Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  “It’ll work out. Your father will come back. You’ll see.”

  “You have no reason to say that. Mind your own business.” Katrinka thrust my books toward me and I had to let go of the hand-guard to take them.

  I stood by her seat swaying with the movement of the bus. Neither of us spoke and I didn’t look at her face because I didn’t want our eyes to meet. Girls certainly were different from boys. And in a lot more ways than anyone could discover by looking over the fence into their yard.

  Most of the people got off when the bus stopped at North Avenue and the seat next to Katrinka was empty. She moved to the window and I sat beside her.

  “My cousin goes to private school,” I said. “She’s great in field hockey. Do you play field hockey?”

  Katrinka Nonningham said, “No.”

  “That’s right—you like individual sports like tennis,” I said. “And I’ll bet you’re great in skiing. Do you like to ski?”

  Katrinka’s voice was softer when she answered, “Yes.”

  “Look, Katrinka, Homer Fink is my best friend and if you like him so much and you want to consider him your one and only boy friend, that’s great. I’m not trying to come between you and Homer.”

  “I know that,” Katrinka answered.

  The bus passed Homewood and Katrinka was looking out at the green lawns and the buildings of the Johns Hopkins University. “It’s better that my father lives in California. He and Mommie used to fight all the time. They screamed and threw things.” Then she said, “He’s been gone exactly one year tomorrow.”

  “I had a friend at camp whose parents were divorced,” I told her. “His name was Archie Carrister. Only Archie’s father used to take him to Denver, Colorado, every summer. The judge made Archie go there. He didn’t like it at first. But now he says it’s just great. He learned to ride a horse and other things in Denver, and he always gets great grades for geography reports because he knows all about Denver.”

  “I’m not ever going to go to California. Nobody in the world will ever make me visit there,” said Katrinka. “I never want to see my father again in my life.”

  “Archie said things like that. But after a while he changed his mind.”

  Katrinka reeled around to face me. Her eyes were opened wide and her blond hair whipped across her face.

  “Keep quiet, Richard. You don’t know the least thing about what you’re saying.”

  She turned back to the window and I waited a while before I asked, “Do you have a brother or sister?”

  Katrinka shook her head—meaning no.

  “Well, if you don’t get angry all the time, I could be your friend.”

  At Katrinka’s stop I got off the bus and walked beside her. She seemed to take it for granted that I would escort her home. We left Charles Street and started up a block called Howard’s Lane. There were three houses on the street. Each had a lawn and trees and hedges separating it from the street.

  “That’s where I live,” Katrinka said as we passed a house of red brick with white shutters and two marble pillars on the porch. There was a driveway leading up to it and I had the feeling it was a mansion.

  “If you’re not in too much of a hurry to get home, we could walk for a minute,” said Katrinka.

  I said, “It’s no trouble at all. My favorite aunt lives near here. She just moved and she’s always asking me to visit her. Her name is Jennie Rothman. It’s in the phone book listed under my cousin Bruce. He can drive me home.”

  There was a light wind and it swept her hair, whipping strands across her face. Katrinka’s eyes were half-closed, and the look I had thought could see right through people was no longer there. We continued around the block and I heard Katrinka say, “When Homer Fink called me the evening after we’d met in the park, I didn’t want to talk to him. I hung up twice. I had made up my mind never to talk to any boys again ever—they just lie to me all the time.”

  “Homer Fink never lies,” I said. “He wouldn’t have called you Aphrodite if he didn’t believe it.”

  That made her smile. “Wouldn’t it be sad to be the goddess of love and not understand the first thing about it.” And then Katrinka said, “Oh, it would be so wondeful to be Aphrodite, Richard. Promise—swear never to tell Homer Fink that I’m not.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I had the feeling it had something to do with her father leaving.

  Katrinka’s hands were resting on the gate and her hair was all over her face and my arms were filled with books.

  “I promise,” I said, and I leaned forward and kissed Katrinka Nonningham’s lips.

  “See you tomorrow.” I ran to my aunt’s.

