Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  I was proud of the popularity of my idea, but I could think of nothing to do with the Brussels sprouts.

  Marvin Bloom had a sprout on his fork and he was struggling to be brave. I guess Marvin was trying to make up for the roll scene. He put the sprout to his mouth, rolled it briefly to smother the flavor, and managed miraculously to swallow it.

  That was not the solution for me. I looked up and down the table in search of an alternative. Little Louie Bannerman extracted a thin leaf, made a sandwich out of it, and polished it off with a long drink of milk. It was a possibility but one that would attract too much attention.

  Our last hope was that Homer Fink would have an inspiration. I knew from visits to the Fink house that Homer ate broccoli and cauliflower, eggplant, and okra. In the spring he was delirious about fresh asparagus. Sure enough, Homer was eating the fish and sprouts, and from his expression it was obvious the chef’s time was not wasted on him. There seemed to be no choice but to throw in the napkin. Again Little Louie reminded us of Mr. Muncrief’s warning. None of us wanted to sacrifice our varsity sports program. As a last resort I tried to get a message through to Homer.

  While Mr. Willens was directing a waiter to refill the milk pitcher I said, “Brother Pete. Him flip. Brussels sprout.” I rubbed my stomach and licked my lips.

  Homer Fink’s eyes darted from me to my platter and then quickly he surveyed the rest of the table. It was a problem involving the honor of the school. Its political repercussions could be enormous.

  “Scratchy head. Think um hard,” I told my candidate.

  “Me savvy,” said Homer Fink and in the next instant the Fink napkin trick was born. It was simple, but I guess geniuses see the obvious.

  “Baby cabbages, Papoose. Pronto,” said Homer. Then raising a sprout high with his fork, he exclaimed, “Omni. Omni.”

  As Mr. Willens corrected Homer’s pronunciation and recited the first chapter of Caesar’s Gallic War, Homer Fink, with a flourish of the fork, deposited the first sprout in the napkin resting in his lap.

  “Great!” said Brian Spitzer.

  “Thank you,” replied Mr. Willens, unaware that Brian was commenting on Homer’s trick.

  “More. More,” was the clamor from Neil Machen.

  Mr. Willens continued reciting, but Homer Fink would not do an encore. Prodding Mr. Willens with phrases and sentences, Homer concentrated upon the master’s performance and his own dish of Brussels sprouts which he seemed to be enjoying immensely.

  Caesar was telling us about the brave Belgae when the last of the P.S. 79 sprouts were evacuated. Again, we received our cue from Homer Fink. It was Homer who first rolled the napkin into a ball and deposited it with its sacred cargo into his back pocket.

  After tapioca and cookies, Louie Bannerman thanked our hosts for a memorable meal.

  24

  The Latin School team turned out for the game dressed in uniforms. They had on short pants and numbered jerseys and knee-length socks and shoes made for playing soccer. We were wearing khaki pants and gray sweatshirts and most of the fellows wore their sneakers for speed, even though Mr. Muncrief had advised us that a solid leather toe was preferred for kicking.

  What we lacked in equipment we made up for with our cheering section. Trudy Deal had convinced half a dozen girls to show up in their togas and Elaine Steigmar carried a huge megaphone. Every time the girls in togas led a cheer they leaped into the air, togas flying.

  The Latin School’s rooters sat quietly in their blazers and poplin raincoats. Occasionally they applauded, but through the opening ceremonies they were absorbed watching P.S. 79’s cheerleaders.

  “Two. Four. Six. Eight,” Elaine screamed. And the girls in togas joined her. “Whom do we appreciate?”

  There was some confusion during the response. “Lafayette—Lafayette,” the better-disciplined fans answered. But from both sides of the field came the reply, “Homer Fink.”

  Before the kickoff, each of the Latin School’s players greeted his opposite number from Lafayette. They shook our hands and wished us well and the game was on.

