The Plant (23 page)

“Impossible!” Herb snapped. “The idea of the JANITOR writing a BOOK

. . . especially the janitor in THIS PLACE . . . !”

“The third thing is that I doubt very much if he sits on his stoop, drinking GIQs with his friends. Riddley has a wonderful little apartment in Dobbs Ferry, I had the privilege of being there once, and I don’t think they’re much for drinking on stoops in that neighborhood.”

“I believe Riddley’s Dobbs Ferry address is a convenient fiction,” said Herb in his most pompous oh-dear-I-seem-to-have-a-stick-up-my-ass voice. “If he took you to a place up there, I doubt like hell it was HIS place. As for the supposed book, how would a novel by Riddley Walker start? ‘Come on ovah heah, I’se gwineter tell y’all a story?’”

173

An extremely hateful thing to say, but with almost no sting in it. Thanks to Zenith, whose soothing atmosphere now absolutely pervades our offices, I knew that what Herb really felt just then was stunned surprise . . . and, inadequacy. I think that his subconscious mind has been aware for a long time that there’s more to Riddley than meets the eye. I also have reason to believe that Herb and inadequacy go together like a horse and carriage, as the song says.

At least until yesterday. That’s the part I’m getting to.

“The last thing is this,” said I (as gently as I could). “If Riddley is mean to me, I will have to deal with it. And I can. I have before. I’m not a child, Herb.

I’m a grown woman.” And then I added: “I also know that you’ve been coming in here when I’m elsewhere and sniffing the seat of my chair. I really think that ought to stop, don’t you?”

All the color fell out of his face, and for one moment I thought he was going to faint. I have an idea the telepathy may have saved him. Just as I knew what he’d come in to accuse me of,
he
knew—if only a few seconds in advance—that I’m now aware of his little hobby. So what I said didn’t come to him out of a
completely
clear blue sky.

He started to puff up again, a little of the color came back into his face

. . . and then he just wilted. It made me feel bad for him. When guys like Herb Porter wilt, they are not a pretty sight. Think jellyfish washed up on the beach.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and turned to go. “I’m very sorry. I’ve known for some time that I have . . . certain problems. I suppose it’s time for me to seek professional help. I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible in the meantime, and I’d thank you to stay out of mine.”

“Herb,” said I.

He had one hand on the doorknob. He didn’t leave, but he didn’t turn around, either. I sensed both hope and dread. God knows what he sensed coming from me.

“Herb,” said I once more.

Nothing. Poor Herb just standing there with his shoulders hunched almost up to his ears and me knowing he was trying his hardest not to cry.

People who make their living reading and writing are a lot of things, but immune to shame is not one of them.

“Turn around,” said I.

174

Herb stood as he was a moment longer, gathering himself for the ordeal, and then he did as I asked. Instead of being flushed or pale all over his face, he had popped three spots as bright as rouge, one in each cheek and another running across his forehead in a thick line.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do around here,” said I, “and it won’t help to have this between us.” I was speaking in my calmest, most reasonable voice, but I would be lying if I didn’t say I also felt a pleasantly nasty tickle of excitement in my stomach. I have a pretty good idea of what Riddley thinks of me, and while he’s not entirely right, he’s not entirely wrong, either; I admit to certain rather low tastes. Well, so what? Some people eat tripe for breakfast. And all I can do here is stick to the facts. One of them is this: something about Sandra Georgette Jackson turned Herb on enough to inspire a number of covert seat-sniffing expeditions. And that has turned
me
on. Until yesterday I never thought of myself as the Eula Varner type, but . . .

“What are you talking about?” asked Herb gruffly, but those spots of red were spreading, flushing away his pallor. He knew perfectly well what I was talking about. We might as well have been wearing signs around our necks reading CAUTION! TELEPATHY AT WORK!

“I think we need to get beyond this,” said I. “That’s what I’m talking about.

If having it off with me will do that, then I’m willing.”

“Sort of like taking one for the team, eh?” said he. He was trying to sound nasty and sarcastic, but I wasn’t fooled. And he
knew
I wasn’t fooled.

