The Plant. Part 22

"Turn around," said I.

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 me on. Until yesterday I never thought of myself as the Eula Varner type, but . . . 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 knew I wasn't fooled. 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 appet.i.tes, shall we? Playing truck-driver 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-"

"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 Limpd.i.c.k 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 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 It was a long time before I ended up in this s.h.i.+thole. s.h.i.+thole.

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 twentyfour, 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 it . . . maybe three times." . . . 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 p.e.n.i.ses) half a lifetime ago. If he's only had successful s.e.xual 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 s.e.xually 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 then one day while it was parked behind the school, some a.s.shole came along and knocked off the seat." Herb paused dramatically. "That a.s.shole 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 My Dad Wrecked My s.e.x Life Wrecked My s.e.x Life is right up there with T is right up there with The Democrats Ruined the Economy and and Let's Fry the Addicts and End America's Drug Problem 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 smaller. In fact, it was a pygmy pygmy bicycle seat. This little vinyl-covered triangle that shoved right up . . . well . . . " bicycle seat. This little vinyl-covered triangle that shoved right up . . . well . . . "

"Up there," there," I said, wanting to be helpful (also wanting to get back to work at some point before July Fourth). 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 there. For almost five years I rode all over Danbury, Connecticut with that G.o.dd.a.m.n pygmy bicycle seat pus.h.i.+ng 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, wasted 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 g-string."

"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 d.a.m.ned good one right then then. Hubba, hubba!

"That's a d.a.m.ned personal question, Sandra," said he in a grave and heavy tone of voice. "Pretty gosh-d.a.m.n personal."

"Do you get a hardon when you m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e?"

"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 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. 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 gla.s.s menagerie. "Once the action starts, Mr. Johnson likes life a lot better in the rear echelon. Where n.o.body stands at attention and n.o.body 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 bl.u.s.ter, "I can't. I just can't. I've done this enough-tried to do this enough, I should say-to know what happens." 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 suspected until now. 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 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 s.e.x, 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 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."

I went up to six, where the ladies' is almost always always deserted (it has crossed my mind that perhaps there are currently no female employees on that floor of 490 Park Avenue South), went into the stall at the end, and removed certain garments. Then I waited, not sure what might happen next. And I mean that. Whatever telepathy there may be in the fifth-floor offices of Zenith House, its effective range is even shorter than that of a college FM radio station. deserted (it has crossed my mind that perhaps there are currently no female employees on that floor of 490 Park Avenue South), went into the stall at the end, and removed certain garments. Then I waited, not sure what might happen next. And I mean that. Whatever telepathy there may be in the fifth-floor offices of Zenith House, its effective range is even shorter than that of a college FM radio station.

Five minutes went by, then seven. I'd made up my mind that he wasn't coming, and then the door squeaked open and a very cautious, very unPorterly voice whispered, "Sandra?"

"Trot down here to the end," said I, "and make it quick."

He came down and opened the stall door. To say he looked excited would be an understatement. And he no longer looked as if he had a socketwrench stuffed down the front of his pants. By then it looked more like a goodsized Craftsman hammer.

"Gee," said I, reaching out to touch him, "I guess maybe the effect of that bicycle seat finally wore off."

He started fumbling at his belt. It kept sliding through his fingers. It was sort of funny, but also very sweet. I pushed his hands away and did it myself.

"Quick," he panted. "Oh, quick. Before it goes away."

"This guy isn't going anywhere," said I, although I did actually have a certain short-term storage site in mind. "Relax."

"It was the plant," he said. "The smell . . . oh my G.o.d, the smell . . . musky and dark dark, somehow . . . the way I'd always imagined the fields would smell in that county Faulkner wrote about, the one with the name no one can p.r.o.nounce . . . oh Sandra, good Christ, I feel like I could pole-vault pole-vault on this thing!" on this thing!"

"Shut up and change places with me," I said. "You sit down and then I'll-"

"To the devil with that," he said, and lifted me up. He's strong-a lot stronger than I ever would have guessed-and almost before I knew what was happening, we were off to the races.

