Ben Soul

by Richard George

out the window at the fields of vegetables passing by. He was asleep by the time the bus reached the Coastal Range of little mountains that bounded the Lechuga Valley.

  The City shocked Haakon. The cars were smaller than he remembered cars being. Strange names on them, too. Foreign names. The sheer numbers of lights and sounds overwhelmed him, even in the insulated quiet and darkness of the bus. The City’s buildings twisted and stretched the shape of the hills she occupied.

  The bus station had not changed. The same row of hard benches under sheet metal sheds that had always defined it stood in place, more decorated, now, with pigeon dung, perhaps. Twenty more years of pigeons relieving themselves had deepened and enriched the patina of poop that made up the murals and sidewalks of the station. It even smelled the same. Haakon was glad of it all. It brought some small stability to his disoriented self.

  Vaguely remembering directions, Haakon left the bus station by its south gate and walked two blocks to a non-descript alley called Prostitute Place. As he remembered, there was a flophouse here, called the Whore’s Open Arms. The building was still there, but the name on it said Dot Com House. One glance into the lobby persuaded Haakon he didn’t belong in that place. Crystal chandeliers glittered from the ceiling. Marble tiled the floor.

  Haakon turned away. Now he noticed the alley was clean. The dumpsters that used to line it were gone. Windows with elegant lettering fronted the alley on both sides. Gentrification had swept away a little bit of Haakon’s history. Haakon went to the corner and peered out at the street in both directions. He saw nowhere to go for a night’s sleep. A man on the street pushing a grocery cart stopped to watch Haakon. He waited a moment, and then pushed his cart over.

  “Just out of the joint?” he said. Haakon turned to him. The man was scruffy, but didn’t smell too bad. He must have bathed at least once in the past two weeks.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Your suit, man. I’ve got one just like it, in my cart. Spent ten years inside. Came out with the same pasty face you got. Took a couple of years outdoors to get my color back.” The man wheezed a little chuckle through his throat.

  “I used to bed down at an old hotel in this alley,” Haakon said. “It was a cheap place, and the cockroaches were friendly.”

  “Yeah, I knew it. The Whore’s Open Arms we called it. Dotcommers came along, gentrified the whole alley.”

  Haakon wondered what dotcommers were. Before he could ask, the man said, “If you need a place to bed down for tonight, try the Salvation Army over on Seventh Street.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of that thoroughfare. “A little religion along with your stew, but the stew’s good, and the beds are clean.”

  “Thanks,” Haakon said. The man ambled off, whistling a tune Haakon didn’t recognize. Haakon went toward Seventh Street.

  Recruited

  Haakon Spitz went into the next street where the Salvation Army mission was supposed to be. He found, instead, it was a soup kitchen. Brother Vitus, a small crabbed friar of ancient years with a great hooked nose that almost touched his chin, managed it. Haakon wondered how the poor man ate; his nose appeared to block his mouth. The brother sniffed loudly, and regularly. His rusty black robe was crusty with dust. Small strands of gray hair wandered randomly across his scabbed skull. When he spoke, Haakon heard the cell doors at Lechuga prison screeching shut.

  “Come in,” grated Brother Vitus. “We feed all sinners here.” He gestured with a palsied hand at the steam tables at the right side of the room. “Line up. Lunch soon.” There was no line; Haakon took a tray and flatware, put them on the track, and stared at the steaming water in the steam table. Obviously, it was ready to keep food warm, had there been any food to keep warm. Soon other men and a few women began to file in to line up behind Haakon. Brother Vitus greeted each one with his litany about feeding all sinners here.

  Haakon’s nerves frazzled under the repetition of the grinding phrase and repetitive sniffing. He was about to go when a man in monk’s robes brought out a tray of savory smelling meat mixed with carrots and potatoes, put it in the first steam table slot, covered it, and went back through the kitchen doors. He soon emerged with a tray of green stuff that looked a lot like over-cooked broccoli. He went back to the kitchen and came out again with a tray of biscuits. Then he took a plate, put a large spoonful of stew on it, a larger spoonful of the green stuff, and a single biscuit on it. Then he bent his head while a sonorous voice in a far corner of the room boomed out a blessing on the food, the assembled hungry, and the Holy Mother Church. When the Amen’s last echo rattled the silverware, the monk behind the counter handed the filled plate to Haakon.