All sort of delightful, in a weird way.

“Call it whatcha wanna,” said I, “but if you’re reading my mind as clearly as I’m reading yours, you know that’s not all. I’m . . . let’s say I’m interested.

Feeling adventurous.”

Still trying to be nasty, Herb said, “Let’s say you have certain appetites, shall we? Playing truckdriver and hitchhiker with Riddley, for one. Boffing loudmouth co-worker Herb Porter, for another.”

“Herb,” said I, “do you want to stand there talking for the rest of the day, or do you want to do something?”

“It just so happens I have a certain problem,” said Herb. He was nibbling away at his lower lip, and I saw he was breaking out in a sweat. I was enchanted. Is that terribly mean, do you think? “This is a problem that affects men of all ages and all walks of life. It—”

175

“Is it bigger than a breadbox, Herb?” said she in her best coy tone.

“Joke about it all you want,” said Herb morosely. “Women can, because they just have to lie there and take it. Hemingway was right about that much”

“Yeah, when it comes to Limpdick Disease, a fair number of literary scholars seem to believe that Papa wrote the book,” said she, now in her best nasty tone. Herb, however, paid no attention. I don’t suppose he’d ever talked about impotency in his entire life (Real Men don’t), and here it was, out of the closet and all dressed up for a night on the town.

“This little problem, which so many women seem to think is funny, has all but ruined my life,” said Herb. “It wrecked my marriage, for one thing.”

I thought,
I didn’t know you were married
, and his thought came back right away, filling my head for just a moment:
It was a long time before I ended up in this
shithole
.

We stared at each other, big-eyed.

“Wow,” said he.

“Yeah,” said she. “Go on, Herb. And while I can’t speak for all women, this one has never laughed at impotency in her life.”

Herb went on, a little more subdued. “Lisa left me when I was twenty-four, because I couldn’t satisfy her as a woman. I never hated her for it; she gave it her best for two years. Couldn’t have been easy. Since then, I think I’ve managed it . . . you know,
it
. . . maybe three times.”

I thought about this and my mind boggled. Herb claims to be forty-three, but thanks to our ivy-induced ESP, I know he’s forty-eight. His wife left him in search of greener pastures (and stiffer penises) half a lifetime ago. If he’s only had successful sexual relations three times since then, that means he’s gotten laid once every time Neptune circles the sun. Dear, dear, dear.

“There’s a good medical reason for this,” said he, with great earnestness.

“From the age of ten to the age of fifteen—my sexually formative years—I was a paperboy, and—”

“Being a paperboy made you impotent?” I asked.

“Would you be quiet a minute?”

I mimed running a zipper shut across my lips and settled back in my chair. I like a good story as well as anyone; I just haven’t seen many at Zenith House.

“I had a three-speed Raleigh bike,” Herb said. “At first it was all right, and 176

then one day while it was parked behind the school, some asshole came along and knocked off the seat.” Herb paused dramatically. “That asshole ruined my life.”

Do tell
, I thought.

“Although,” continued Herb, “my cheapskate father must also bear part of the blame.”

Plenty of blame to go around
, thought I.
Everyone gets a helping but you.

“I heard that,” he said sharply.

“I’m sure you did,” said I. “Just go on with your story.”

“The bike was obviously ruined, but would that cheapskate get me a new one?”

“No,” I said. “Instead of a new bike, the cheapskate got you a new seat.”

“That’s right,” said Herb., by this point too deep into his own narrative to realize I was stealing all of his best lines right out of his head. The truth is, Herb has been telling himself this story for a lot of years. For him,
My Dad
Wrecked My Sex Life
is right up there with
The Democrats Ruined the Economy
and
Let’s Fry the Addicts and End America’s Drug Problem
. “Only the bike-store didn’t have a Raleigh seat, and could my father wait for one? Oh no. I had papers to deliver. Also, the no-brand seat the guy showed him was ten bucks cheaper than the replacement Raleigh seat in the catalogue. Of course it was also a lot
smaller
. In fact, it was a
pygmy
bicycle seat. This little vinyl-covered triangle that shoved right up . . . well . . . ”

“Up
there
,” I said, wanting to be helpful (also wanting to get back to work at some point before July Fourth).

