![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
and another 1500+ words.....
Scene # 2.2, Draft # 1
******************
Benson left work after several hours, caught the bus to the Tabor Mountain neighborhood in the rain, and darkness was falling when he arrived back home. He had barely stepped inside the door when his home telephone rang. He rarely used it, and suspected it was one of his neighbors, probably Maggie.
“Hello,” he said, trying to be polite though still hungover.
“Why hello there, Mr. Benson. I saw that you just got home, and was wondering if you'd like to join me for some tea?” The voice was old, dry and cracked, but still firm and lucid. It was Maggie. Benson thought about begging off, but was so tired maybe it would be nice to have someone else fix a hot beverage and maybe a snack.
“Sure, Maggie. Give me five minutes to change, and I'll be right over.”
He said goodbye, hung up the phone and changed out of his damp clothes. He sat down briefly, thinking he might vomit again, but the queasiness passed. He put on some old tennis shoes, high tops, with thick rubber soles he once found useful for hiking. Rummaging through his kitchen cupboards, Benson found a sealed tin of black tea, government issue, and a small box of sweet crackers. Maggie liked her tea, and went through her monthly ration quickly, so Benson liked to routinely provide her with an extra package or two - he always had plenty since he preferred coffee, when it was available.
He put on a jacket, opened the front door and locked it behind him. Maggie lived in a small house across the street, run down, with moss on the shingles and siding, dirty windows, and rotting under the rainy Portland winters. Benson strode up her driveway, now clogged with weeds growing from cracks in the concrete, car traffic long gone. The yard too was clogged with weeds, untended flower beds, and the remains of a vegetable garden Maggie used in the summer, coaxing green beans, basil and mushrooms from the earth. Several small raspberry bushes thrust their forlorn bare branches towards the sky in one corner, while a huge holly bush guarded the front walk, its spiky leaves sharp. It was quiet, with no wind and no sound, except for the dripping of rain water off the plants and roof.
Benson stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door. Maggie opened the door, and smiled at Benson. She said hello, motioned for him to sit in the living room, and shuffled off to the kitchen, her slippers rasping almost silently on the worn wooden floor slats. Benson hung his jacket on a peg, and placed the tin of tea and box of crackers on a low table in front of a lumpy couch, the leather splotched and split in some places, covered with an old quilt. He sat on the end of the couch nearest a rocking chair that Maggie liked. The house was as quiet as the outside, with the sounds of dripping water muffled, and an occasional creak of the wooden frames.
From the kitchen sounds of metal banging and then a loud crash as something made from glass was shattered. “Oh no!” Maggie's cry of anguish echoed through the house.
Benson stood up and went to the kitchen. Maggie stood above a mess of broken glass and some preserves, probably blackberry, splattered out in a circular pattern from where the jar had hit the tile floor. Maggie looked up, saw Benson in the door frame and said, “I can't believe I'm so clumsy. That was the last of the blackberry jam Tiffany gave me last fall.”
“Not a problem,” said Benson, soothingly. “I've still got a jar she gave me. Let me go home and get it. By the way, I've got some tea and crackers for you on the table.”
A few minutes later, Benson was seated back on Maggie's couch, listening to her chatter on about her life. She had poured hot tea for them, and had some scones to go along with the preserves and crackers. Maggie was pushing 90, and had been through a lot in her life, starting out on her own as a wide-eyed optimist in the late 1960s.
“I went down to the market today, hoping some of the farmers still had some fresh vegetables leftover. I can't believe they want 15 Ameros now for a head of cabbage.”
“Yes, unfortunately everything is getting expensive,” said Benson. “I can tell you from the numbers I been working with through our office, that it's not going to get better any time soon.”
“Do you remember how it used to be, back when we had grocery stores with everything that we would ever want, and at prices that were so cheap considering the money most of us were making?”
“Yes, I hear a lot of that in my field. Many of the farmers in the Outland and even some of the production workers here in the city remember the good old days. I think it's still a shock to most of us older folks at how quickly things change.” Benson sighed, and took a sip of tea. He thought back to his childhood, when Reagan was president, and the United States was still whole.
“So how is work going?” Maggie knew from her years of living across the street from Benson, that his job could be chaotic and very stressful. He had withdrawn even more so from the neighborhood, above and beyond the natural shunning he received as a government employee, after his wife had died.
“Well, in some ways things are about the same. We don't have enough manpower, and some of the things were trying to do are not well received by everyone away from the cities.” Benson glanced around the room and then added, “But lately it's even been more stressful, as there have been numerous crimes of violence since we're experiencing food shortages again.”