As races of this sort go, it was neither the longest nor the fastest in which I have ever run, but it wasn't bad, especially considering that Herb Porter was last laid around the time Nixon resigned, if he was telling me the truth. When he finally set me down, there were tears on his cheeks. Plus there's this: before leaving he a. thanked me and b. kissed me. I don't subscribe to many of the romantic ideals, I'm more of a Dorothy Parker type ("good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere"), but sweet is nice. The man who left ahead of me (pausing at the door and checking both ways before going out) seemed a lot different from the man who came stalking into my office with a load in his b.a.l.l.s and a chip on his shoulder. That's the kind of judgement only time can confirm, and I know very well that men after s.e.x usually turn into exactly the same men they were before s.e.x, but I have hopes for Herb. And I never wanted to change his life; all I wanted was to clear away as much of the c.r.a.p between us as I could, so we can work as a team. I never knew how much I wanted this job until this week. How much I wanted to make a success success of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I'd run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of kneepads. of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I'd run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of kneepads.

Spent the rest of the day working on the joke book. How foul in concept, how scabrous in execution...and what a success it is going to be in an America that still longs for the death penalty and secretly believes (not everyone, but a goodly number of citizens, I'd bet) that Hitler had the right idea about eugenics. There is no shortage of these nasty, mean-spirited boogers, but the weird thing is how many I'm making up on my own.

What's red and white and has trouble turning corners? A baby with a javelin through its head.

What's small, brown, and spits? A baby in a frypan.

Little girl wakes up in the hospital and says, "Doctor! I can't feel my legs!" Doctor replies, "That's normal in cases where we have to amputate the arms."

I am grossed out by my own inventiveness. Question is, is is it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on s.e.xual life? it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on s.e.xual life?

Never mind. Weekend's almost here. Supposed to be warm, and if so I'm going to Cony Island with my favorite niece, our yearly rite of spring. A couple of days away from this place may help to put all questions in perspective. And Riddley's due back next week. I'll be hoping to comfort him in his time of sorrow as much as possible.

Keeping a journal reminds me of what old Doc Henries used to say after he gave me a teta.n.u.s shot when I was ten: "There, Sandra, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Not at all. Not at all.

from the office of the editor-in-chief

TO: John DATE 4/3/81

MESSAGE: I've made two calls since reading your Ms. Report. The first was to that astute business lad and all around prince of a guy, Harlow Enders. I lofted a trial balloon concerning a Zenith House hardcover, and despite dredging up a phrase which I thought would appeal to his presumed imagination (if you're wondering, it was "Event Publis.h.i.+ng"), he shot it down at once. His stated reason is there is no h'cover infrastructure either at Zenith or in the larger world of Apex Corporation, but we both know better. The real issue is lack of confidence. All right, okay, fine.

Second call was to Alan Williams, a senior editor at Viking Press. Williams is one of the best in the business, and save your nasty ("Then how do you you know him?") question. The answer is, from The New York Health Club racquetball tournament, where the G.o.ds of chance paired us three years ago. We have played off and on ever since. Alan says that if the Saltworthy is as good as you say it is, that we can probably swing a soft-to-hard deal, with Viking doing the h'cover and Zenith the pb. I know it isn't precisely what we wanted, John, but think of it this way: did you ever in your life believe there might come a day when know him?") question. The answer is, from The New York Health Club racquetball tournament, where the G.o.ds of chance paired us three years ago. We have played off and on ever since. Alan says that if the Saltworthy is as good as you say it is, that we can probably swing a soft-to-hard deal, with Viking doing the h'cover and Zenith the pb. I know it isn't precisely what we wanted, John, but think of it this way: did you ever in your life believe there might come a day when we we would be doing the pb edition of a Viking Press book? Little Zenith? And as for the cynical Mr. Saltworthy, I think you could say his luck has changed with a vengeance. We might have been able to swing $20,000, and that much only if we'd been able to get Enders enthusiastically on board. With Viking as a partner, we may be able to score this guy a $100,000 advance. That's my salary for almost four years. would be doing the pb edition of a Viking Press book? Little Zenith? And as for the cynical Mr. Saltworthy, I think you could say his luck has changed with a vengeance. We might have been able to swing $20,000, and that much only if we'd been able to get Enders enthusiastically on board. With Viking as a partner, we may be able to score this guy a $100,000 advance. That's my salary for almost four years.

Williams wants to see the ms. ASAP. You should take a copy over to their offices on Madison Avenue yourself. Put on a t.i.tle page that says something like LAST SEASON, by John Oceanby. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but Williams thinks it's necessary, and so do I.

Roger

PS: Make me a copy that I can take home and read over the weekend, would you?

i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o

TO: Roger FROM: John RE: "LAST SEASON," by "John Oceanby"