  16

  Brian Spitzer made the nominating speech for little Louie Bannerman.

  Because he was in our class, I had counted on Brian’s support. But Brian Spitzer would never give up a chance to have the stage. It was clever of Louie to ask Brian to represent him. Not only had he picked up valuable support in our homeroom, but Louie could be sure Brian would say exactly what he was told without arguing about his own ideas.

  “The Bannerman platform is a medical approach to the ills of P.S. 79,” Brian announced. “He has diagnosed our ailments and prescribed remedies.” I wondered if the other students were aware that Louie Bannerman’s father was a doctor and that Louis planned to go to medical school. The speech didn’t sound like anything Brian Spitzer would write.

  Brian explained that if elected Louie would offer a plan to relieve the noise in the cafeteria. There was applause and I sat on the edge of the seat, fearful that the Bannerman platform would include a peanut-butter sandwich in every foreign-aid package.

  “Bannerman will prescribe a program for supervised play in the yard after school,” continued Brian. I was relieved that the cafeteria program was complete. On my clip-board I made a note to question Bannerman on recess calisthenics.

  “Louie has diagnosed our need for a school prom,” said Brian. “And he is creating a formula to achieve it.”

  The girls shrieked and Little Louie stood on his seat and blew them kisses. I remembered the night of Elaine Steigmar’s party when Little Louie watched television with Elaine’s parents all through spin the bottle.

  Politics can change people’s personalities even faster than Homer’s mythology, I thought to myself.

  The success of Brian’s speech was capped by the Bannerman demonstration. Marvin Bloom marched in beating an old drum and Jerry Trout followed blowing call-to-arms on the bugle.

  On the stage Miss Everswell whispered to Mr. Muncrief, and the assistant principal hurried to close the windows overlooking the neighboring Sixth Regiment Armory.

  Bannerman’s supporters in the seventh grade led the procession. They chanted:

  Bannerman—Bannerman,

  He’s our man.

  If he can’t do it,

  Nobody can.

  They didn’t seem the least aware that they were borrowing a City High School football cheer. Right behind the seventh-graders marched a dozen students from the eighth. They carried a large cone made out of cardboard. It was supposed to be a rocket. Somebody had worn out a great many magic markers writing: AIR OR SEA OR LAND—VOTE FOR BANNERMAN.

  As the demonstrators started up the center aisle they filled the air with paper airplanes bearing messages encouraging the election of Little Louie.

  Again Miss Everswell whispered to Mr. Muncrief. I suppose they were making plans for cleaning up the auditorium.

  The ninth-grade delegation brought up the rear. Carrying the sign from the schoolyard, they chanted:

  Fink—Phooey,

  Vote for Louie

  I was beginning to feel less certain about leaving the plans for our demonstration to Homer, but because I was in the audience I would be able to organize a “spontaneous” demonstration from the floor. Patty Esposito and two girls from her class were prepared to swoon when Homer made his grand entrance.

  The Bannerman demonstrators circled the audito
rium twice. The students were seated, and Miss Everswell introduced Phillip Moore.

  Phillip was wearing a tweed jacket and black knit tie. His hair was slicked back and the expression on his face made me feel he was ready to address a joint session of Congress and deliver the State of the Union message—nothing less than that. If we were looking for the most popular boy in school to present Homer’s nominating speech, the response to Phillip Moore left no doubt as to how right we were.

  Phillip raised a hand signaling for silence, but the audience was on its feet screaming, “We want Moore. We want Moore.” There didn’t seem to be a single boy or girl in the auditorium—including the demonstrators for Bannerman and Fink—who didn’t cheer Phillip. The boys carrying Little Louie’s sign were hollering, “Score with Moore,” and we had trouble in our ranks when the girls who were supposed to close their eyes and faint for Homer forgot their cue and collapsed in honor of Phillip.

  “Some of my friends have been kind enough to ask why I didn’t make myself available for the presidency of the school,” Phillip Moore began. “The reason is—Homer Fink can do more for the world.”