  “Ess in gesundheit,” the monk said in a surprising falsetto. He waved Haakon on and began filling the next plate. Haakon took his plate to the table another monk indicated and sat down.

  “New here,” the sonorous voice stated. Haakon’s eardrums quivered under its assault. “Eat first, and then interview with me.” When Haakon opened his mouth, the priest presumed he was about to protest. “Part of the rules of the place. The priest on duty interviews newcomers. Today that’s me, Father Roman Hands.”

  “I’m Haakon,” Haakon said. The name fell unfamiliarly from his tongue. In prison he’d been called by one or another nickname, or by his cell number.

  “Welcome, Haakon. Eat, and then we talk.” The priest beamed at him, and moved on to boom at another man. Haakon took up his spoon and ate; no one ate near him. The savory stew meat was un-nameable, but nourishing. The carrots and potatoes were soft all the way through. A bit of tomato might have enhanced the mélange of spices, but the stew was palatable. Haakon choked down the apparent broccoli, carefully setting his mind on other things than its texture. The biscuit was hard, and probably Haakon should have softened in the stew. At least Haakon didn’t break any teeth on it.

  When he was done, he looked for where to put his dishes. A heavy monastic hand on his shoulder drew his attention; the monk’s other hand pointed toward an opening that had appeared in the dining hall wall. Another monk stood there, scraper at the ready, with a rack for dishes beside him. Haakon put his tray on the counter, trusting his dishes to the monk’s tender care.

  “Where is Father Hands?” he asked the monk behind the counter.

  “Office,” the man said, and pointed to the right. Haakon turned and went to the right. Near the corner he found a door, half-open. He knocked.

  “Come in,” Father Hands intoned.

  Haakon expected a desk, but there was only a small file cabinet in one corner and wobbly card table in front of a painted-over window. The table groaned as Father Hands leaned on it. His pink and cherubic face framed in a fringe of wondrously light white hair held two piercing blue eyes that bored into Haakon like a dentist’s drill.

  “How long have you been out?” Father Hands asked him.

  “About six hours,” he replied.

  “Don’t have a job yet, I take it?”

  “No.” Haakon hadn’t even thought about jobs; he had never really held one, not with time clocks and regular hours. He’d always free-lanced before going into prison.

  “Got much experience?”

  “I worked some in the laundry at prison, and in the library for a little while. Mostly, though, I just followed Butch around.”

  “Butch?”

  “My…keeper, I guess you’d say. He didn’t like me to be gone for long, so he bribed the guards to keep me with him.”

  “I see,” Father Hands said. Fire sparked in his eyes. “A man must do many things to survive in prison.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can offer you a job,” Father Hands said, “if you can leave the City.”

  “I’m not on probation. I’ve finished my sentence.”

  “Paid your debt, eh?”

  “And then some. I was convicted of looting my own property after the Great Temblor.”

  “I see
.”

  “What kind of work is it, this job?”

  “It’s in Las Tumbas. Some sort of surveillance, I believe.”

  “How much is bus fare there?”

  “Your fare is provided for.” Father Hands got up and opened the file cabinet with a key he wore on a chain at his waist. He took out a strong box and put it on the table. He sat down and opened it with another key on his chain. He took out a bus voucher, wrote the destination on it, and handed it to Haakon, who hadn’t decided yet to go.

  “This voucher,” Father Hands said, “cannot be redeemed for cash, only for a bus ride.”

  “Who do I see in Las Tumbas?”

  “Ms. Vanna Dee, in the Coastal Commission office. It’s only two blocks from the Las Tumbas bus station.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to hire me?”

  “She will provide you with a similar voucher to return to the City by bus. Busses run every hour on the half hour from the City, and every hour on the three-quarters hour from Las Tumbas. Good luck.” Father Hands waved Haakon out the office door. Haakon went on out of the mission, leaving the relative quiet of chattering diners and clattering dishes for the cacophony of the street traffic. He looked for a clock, and didn’t see one, so hurried on to the bus station. He got there with ten minutes to spare before the next bus left for Las Tumbas.

  On the bus, Haakon tried to look out the window as the bus traversed the City. Weariness from the