  Less than five minutes after the opening gun the Latins executed a smooth pass play that brought the ball deep into our territory. They kicked off and pushed the ball back to the left half. Immediately Wally, their center forward, set off for the left wing as though the ball were already on its way there. Brian Spitzer chased after him and had gone fifteen yards before realizing his mistake. He turned to fill the gap he had left in the middle but was too late to cut off a ground pass to Oliver, the inside right, who had moved into the center forward. Phillip Moore made a desperate try to block the goal, but the Latins scored.

  The host’s rooting section greeted the goal with a light clap of hands. It was obvious they were saving their energy for a long afternoon.

  Phillip Moore made four saves before the Latins scored again. Their third goal came on a play set up by Oliver who ran left and passed right. Again deserted by the defense, Phillip Moore could do nothing to counter the boot.

  It seemed our fans were going to have nothing more to cheer than Phillip Moore’s one-man effort. But in the opening seconds of the third quarter Neil Machen tried a long kick from midfield. Neil’s foot went back and shot forward with all his strength. The ball was stolen from under him and Neil went flying into the air, landing smack on his bottom. When he stood, there was a wide green stain on his rear pocket.

  The umpire suggested, “Either this boy has chlorophyl running in his veins or a pocketful of green ink.”

  Neil urged that the game be continued.

  Perhaps it was our growing frustration. Maybe it was because of our exhaustion. But during the third quarter Trout and Spitzer, Bloom, and finally Little Louie himself were seated on the Latin School’s turf. When each boy stood to resume play there was a similar green stain on the rear of his pants.

  The Latin School rooters tried to muffle their delight, but our public-school fans were not nearly as restrained. Each time one of our players hit the dirt, the girls in togas led a vigorous cheer. It was all we had to cheer for—we may not have been winning the game, but certainly no one ever played soccer more colorfully.

  While all this was going on the inventor himself was patrolling his position at right fullback. With his hands clasped behind his back, Home Fink walked back and forth deep in concentration.

  During the third-quarter break Little Louie urged, “Get on the ball, Homer. Give it a try. You haven’t kicked the ball even once.”

  Phillip Moore was quick to come to Homer’s defense. “Homer thinks best under pressure. I hope you are considering the waste problems as it relates to world poverty, Homer.”

  To me Homer Fink confided, “Let us put away Marx and Freud and ponder beauty and truth with ferocity.”

  “While you’re being ferocious, how about giving the ball a boot once in a while, Homer,” I said. “You’ll never win an election unless you prove a little school spirit.”

  “What is the school in the abstract?” said Homer. “It has no meaning, no identity apart from that we as individuals impose upon it. Which is all the more reason for us to champion the individual.”

  I could see Homer was in the mood for one of his Plato discussions and with the team trailing by three goals and a route in progress, I decided it was best not to debate the point.

  Little Louie continued his pep talk. “At least let’s keep them from a shutout,” said the team captain. “We can score a moral victory.”

  “Morals are made of sterner stuff,” countered Homer.

  “Can’t I take this mush out of my back pocket?” asked Marvin Bloom.

  We were all agreed that was not possible.

  “I feel as if I’m playing soccer in a bathing suit,” Neil Machen said. “But what else can we do?”

  The third quarter began with another Latin score. From his position at right fullback I heard Homer advise the Latin fans near him to “think before it is too late.”

  I managed to sidle
near Homer long enough to urge him again to give the ball a boot. “At least show them you’re trying.”

  But for all the discouragement on our side the Latin boys were more concerned with Homer Fink than the game. A group patrolled the sidelines in step with Homer, hands clasped behind their backs, chanting, “Think with Fink.”

  I guess it would have gone on like that until the end of the game, but suddenly the ball was in Homer’s area of the field. Players rushed toward it. Homer Fink stepped aside ignoring the action.

  He was deep in thought and did not wish to be interrupted.

  “Homer Fink has no guts,” I heard Brian Spitzer say. “He’s afraid to try to score a goal so he’s trying to save the world.”

