The Clay Head Benediction Read online

vacant house with no heat, and no furniture, and unpaid taxes, and a million problems that you didn’t make and can’t solve. But I shouldn’t have said any of this because I don’t know any of this to be true, no one does. Morality is a police force that could stand to have far fewer deputies.

  And when I do sleep, my mind awakens into a tailor shop and a little man is fitting me for a suit of clothes, a fine black tuxedo with a cummerbund and a velvet stripe on the pant leg and neat lapels. And the man explains that I will need very few alterations because the suit that he had in stock will fit me almost perfectly. A previous customer had neglected to pick it up, but I am insistent that the pants are too short, and the tailor argues with me, and explains that my complaints are without merit because I am shoeless in a dressing room, and the suit is to be worn on the street with a fine opera slipper. And so, I run across the shop and snatch a shoe from the display and sit down and insist that he prove to me that the pants are correct. Then, the little tailor kneels down and places the shoe on my foot, and when he does I say “you must take me to the ball now”. The tailor looks up at me quickly, and then his face becomes the face of the man from the theatre and he smiles theatrically and says, “So it was you all along”. And we laugh together at our stupid joke and the man from the theatre smiles and explains that he will be unable to attend the performance tonight, and asks if I could take the stage in his place, and buoyed by our camaraderie, I agree without question.

  And so, I go the playhouse, and when I arrive the actors are in disarray because the director is nowhere to be found, and I explain that I have only come to fill in for the man, and one of the actors explains to me that I am to be tasked with the narration of the performance, but none of them have a script, and they intend to perform whatever I explain to the crowd. So, I search the entire building for a script or an outline or a suggestion as to what I am supposed to say, and I find only a dusty old book full of scenes in a familiar poetic form, but the actors revolt and demand I improvise and present something more contemporary. So, I ask for their suggestions regarding a theme, and they decide that we will perform a play about a thwarted bank robbery.

  And as I tell the story, the actors perform my tale about a simple man who has a loving family, and a stable life, who while waiting in line at the bank, becomes a victim of a robbery that involves a lot of shooting and angry words improvised by the actors, and the man decides to stop the bandit by nobly risking his life to protect others. The crowd cheers wildly at the crescendo and the actors take to the stage and bow, and there is whistling and flowers and everybody is very satisfied with the performance as the actors exit the stage. So, then I gather all of them together to suggest a second act where the man learns to live as a hero, and wrestles with why he alone was chosen to thrive and survive while others perished, and all of the actors get mad, and they force me onto the stage to see that the audience has gone. Then the man from the tailor shop, and the man from the theatre who are the same man playing the same role in different places comes and asks that I return the shoes that I borrowed, and I do, and I walk home alone in the tuxedo without my shoes.

  And when I get home, Ben is there. The real Ben. And I am wearing my real clothes.

  “Your feet are bleeding” He says

  “I was wearing slippers, but I gave them back” I say

  And I stand for a while and watch the dawn rise behind Ben and he says to me “you have to take this back” and in his hand, he is holding the small box that I gave him

  “It was a gift, Ben. I gave it to you, because we are friends”

  “I can’t keep it. I don’t want to keep it”

  “Why?” I ask

  “Because when people are friends they try to see each other. You don’t come around anymore; you just gave me this so that I would go away”

  “No. No. that is not it at all. Not even a little bit. They kicked me out of the library”

  “They wouldn’t kick you out of the library” He says

  “No, they did. They said I was causing a problem because I was hiding those heads there for people to find”

  Ben lights a cigarette and draws deeply on it. “Stop. That doesn’t make sense. They don’t kick people out of places for giving things away...for giving things away. It doesn’t make sense."