“Yes, I read about an incident in Pocatello in the state paper a couple weeks ago. I think you were out of town then. You might not have heard about it, but there was some rioting going on down in the Pearl District, when the authorities came in to evict some homeless people from a vacant building.” Maggie fought back her emotions, as she was still angry.
“I didn't hear about that.”
“It started out as sort of a sit in, and then it became a protest. It wasn't unlike the 1968 Chicago Democratic convention. When it turned ugly, it turned fast. My nephew was in the crowd and he got tear gassed, and then arrested.” Maggie looked up from her teacup, her eyes moist. “As you know, our family doesn't have too much money, and virtually no political connections. James has been sentenced to a year of hard labor down at the retraining camp in Klamath Falls.”
Benson was surprised. He had no idea one of his neighbors was going through this drama. He also knew, being pretty much politically unconnected himself, there wasn't anything he could do about it.
“Ah, that is just terrible Maggie. I don't know what else to say. These days are options when dealing with the justice system are so limited.”
“James had been working at that warehouse in the same neighborhood for six years now. It wasn't much, but it was steady work and a steady paycheck. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not unlike some of my friends in Chicago. He's been told that his job will not be available for him when he gets back, and so he'll have to start all over again, probably as a day laborer picking fruits and vegetables at the truck farms.”
Benson was silent for a few moments, and then asked, “So how are you feeling, Maggie? How's the hip?”
“Getting worse, I'm afraid.” As if the question reminded her, she shifted in her chair, wincing with pain. “I've asked the nurse down at the clinic for some pain medication, but she says it'll have to wait until it gets worse. Like, I can't get out of bed level of worse.”
“Can you get any salve from your sister?”
“Not right now. The ingredients needed for a good St. John's wort are difficult to come by, and of course the cannabis alternative is all being used up by cancer patients and stoners.”
“Hmmm, I don't know what else to suggest. Maybe I can ask around at the office, or pick up something on my trip this week.” Benson felt rather helpless.
Maggie lowered her voice. “You know, if it gets too bad, I might have to seek out the folks in the Hemlock Society. They're still around you know, underground and all.”
“Yes, I've heard that.” Benson also knew it for a fact, as his wife requested a little extra help for her final exit.
They talked for a while longer, and then Maggie's electric light flickered at 9 PM, and then went out. She had a candle lit, but couldn't afford to waste it, and so Benson said goodnight. It was time to go to bed, for them both.
******************
Benson left work after several hours, caught the bus to the Tabor Mountain neighborhood in the rain, and darkness was falling when he arrived back home. He had barely stepped inside the door when his home telephone rang. He rarely used it, and suspected it was one of his neighbors, probably Maggie.
“Hello,” he said, trying to be polite though still hungover.
“Why hello there, Mr. Benson. I saw that you just got home, and was wondering if you'd like to join me for some tea?” The voice was old, dry and cracked, but still firm and lucid. It was Maggie. Benson thought about begging off, but was so tired maybe it would be nice to have someone else fix a hot beverage and maybe a snack.
“Sure, Maggie. Give me five minutes to change, and I'll be right over.”
He said goodbye, hung up the phone and changed out of his damp clothes. He sat down briefly, thinking he might vomit again, but the queasiness passed. He put on some old tennis shoes, high tops, with thick rubber soles he once found useful for hiking. Rummaging through his kitchen cupboards, Benson found a sealed tin of black tea, government issue, and a small box of sweet crackers. Maggie liked her tea, and went through her monthly ration quickly, so Benson liked to routinely provide her with an extra package or two - he always had plenty since he preferred coffee, when it was available.
He put on a jacket, opened the front door and locked it behind him. Maggie lived in a small house across the street, run down, with moss on the shingles and siding, dirty windows, and rotting under the rainy Portland winters. Benson strode up her driveway, now clogged with weeds growing from cracks in the concrete, car traffic long gone. The yard too was clogged with weeds, untended flower beds, and the remains of a vegetable garden Maggie used in the summer, coaxing green beans, basil and mushrooms from the earth. Several small raspberry bushes thrust their forlorn bare branches towards the sky in one corner, while a huge holly bush guarded the front walk, its spiky leaves sharp. It was quiet, with no wind and no sound, except for the dripping of rain water off the plants and roof.
Benson stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door. Maggie opened the door, and smiled at Benson. She said hello, motioned for him to sit in the living room, and shuffled off to the kitchen, her slippers rasping almost silently on the worn wooden floor slats. Benson hung his jacket on a peg, and placed the tin of tea and box of crackers on a low table in front of a lumpy couch, the leather splotched and split in some places, covered with an old quilt. He sat on the end of the couch nearest a rocking chair that Maggie liked. The house was as quiet as the outside, with the sounds of dripping water muffled, and an occasional creak of the wooden frames.
