JohnShore.com John Shore: Trying God’s patience since 1958

[If you hated my last Fun With Family Fiction thing, you're likely to loathe the story of mine below. It's called  The Trouble With Glass. Remember, friends, this is just a humble attempt to create decent art.]

Young Bennie Horton sat in the cavernous living room of a luxurious high-rise apartment on a round, backless white couch with a giant white button in its middle. It was 1959. Men wore hats. Women had big hair. People wore sunglasses and smiled a lot.

Also in the room was Bennie’s mother. She wore a long, flowing purple gown and a string of gold pearls draped about her neck. She stood gazing at the city below through the room’s great window.

“Ah, the teeming city,” she said. “It is like an organism unto itself.” She spun and regarded her son. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Bennie? About the city living and breathing as a single organic unit?”

“I sure do!” piped up Bennie. “Absolutely! The many is just like one.” He laughed nervously. “I mean, it’s maybe a little bigger than your typical organism – but still! The one is made of the parts! Everything is in everything! All of life is one! Thou art that! Definitely! You bet!”

His mother looked decidedly nonplussed.

“God, you have a lot to learn,” she said, turning back to contemplate the view.

“It’s true,” said Bennie. “I really do. I know it. You’re right.”

His mother did not respond.

“Um, Mom? I was wondering. You know all those cacti you placed in my bedroom, in what I guess was the middle of last night? They’re really nice and everything. What characters! But the thing is, I don’t think –”

“No,” sighed his mother wearily, “You don’t think, Bennie. You’ve never thought. It’s simply not in you. Your opinions are, at best, amusing. You must surrender to the fact that your life will never be a cerebral one, son. The world of the physical is your realm. There is the life the Great Creative Spirit intended for you.

“Tell me, my child. Have you ever had an erection?”

“Jeez, Mom. I hardly feel –”

“No, no you don’t, Bennie. You feel nothing. You are like those cacti I placed in your room as a subtle reminder that the world is full of pricks. The symbolism of this gesture escaped you, of course. Metaphor is, after all, a subtle, delicate thing, not handled well by strictly linear thinkers like you. Now – I’ve asked you once, and I’m asking you again. Have you ever –?”

Just then someone rapped on the apartment door.

“Oh, God,” breathed Bennie’s mother. “It’s ice cream. I know it.”

She crossed to the door, her gown flowing behind her, and swung it open to reveal a white-uniformed Good Humor man holding a small paper bag.

“Ice cream delivery!” said the Good Humor Man. “Did somebody order a half-gallon of Double-Double Triple Quadruple Heart Attack Chocolate?”

Bennie’s mother leaned on the door and ran her hand up along its edge. Feeling the power of her lyre-like hips, she said, “You bring delectable gifts from the fields of Krishna, don’t you, you delightful thing?”

The Good Humor Man looked down into his sack, smiled, and said, “I guess I do!” Then he looked past her to Bennie.

“Hi, ya Bennie!” he said, waving. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good!” said Bennie, hoping to use this opportunity to further develop his social skills. “But I’m trapped here with my insane mother! Please help me!”

“I hear ya!” rejoined the Good Humor Man. Then he dropped his voice and confided to Bennie’s mother, “He really needs to work on his social skills.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “We’re thinking of having him committed.”

“Don’t do it. I had a cousin who got committed. Those places are hellholes. Better to take him to a vacant lot and shoot him if you have to.”

Bennie’s mom grabbed the Good Humor man by his collar and pulled him forward until their noses almost touched.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed. “It would be good for him. Psychologists are our friends. Are you trying to tell me what’s best for my son, you obviously repressed homosexual neurotic?”

“No ma’am,” said the Good Humor Man, suddenly feeling very sorry for Bennie.

“Not at all. My mistake. Sorry.” He handed her a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

Bennie’s mom released the man. “What am I signing for?” she asked sweetly, taking the clipboard.

“Ice cream.”

Bennie’s mother penned her name. She handed back the clipboard as if in a daze.

“Suddenly I feel paralyzed,” she said.

“I don’t!” said the man, snatching his clipboard and dashing down the hallway.

“Enjoy your ice cream! Bye! Good luck!”

Bennie’s mom waved feebly. Staring down at the carpet, she did not move. She began to dream about when she was a little girl living in a poor country orphanage. She remembered herself barefoot and crying. She remembered her hair caked with dirt. She remembered insects crawling through a half-eaten pan of cornbread on the floor.

She let the ice cream fall from her hand, though not before noting it was not chocolate at all, but its God damn opposite: strawberry sherbet. Barely aware of her own movement, she walked off down the hallway toward the elevators. She felt like she was gliding, her feet inches off the ground.

Bennie crossed to the door and looked down the hallway.

“Going out to lunch?” he called.

Without turning around she flitted her hand around in the air behind her head. He had been dismissed.

“I said, Are you going to dinner? — you life-sucking monster bitch from hell!” Bennie screamed uncontrollably. His mother stopped in her tracks. She turned, slowly, and faced him. She raised both of her hands.

“Can you see the blood coming from my palms?” she asked.

“No,” said Benny sadly. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t.”

“Well, it’s there,” said his mother. “You know it’s there.” She turned and walked away again, disappearing around a corner. Bennie soon heard the familiar sound of the elevator bell. His mother was going down. He heard the elevator arrive, open, and close.

It was quiet then. Nobody seemed to be home in any of the apartments on his floor. It was hard to be sure, of course. All those doors.

Bennie looked down at his hands, which were hurting. He saw blood there, coming from each palm. He pushed his hands against the front door and moved them around, leaving behind red streaks. He went inside, closed and locked the door behind him, and cleaned his hands. The cuts there were small after all, received most likely from the cacti. He sat down upon the round backless couch. He heard a helicopter flying right outside his building. It went, Whap, whap, whap, whap.

Next he heard a “ffunk!” at the big window. He got up, looked, and saw that a pigeon had flown hard into the pane and was now lying with its neck broken on the ledge just outside the window. The smoke-gray bird closed its eyes. Bennie tried to open the window, but discovered it was painted shut.

Bennie went into his bedroom, lifted a small potted cactus from the floor near his bed, and carried it back into the living room. He placed the plant on the inside ledge of the window, inches from the bird. He got down on his knees, and rested his hands, about chest level, on the sill. He stared at the bird. He would never be able to say positively, but for the rest of his life, Bennie would believe that one of the bird’s eyes had suddenly opened, and that the animal had winked at him.

Hell, it may have even smiled.