  There was a restless stirring in the crowd and I heard a voice behind me whisper, “Let’s draft him.” A scattering of hands was raised from the front of the room and I had visions of a nomination from the floor. I looked at Phillip Moore standing on the stage of the school auditorium. He looked so cool—so all-around—so perfect. He was the boy all our parents wanted us to be—the kind of student of which every teacher is most proud. I had a wavering doubt—were we wrong to support Homer Fink when Phillip Moore was available? I thought of Homer and the way he had won his reputation as the funniest boy in school. I remembered Homer daydreaming—inhabiting a private world removed from the classrooms of P.S. 79. Homer spoke of truth and justice and I was wondering if it was true or just to have enlisted Phillip Moore, the natural leader of our school, to work for Homer.

  But then I remembered my father saying, “So Homer Fink is your man.” And the answer seemed to be—Homer was my man. Homer felt “called” and he claimed to have seen “signs,” but when the chips were down and the decision had to be made, Homer Fink had dared. I was thinking that sooner or later Phillip Moore would be standing on a platform somewhere and that he would probably be accepting a great responsibility and setting everybody straight on what to do about sending grain to Asia or balancing the budget. But this was Homer’s time. He made us all feel young and alive—even Katrinka Nonningham, who was the most beautiful girl in the world but felt unloved because her father lived in California.

  I wasn’t going to let Homer stand outside the auditorium door and wait forever.

  From my seat in the center of the hall I stood and called, “Fink. Fink. Fink.” A chorus of voices joined me. The hands went down from the front of the room and Mr. Muncrief had to quiet the audience to get on with the speeches.

  Phillip Moore told them all about the sandwich proposal and he discussed “youth’s responsibility to a growing world crisis,” but very few students were listening. Most of us were thinking about Homer Fink and remembering how daring he could be and wondering what he had dreamed up for his demonstration.

  17

  The doors to the assembly hall, were opened. There was the noise of rustling skirts and anxious voices and then silence. A teacher in the back of the room instructed the students to stay in their seats and a seventh-grader was informed he could “get a drink of water later.”

  We heard a dog bark and then the loud broken blast of a horn. It was a sound that could not have come from a clarinet, trombone, or a bugle.

  Again the sound of the horn filled the auditorium and the march for Homer Fink began. A man in knee-length suspendered pants and a Tyrolean hat entered. A ram’s horn was slung over his shoulder and he held a staff. I recognized him as the shepherd we had seen in the park.

  Students gasped and giggled and several girls clapped their hands. A thin, ruddy-faced man with long hair, the shepherd stood for a moment as if paralyzed by the presence of so many children. Homer Fink called to the shepherd in Greek and the next thing we saw was a sheep running down the A small sign made of cardboard shirt backings was slung over Argus’s back. On one side it read: ελαεσθαι τν κύνα. The other flank carried the translation: BEWARE THE DOG—Aristophanes.

  The shepherd dashed to catch the dog who was chasing the sheep, and the students of P.S. 79 cheered. I stood on top of my seat. It was against the school’s rules, but no one seemed to remember the rules anymore. The teachers who weren’t stunned were enjoying the Homer Fink demonstration as much as the students. On the stage Miss Everswell and Mr. Muncrief shook their heads as if to say: “It looks real, but it just can’t be.”

  Flute players from the school orchestra were next. They wore togas and sandals and the girls had garlands of flowers in their hair. Then came two boys from the school newspaper carrying tablets covered with bonded paper to resemble parchment. In the midst of the procession was the old man Homer had told us was Silenus. He towered over the student demonstrators. Staggering down the aisle as he drank from a Pepsi Cola bottle, the old man stopped along his route to distribute soft drinks in paper cups.

  The parading ninth-graders were costumed in togas, too. Sheets, cut to form semi-circles, were worn with the straight sides up, one end extended over the left shoulder reaching nearly to the ground. Even though he couldn’t tie a bowknot for his shoelaces, Homer Fink had managed to teach a half-dozen students to make and wear a perfect toga.

