by Stephen King
Herb came into my office around quarter of ten without so much as a by-your-leave, closed the door, and just stood there glowering at me.
“Come on in, Herb,” said I, “and why don't you close the door so we can talk in private.”
Not so much as a hint of a smile. He just went on glowering. I think I was supposed to be terrified. Certainly Herb Porter is big enough to terrify; he must stand six-one and weigh two hundred and fifty, and given his high color (he was as red as the side of a fire truck yesterday morning, and I'm not exaggerating one little bit), I worry about his blood pressure and his heart. He also talks big, but I was around when the hate-mail started coming in from General Hecksler, and those letters made Herb small in a hurry. The way he looked on Wednesday, actually, when John suggested that, all evidence to the contrary, General Hecksler STILL might not be dead.
“You've been screwing Riddley,” Herb said. This was probably supposed to come out sounding like the accusation of an Old Testament prophet, but it emerged in an unimpressive dry squawk. He was still standing just inside the door, his hands opening and closing. With his green leisure suit and red face, he looked like an advertisement for Christmas in hell. “You've been screwing the goddamned JANITOR!”
Last week that might have put me off my stride, but things around here have changed since last week. I think the New Order will take some getting used to. What I'm talking about is TELEPATHY, my dear little journal. Of course. ESP. Absolutely. MIND READING. No doubt about it. In other words, I knew what was on Herb's mind from the moment he stepped through my door, and that pretty well did away with the shock value.
“Why don't you say the rest of it?” I asked.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Going into that patented Herb Porter bluster of his.
“Yeah, you do,” I said. “That I'm fucking the janitor bothers you a lot less than the fact I'm fucking the BLACK janitor. The HANDSOME black janitor.”
From the first fuck. I had him on the run. I should be ashamed to tell you how much I enjoyed it, but I'm not.
“The fact is, Herbert,” said I, “he's hung like a stallion. Such equipment is not the sole property of black men, racist canards to the contrary, but few men, white or black, know how to use what God and genetics have given them. Riddley does. And he's livened up many a dull day in this dump, believe me.”
“You can't... I won't... he isn't... “ Then he just spluttered. But, thanks, to the aforementioned New Order at good old Zenith House, there are no more ellipses around here. For better or worse, every thought is finished. What I could not hear with my ears I could hear in my mind.
You can't... DO THIS!
I won't... ALLOW IT!
He isn't... OUR KIND OF PERSON!
As if Herb Porter, the Ranting Republican, was MY type of person. (He is, of course, in some important ways: a. he's an editor b. he loves books c. he is sharing the bizarre experience of Life With Ivy.)
“Herb,” I said.
“What if you catch a disease?” expostulated Herb. “What if he talks about you to his friends, when they're sitting on their stoops and drinking their GIQs?”
“Herb,” I said.
“What if he's got a drug habit? Friends who are criminals? What if... “
And there was something sweet at the end of that ellipsis, something that made my heart melt a little. For a racist blowhard Republican, Herb Porter really isn't a bad guy.
What if... HE'S MEAN TO YOU?
That was how the last ellipsis ended, and after that Herb just stood there with his shoulders slumped, looking at me.
“Come here,” I said, and patted the chair behind my desk. I had about a billion rotten jokes about dead babies, nympho nuns, and stupid Europeans to go through (“Polish Public Service Announcement: It's ten o'clock! Do you know what time it is?”), but I felt very close to Herb just then. I know how strange that would sound to John, who probably thinks Herb Porter is from another world (Planet Reagan), but Herb isn't. Herb Porter is just one more fucked-up Earthling.
Know what I really think? I think telepathy changes everything.
Simply EVERYTHING.
“Listen to me,” said I. “The first thing is that Riddley is more likely to catch something from me than me from him. He's the healthiest person in this office, that's my guess. Certainly he's in the best shape. The second thing is that he's more like us than you think. He's working on a book. I know because I saw one of his notebooks one day. It was on his desk, and I peeked.”
“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?'”
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.
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 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 1it 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 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, 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 damned good one right then. Hubba, hubba!
“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 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.”
I went up to six, where the ladies' is almost 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.