From the kitchen sounds of metal banging and then a loud crash as something made from glass was shattered. “Oh no!” Maggie's cry of anguish echoed through the house.
Benson stood up and went to the kitchen. Maggie stood above a mess of broken glass and some preserves, probably blackberry, splattered out in a circular pattern from where the jar had hit the tile floor. Maggie looked up, saw Benson in the door frame and said, “I can't believe I'm so clumsy. That was the last of the blackberry jam Tiffany gave me last fall.”
“Not a problem,” said Benson, soothingly. “I've still got a jar she gave me. Let me go home and get it. By the way, I've got some tea and crackers for you on the table.”
A few minutes later, Benson was seated back on Maggie's couch, listening to her chatter on about her life. She had poured hot tea for them, and had some scones to go along with the preserves and crackers. Maggie was pushing 90, and had been through a lot in her life, starting out on her own as a wide-eyed optimist in the late 1960s.
“I went down to the market today, hoping some of the farmers still had some fresh vegetables leftover. I can't believe they want 15 Ameros now for a head of cabbage.”
“Yes, unfortunately everything is getting expensive,” said Benson. “I can tell you from the numbers I been working with through our office, that it's not going to get better any time soon.”
“Do you remember how it used to be, back when we had grocery stores with everything that we would ever want, and at prices that were so cheap considering the money most of us were making?”
“Yes, I hear a lot of that in my field. Many of the farmers in the Outland and even some of the production workers here in the city remember the good old days. I think it's still a shock to most of us older folks at how quickly things change.” Benson sighed, and took a sip of tea. He thought back to his childhood, when Reagan was president, and the United States was still whole.
“So how is work going?” Maggie knew from her years of living across the street from Benson, that his job could be chaotic and very stressful. He had withdrawn even more so from the neighborhood, above and beyond the natural shunning he received as a government employee, after his wife had died.
“Well, in some ways things are about the same. We don't have enough manpower, and some of the things were trying to do are not well received by everyone away from the cities.” Benson glanced around the room and then added, “But lately it's even been more stressful, as there have been numerous crimes of violence since we're experiencing food shortages again.”
“Yes, I read about an incident in Pocatello in the state paper a couple weeks ago. I think you were out of town then. You might not have heard about it, but there was some rioting going on down in the Pearl District, when the authorities came in to evict some homeless people from a vacant building.” Maggie fought back her emotions, as she was still angry.
“I didn't hear about that.”
“It started out as sort of a sit in, and then it became a protest. It wasn't unlike the 1968 Chicago Democratic convention. When it turned ugly, it turned fast. My nephew was in the crowd and he got tear gassed, and then arrested.” Maggie looked up from her teacup, her eyes moist. “As you know, our family doesn't have too much money, and virtually no political connections. James has been sentenced to a year of hard labor down at the retraining camp in Klamath Falls.”
Benson was surprised. He had no idea one of his neighbors was going through this drama. He also knew, being pretty much politically unconnected himself, there wasn't anything he could do about it.
“Ah, that is just terrible Maggie. I don't know what else to say. These days are options when dealing with the justice system are so limited.”
“James had been working at that warehouse in the same neighborhood for six years now. It wasn't much, but it was steady work and a steady paycheck. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not unlike some of my friends in Chicago. He's been told that his job will not be available for him when he gets back, and so he'll have to start all over again, probably as a day laborer picking fruits and vegetables at the truck farms.”
Benson was silent for a few moments, and then asked, “So how are you feeling, Maggie? How's the hip?”
“Getting worse, I'm afraid.” As if the question reminded her, she shifted in her chair, wincing with pain. “I've asked the nurse down at the clinic for some pain medication, but she says it'll have to wait until it gets worse. Like, I can't get out of bed level of worse.”
“Can you get any salve from your sister?”
“Not right now. The ingredients needed for a good St. John's wort are difficult to come by, and of course the cannabis alternative is all being used up by cancer patients and stoners.”
“Hmmm, I don't know what else to suggest. Maybe I can ask around at the office, or pick up something on my trip this week.” Benson felt rather helpless.
Maggie lowered her voice. “You know, if it gets too bad, I might have to seek out the folks in the Hemlock Society. They're still around you know, underground and all.”
“Yes, I've heard that.” Benson also knew it for a fact, as his wife requested a little extra help for her final exit.
They talked for a while longer, and then Maggie's electric light flickered at 9 PM, and then went out. She had a candle lit, but couldn't afford to waste it, and so Benson said goodnight. It was time to go to bed, for them both.