  Even the girls in togas were becoming impatient with Homer. Chanting, “Go, Fink, go,” their voices were louder than the Latin rooters urging, “Think with Fink.” It was easy enough to encourage someone to think when he was on the other team and you were ahead by four goals.

  Little Louie got to the ball first and he trapped it with the sole of his foot. He passed it to Marvin Bloom who gave it a great boot. Marvin’s kick was wild. The ball was moving to the sidelines where it would certainly go off sides and the Latins would then be given possession. Only Homer Fink stood between the ball and the sidelines. His eyes were lowered and his back hunched. There was no telling how many centuries past he was entertaining—what realms of thoughts he was invading.

  “Your head. Use your head, Homer,” I called to him.

  These were the same words Homer had used on the day previous when fresh with discovery and reading he was enthusiastic about soccer. Homer Fink raised his head, jumped in the air, and met the ball squarely with his forehead. It bounded down the field toward the Latin School’s goal. Little Louie raced after it and with a diagonal boot saved us from a shutout.

  The girls in togas leaped into the air. Even the Latin School cheered Homer’s pass. It was as if Little Louie Bannerman had no part in the score. The glory was all Homer’s. He had delivered a powerful head pass. The referee delayed the game and called for a towel to wipe the smudge from Homer’s forehead.

  “I’m all right,” Homer Fink reassured the referee.

  “You seem to have a bruise,” the older man insisted.

  “It’s just dirt,” said Homer Fink. And then to prove it he reached into his rear pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the spot from his forehead.

  Three more minutes were left in the game. But no one scored. No one cared any longer about the game. We were all too busy laughing because Homer Fink had no handkerchief in his pants pocket—only a napkin. And when he pulled it out there was no mistaking what bounded on the field—a big ripe green Brussels sprout.

  25

  I was too busy chasing the Latin players who were kicking the soccer ball all afternoon to have noticed the photographers. But Saturday morning there was a two-column picture on the back page of the morning Sun. Several of the girls from 79 dressed in togas were gathered around a fellow in a poplin raincoat holding a big sign that said, THINK WITH FINK.

  SCHOOL BOY URGES RETURN TO CLASSICS, the headline read.

  Homer Fink, son of Dr. Alcibiades X. Fink, member of the classics department of the Johns Hopkins University, advocates that schoolboys and girls unite to ‘contemplate truth and justice’ in the classic tradition of Greek philosophers. Young Fink is a candidate for the presidency of the student council of P.S. 79. According to the demonstration yesterday afternoon he has an enthusiastic following at the neighboring Latin School.

  The story went on to tell that the soccer game had become a rally for Fink and it mentioned that the slogan “Think with Fink” had mysteriously appeared on school walls and blackboards in places as distant as Dundalk and Glen Burnie.

  There was a quote from Oliver explaining, “Homer Fink has given us a rallying cry more meaningful than winning the next football game.”

  “I’m tired of blue jeans,” an unnamed girl was quoted as saying. “When I wear a toga I feel like I really stand for something.”

  On the inside page jump was a small picture of Homer holding the napkin to his forehead. He had a warm, kind of surprised smile on his face. The Brussels sprout appeared as a blur. There were quotes from Homer in Latin and Greek and a testimony from Little Louie Bannerman whom the story reported had a strong following in his own bid for the student-council presidency. “I am not opposed to truth or justice,” Little Louie was reported as saying, “but it is my belief that Fink is a little over his head. I would rather concentrate on an after-school athletic program and measures to prevent juvenile delinquency.”

  The delinquency issue was a new feature of the Bannerman campaign and I took it as a sign that Little Louie was running scared.

  “Congratulations,” my father said. “You’re certainly pulling out all the stops. Why, Homer Fink will be on his way to Annapolis at the speed you’re going.”

  I explained to my father that I had been too busy being a good sport, shaking the Latin players’ hands, and cleaning up the field to even know there had been a reporter at the game. But I delayed my pancakes and bacon and went to the telephone to call Homer.

