, I was back to the woods. When the time came that I would normally apply for the seasonal work at the post office, I let it pass, and continued my routine. It was peaceful; the dreamless nights, conversations with regular acquaintances on the bus, little problems to fix around the building. The only downside is that I was unable to locate Ben. Twice I stopped at his apartment and left messages for him, but I never heard from him, so I could only hope that he had found a peaceful little ritual of his own. It was December 8th, 37 nights in the woods, before I started thinking about the project again.

  It happened because the woman from the cathedral got on the bus. She recognized me, but I did not recognize her, I just noticed that an old woman was intent on sharing my seat. Which, itself was not that unusual, because I was sitting in the front, and lots of lonely old people seek out strangers for company. But when the woman s sits down, she says “I was hoping that I would see you again”

  “You were?” I ask

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, I’m glad you found me” I say

  “You don’t remember me do you?” She says

  “I’m afraid I don’t” I say

  “You gave me a present early last month…at church.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry, of course, I remember now. Did you like it?”

  “Oh, yes. I like it very much. “

  “Well, that’s good” I say

  “I’ve had a bit of trouble keeping the cat from playing with it though. She likes to bat at it with her paw, you know...”

  “That’s funny” I say

  “That doesn’t bother you?” She asks

  “No, why would it...”

  “Oh, you know...people can be touchy” she says

  “I’m not one of them”

  “Well, that is good for you” she says reaching out to pat my arm.

  “There is something I have been wondering about since I met you...” the woman begins

  “Oh?”

  “What does this is all a misunderstanding mean?”

  “Well, normally it means that one person has said something, but another person might not be hearing it correctly. Like, for example…”

  “Oh, honey, I know what it means. I’m wondering why it said that on the note”

  “What note? I ask

  “The note inside the present you gave me”

  “Oh, well. It is kind of long story, but I guess the condensed version that I originally made it for someone else.”

  “That was one of my guesses. A girl?”

  “Yes, but not a romantic thing. More like a professional disagreement.” I say

  “Do you want to talk about it?” She asks

  “Probably not”

  “Ok” the woman says, and she is quiet for a little while

  “It is just a long story...I could tell you the whole thing if you have time” I say

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that sweetie…you know what my husband used to say? He used to say old friends are called that for a reason...they get old, sometimes people just move on in different directions”

  “That’s good advice” I say

  “It can be, but he was wrong twice as much as he was right”

  “Has he been gone a long time?” I ask

  “Thirteen years”

  “I’m sorry” I say

  “Oh sweetie, I don’t blame you” she says laughing at her own joke “It was cancer of the lung” she smiles sweetly at me, and I smile back at her.

  “You know what I have been thinking about?” I say, “A big project...I’ve been….”

  “You aren’t getting off at the next stop are you?” She asks

  “No”

  “I am…but I want to hear about this project of yours”

  “It's no problem” I say

  “I could just ride for a bit, I don’t have anything to do” she says “I can miss my stop”

  “Don’t do that. I will get off with you, and walk you home, I’ll tell you on the way”

  “Or you could come for coffee” she offers

  And so I do, I walk with her to her little apartment with the slow elevator and green carpet, and listen as she shows me the shelf where the head I made sits in its box alongside a dying spider plant, a porcelain Virgin Mary and a ceramic sad clown figurine, and she shows me pictures of her children and her husband. And it is where I tell someone else the whole story. Not the dreams part or the part about sleeping outside, but the rest: Ben, the library, the Mouthwash Man, Maria Olson and all of the heads. And she listens like I am telling her the most normal thing she has ever heard. I have found that the generation that grew up without television has a pretty liberal definition of what is normal, as long as you look normal, they let you get away with some kooky stuff, and act like it is no big deal. Then I tell her about the big project, and she says, “You are pretty good at making clay heads.”

  “So, do you think I should make something involving clay heads?” I ask her

  “Or, you could try to make a big one” she says

  “Do you think so?”

  “Have you ever tried it?” She asks

  And I realized I never had, nor had I even really thought about it. The whole thing is so obvious it is almost stupid. And I want to jump up and start thanking her, but then I remember that there is no good way to bake the clay, and that big pieces of oven bake clay will be expensive, but I thank her just the same because at least it is a start. And we sit and chat some more, and I eat some butter cookies and drink two cups of coffee, and we are both thankful for the company.

  That night, I sleep in the woods again, but I don’t fall asleep as quickly, and in the morning I return to the building tired and depressed. I repeat the same pattern for two more nights until I realize that my respite has finally come to an end. After a final restless night in the woods, I wash my sleeping bag and clean the bivy sack and pack them both into my duffel bag for the last time. Then I ride the bus down to the north side where I put the duffel under a railroad underpass a few yards from a homeless encampment with a little note that says “free” slipped into the luggage tag. Then, I ride the bus back to the building and work for a little while. Then, with a little bit of daylight remaining I make two cheese sandwiches and walk to the library. When I get there, it is dark but the building is still open, so I sit outside on the benches and wait. At seven, I see the familiar figure of Ben emerge carrying two large shopping bags. I watch him for a few seconds before walking up to him.

  “It has been a long time, buddy” I say as I approach him

  “I told you, once your girlfriend came into the picture, you would disappear.” He says.

  “I tried to stop and see you twice”

  “Not here you didn’t” He says

  “No, I stopped where you live. At your apartment” I say

  “If you had stopped here, you would know that I don’t live there anymore”

  “I’m not allowed in the library anymore, Ben”

  “Still with that convenient excuse, huh?” He says, too loudly.

  “It isn’t a convenient excuse. It is the truth.”

  “Just like how you went to my case workers office, and had to be hauled out by the guards, too”

  “It didn’t happen like that, Ben.”

  “Oh, I bet it didn’t. ...just like how they had no right to kick you out of the library, too, huh? Nothing is ever your fault”

  “Oh, come on, Ben. That is ridiculous. I made you a sandwich.” I say, reaching into my bag

  “I don’t want a fucking sandwich from you. “

  “There is no reason to be angry, Ben”

  “There is every god damn reason to be angry. ...I had to move because of you”

  “Because of me?”

  “Yeah
, you showing up. Stirring up trouble with my neighbors. Stealing from me”

  “Ben”

  “No, stop following me”

  “Are you playing the trumpet at all?”

  “Don’t talk to me about my trumpet, Luke. Don’t talk to me about anything. “

  “Ben, I’m sorry I haven’t been around, but it isn’t what you think. First off, it didn’t even work out with that girl...”

  “Why would it? What kind of person is attracted to a thief and liar!” He screams.

  “Ben, I’m not lying”

  “Jesus doesn’t share your biases, asshole!” Ben screams back at me

  “What are you talking about Ben?”

  “I am talking about you. You superior motherfucker!” he yells

  Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Coats emerge from the library door. When he sees Ben yelling at me, he turns around and goes back into the building and reemerges with a guard. Both men stand there and watch us. Then, the guard goes back in, and I assume that he is planning to call the police.

  “Ben, please, I think that guard is going to call the police” I say

  “Let him. I will tell them what you fucking did. How you broke into my apartment and...”

  I stand and watch Ben, with his rage showing no signs of abating, I decide then to leave. When I walk away Ben does stop yelling, and so, I walk alone in silence into the darkness of the evening. After I am out of sight of the library, I open my bag and take out one of the sandwiches and eat while I walk. The exercise feels good. I missed walking, but walking is always about thinking for me. Not the bus though, the bus is diesel powered mediation...transcendental bus riding. I might trademark it like the Maharishi did, charge a lot of money for classes, and get rich for teaching people how to ride a bus. Stranger things have happened. Like Ben. Ben is a stranger