  “I know. I know, Ben, but that is what happened. There is a guy there, his name is Brian Folz”

  “Do you think I am stupid...I know who he is. I know what you are saying. I know people do that. They make up things, and then, when they want people to believe the things they make up, they put something true in the thing that they say. I know Brian Folz. Fine. That part is true. There is a Brian Folz, that doesn’t make the rest of it true”

  “Ben, please. I know. I know what it sounds like, but it's true. He gave me a warning about it, but then I had them there anyway, and so they banned me” I say

  “If they gave you a warning, why did you do it?”

  “Because it is my art, I guess. I don’t know. It is a different thing. When you have something that you have to give away.”

  “I don’t have an art” Ben says

  “You could. You could if you want to. Do you want to come inside? I could give you some clay”

  “I also talked to Maria about it”

  “Maria who?”

  “The lady I talk to. The case worker. I told her about the head, and you, and how you haven’t been at the library, and how you came to my place, and how you were out there talking to that guy who drinks the mouthwash”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that she thinks that I should stay away from you. She says that I should be…cautious about your motivations” Ben looks away, and searches his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. He lights another cigarette.

  “You can’t believe that. Look, I know that sometimes, for you, things can seem a little...”

  “No. Fuck that, no. Don’t start on that shit with me. Look at you. Look at yourself. You are standing here with your feet bleeding all over the ground, talking to me about...”

  “Ben, honestly, there is a good explanation for...”

  “It used to be the trumpet” he says

  “What did?”

  “My art. My art used to be the trumpet. I was in honors band in high school”

  “Well, then you know what I mean… Do you still have one?”

  “No. Maybe at my parents I do, but I don’t know” he says

  “You could get another” I say

  “Ok, so what if what you are saying is true? That they kicked you out. Kicked you out for giving something away for free that wasn’t hurting anyone at all…why would that happen?”

  “I don’t know, I guess because people want simple answers” I say

  “Do you think that the devil is after us?’ He asks

  I laugh “No Ben. I don’t. Not even a little bit, do I think that the devil is after us”

  “Why would he be?” Ben says

  “Exactly” I say

  “No, seriously, why would he be?” Ben says, looking at me pleadingly.

  “He’s not, Ben”

  “You don’t even want to answer the question, do you? You don’t even want to think of a possible reason. Here, just take this. “He shoves the box at me, and I take it, and Ben turns to walk away

  “Wait!” I say, and Ben faces me again “Ok, hypothetically only, not any kind of real reason at all, just me humoring you, the only possible reason the devil is after us is because he has exhausted every other single person on the earth. There is not one shred of influence between either of us. If there was a devil, and if that devil was after us, he would have fully had his fill of every pimp, and drug pusher, and war lord and crooked business man, dirty politician, and wife beater, and..”

  “Or, maybe he thinks he can get his hooks into one of us and make us do something really fucked up that will turn good people bad without
them thinking about it too much…did you ever fucking think of that?” Ben shouts as he throws his cigarette into the street

  “No, Ben. I never thought of that at all, and you shouldn’t either.”

  Ben points one of his thick fingers at me “Don’t tell me what to think, you mother fucker” and he steps from the sidewalk and into the street.

  When he reaches the other side, I shout “You should buy a trumpet!”

  Ben waves his hand into the air, but doesn’t say anything. I watch him walk away, and when he is out of my sight, I look down at my feet. They are filthy, and bleeding, and in terrible condition. I search my pockets for keys, but my pockets are empty, so I sit down and wait. And think, and try to reconstruct a way that I would have left my apartment, and where exactly I could have gone in the course of the night. For the first time, probably ever, I actually consider that there may be something seriously unfixably wrong. Everything else outside looks normal. The street, the stray racing cars of morning commuters, the cold air, maybe it is only me that is different. After about an hour, a young woman exits the building on her way to class, and I race up to the door, and grab it before it closes. She recognizes me and smiles, and then looks down at my feet, and I can see a trace of shock cross her face, but I quickly explain that I had got locked out taking out my trash, and had been trying to get back into the building for a while. We share a little laugh over my predicament, and I hope that she does not look closely enough to