  The line was busy for a while, but finally Homer’s mother answered. She was polite but a little rushed. Mrs. Fink wasn’t trying to impress me with how busy she was. I don’t think the Finks believed it was possible to send the sound of a voice over a wire. Mr. Fink always spoke slowly and clearly selecting each word as though he were composing a poem. Mrs. Fink sounded as if she wanted to get the talking over with before the instrument exploded.

  I told her about the story in the paper and what a famous man Homer had become. She thanked me. “Mr. Fink and I are so grateful to you, Richard. You’ve been a marvelous friend to Homer. You must visit us soon and we’ll have a long talk and special dinner with all the foods you like best. Now here’s Homer.”

  Homer was less impressed. “It’s the idea, not the man who is important,” he told me. “Besides I’m not so sure I’m temperamentally equipped for politics. The phone has been ringing all morning. I don’t have time to think.”

  I told Homer it was a small sacrifice to make for public responsibility. He answered by saying, “Power corrupts men.” Then he went on to cite examples from history.

  “But you’ve been called, Homer,” I reminded him. “Remember Pan and Silenus and Mr. Muncrief and the mouse. Maybe the gods are just testing you. You can’t quit now.”

  Homer Fink didn’t answer that. “I need time to contemplate,” he said. “I’m not answering any more calls. I have to think.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” I said. “You’re running for the presidency of the school and you have Phillip Moore and me working with all our might to get you elected. The least you can do is answer a few telephone calls and keep the voters happy for one more week.”

  “I’m not certain Socrates and Pericles could have exchanged roles,” was Homer’s answer. “It may well be that a philosopher is not equipped by temperament for the demands of leadership.”

  “Knock it off, Homer. You’re not Socrates or Pericles, and all that stuff about the gods is only in your mind. What’s real is the election. You got a great break with that story in the paper this morning. And I don’t exactly feel like begging you to take advantage of it.”

  “You’re a better friend than I deserve,” Homer Fink said gently. “But I must decide this by myself.”

  “I’ll see you in school,” I said. “And you’d better be ready to shake some hands and make a few speeches. Every schoolboy in town is ready to trade rock-and-roll records for a Plato pony. That was your idea, not mine. And you’d better be there to explain it.”

  “We’ll see,” said Homer Fink and he quoted Greek again.

  Before I hung up I said, “Be there Monday. I don’t care how many dirty garbage cans you sit in over the weekend.”

  My mother made a fresh batch of griddle cakes but I wasn’t hungry.

  Pete
saw Homer’s picture and said, “Omni—Omni—,” and I told him to shut up.

  26

  All day Monday students were reacting to the newspaper story. Patty Esposito told me on the way to math class that a group of girls had organized a city-wide toga committee. “We tried to limit ourselves, but Elaine has a cousin in Roland Park and Trudy’s friend who lives in Ruxton wants to join us.”

  I agreed as long as everyone realized the importance of togas to the Fink campaign. Patty said, “Of course.” But when I asked for an example, she said, “Togas have to do with culture and thinking about things that are ancient and intellectual like Homer Fink.” I reminded Patty that her committee should involve girls from our school who could vote.

  During library period Neil Machen put aside a history of the battles of the Second World War to read the story of the Iliad. Neil told me, “If Homer Fink is right, Mars could have been General George S. Patton during the Battle of the Bulge.”

  I told Neil not to let that get around. “The main thing is to get people thinking like the ancient Greeks, not necessarily fighting like them.”

  The situation got a little out of control during biology class. Mr. Bowen was instructing us on the dissection of a frog. He had a chart on the board pointing out the cranial chest, and tubercles. We were going to hack away until we found “a few short ribs.”

  “I’m not cutting anything,” Brian Spitzer announced. “What’s chopping up a frog have to do with truth and justice?”

  “Science has lead us down a blind alley,” chimed in Jerry Trout. “The atomic bomb got us mass suicide.”

  “Where’s Homer?”

  “We want to hear from Homer Fink,” the other voices agreed.