“That’s right,” he said. “Up
there
. For almost five years I rode all over Danbury, Connecticut with that goddamn pygmy bicycle seat pushing up into the most delicate region of a young boy’s body. And look at me now.” Herb raised his arms and then dropped them, as if to indicate what a pitiful, wast-ed creature he has become. Which is quite funny, when you consider the size of him. “These days my idea of a meaningful physical experience with a woman is going down to The Landing Strip, where I might stuff a five dollar bill into some girl’s gstring.”

“Herb,” I said. “Do you get a hardon when you do that?”

He drew himself up, and I saw an interesting thing: Herb had a pretty damned good one right
then
. Hubba, hubba!

177

“That’s a damned personal question, Sandra,” said he in a grave and heavy tone of voice. “Pretty gosh-damn personal.”

“Do you get a hardon when you masturbate?”

“Let me tell you a little secret,” he said. “There are basketball players who can shoot it from downtown all over the court, nothing but net until practice is over and the buzzer goes off. Then every toss is a brick.”

“Herb,” said I, “let me tell
you
a little secret. The bicycle seat story has been around since bicycles were invented. Before that it was the mumps, or maybe a cross-eyed look from the village witch. And I don’t need telepathy to know the answer to the questions I’ve been asking. I’ve got eyes.” And I dropped them to the area just below his belt. By then it looked like he had a pretty good-sized socket wrench hidden down there.

“Doesn’t last,” said he, and right then he looked so sad that I felt sad. Men are fragile creatures, when you get right down to it, the real animals in the glass menagerie. “Once the action starts, Mr. Johnson likes life a lot better in the rear echelon. Where nobody stands at attention and nobody salutes.”

“You’re caught in a Catch-22,” said I. “All men suffering from chronic impotency are. You can’t get it up because you’re afraid you won’t be able to, and you’re afraid you won’t be able to because—”

“Thank you, Betty Freidan,” said Herb. “It just so happens that there are a great many physical causes of impotency. Some day there’ll probably be a pill that will take care of the problem.”

“Some day there’ll probably be Holiday Inns on the moon,” I said. “In the meantime, how would you like to do something a bit more interesting than sniffing the seat of my office chair?”

He looked at me unhappily. “Sandra,” said he, with no trace of his usual bluster, “I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve done this enough—
tried
to do this enough, I should say—to know what happens.”

Inspiration struck then . . . although I don’t entirely believe I can take credit for it. Things have changed here. I never thought I’d be glad to get to the office, but I think that for the rest of this year I’ll just about race into my clothes so I can get here early. Because things have changed. Lights have come on in my head (other places, as well) that I never even
suspected
until now.

“Herb,” said I. “I want you to go down to Riddley’s cubby. I want you to stand there and look at the plant. Most of all, I want you to take four or five 178

really deep breaths—pull them all the way down to the bottom of your lungs.

Really smell those good smells. And then come right back here.”

He looked uneasily out through the window in my door. John and Bill were out there, talking in the hall. Bill saw Herb and gave him a little wave.

“Sandra, if we were to have sex, I hardly think your office would be a viable—”

“You let me worry about that,” I said. “Just go on up there and take a few deep breaths. Then come on back. Will you do that?”

He thought about it, then nodded reluctantly. He started to open the door, then looked back at me. “I appreciate you bothering with me,” said he, “especially when I was giving you such a hard time. I just wanted to tell you that.”

I thought of telling him that altruism does not form a large part of Sandra Jackson’s makeup—my motor was revving pretty hard by then—and decided he probably knew that.

“Just go on,” I said. “We don’t have all day.”

When he was gone, I took out my pad and scribbled a note on it: “The ladies’ room on six is usually deserted at this time of day. I expect to be there for the next twenty minutes or so with my skirt up and my knickers down. A man of stout heart (or stout
something
) might join me.” I paused, then added: “A man of moderate intelligence as well as stout heart might toss this note in the wastebasket before leaving for the sixth floor.”