  Elaine Steigmar looked so sensational in her Greek robes that several of the ninth-grade boys applauded, and Brian Spitzer forgot all about his speech for Louie Bannerman and whistled. Cradling a straw basket, Elaine scattered flowers in her path. She was preparing the assembly for the guest of honor.

  A loud clang echoed from beyond the auditorium and the demonstrators halted. All eyes turned to the door. The time was right for Homer Fink, the candidate, to enter. I wondered if he would appear as Zeus riding his thunder car or Julius Caesar, uncrowned king of Rome.

  But it wasn’t Homer who capped the great parade. My brother Pete waddled through the doors. There was a saucepan in one hand, a coffee pot in the other.

  Pete managed three steps, slammed the pots together, and announced, “Amo. Amas. Amat.” He was down. He was up. Two steps forward and anxious hands stretched from the crowd to support him.

  Another Latin student coached him. “Amamus. Amatis. Amant.” However, Homer Fink wasn’t signaling for the conjugation of the verb “to love.”

  “Aphrodite,” said Homer, and Katrinka Nonningham entered.

  Taking Pete by the hand, she started around the auditorium. Homer wanted Katrinka to represent Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and I don’t think there was a boy or girl in the auditorium who would have given him an argument, even if they knew she went to Park School.

  Katrinka wore a toga and golden sandals and there was a crown in her hair. When I looked at her she reminded me of the day we had met. I thought of sailboats again. I could see Katrinka, dressed exactly the way she was, standing on the windward washboard of a racing boat—eyes wide and bold and staring right into the sun in a brilliant blue world. I wanted to go to her and kiss her again, but when she passed she seemed to look right through me, as if Homer Fink and she were linked by a destiny none of us mortals would ever completely understand.

  The attending maidens filled the air with flowers and the shepherd sounded his ram’s horn. The flute players piped a tune and Argus barked.

  After the last of the demonstrators abandoned the hall, we started back to our classrooms. I heard a seventh-grader say, “I’m taking Latin next semester even if French is more practical.”

  “It’s not that I have anything against Plato,” a serious ninth-grader commented. “It’s just that I’ve never read him.”

  Even Marvin Bloom admitted, “I dig those crazy togas.”

  I was wondering if Greek and Latin would help me
to understand girls.

  18

  There wasn’t much information available on pan and Silenus or what arrangement Katrinka Nonningham had made to skip school. I was particularly anxious to find out how Homer had convinced my mother to let Pete attend the assembly. But there was little time for going over old news during lunch hour.

  Mr. Muncrief met us in the cafeteria. Dressed in a gray sweat suit and sneakers, he announced that there would be calisthenics after lunch in the boys’ yard.

  Then Little Louie Bannerman appeared at our table. He was wearing gym shorts and sneakers. “Be fit and survive,” said Little Louie. “Join the Bannerman physical-education program.”

  As he trotted to the next table, shaking hands, smiling, and waving, I heard Louie confide to a seventh-grader, “Keep your eyes on me. I’ll be up front.”

  I told Homer, “We had better talk to Mr. Muncrief about making you a demonstrator, too.”

  Homer Fink said, “I’d rather read a book.”

  “I’m sure you would,” I said. “But you made a great impression at the assembly this morning, so let’s keep the band wagon rolling.” I threw away my napkin and sandwich wrap and started after Mr. Muncrief.

  “May I remind you Louis Bannerman enjoys exercise,” said Homer. “He even likes rope-climbing.”

  “We can’t let Little Louie have all this exposure without fighting for equal time,” I advised my candidate.

  “There’s nothing in Machiavelli about equal time,” said Homer.

  “Machiavelli didn’t have a television set,” I answered. “Besides, politics is my hobby and you can take my word for it.”

  “I’m certainly lucky to have you on my side,” sighed Homer.

  Mr. Muncrief fastened the top button of Homer’s shirt. “Where’s your note for absence from school yesterday afternoon? The rules state specifically all absence and lateness must be explained by a written note from home.”

  Homer placed one hand over his heart and raised the other. “Πάντα νομιστί,” he said. “All things by law.”