Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  But Homer wasn’t in school and Mr. Bowen had trouble understanding the argument.

  “Scientists constantly search for truth,” our biology teacher insisted. “When we examine the anatomical composition of the frog we take the first step to understanding the structure of the human body.”

  Jerry Trout wasn’t convinced. “We want Latin. We want Greek.”

  “Give us Socrates. Let’s read Plato,” Brian continued. “Think with Fink.”

  Mr. Bowen spent the remainder of the period explaining how the early Greeks began biology. He told us about a Greek named Alcmaeon who began the investigation of animal structure.

  On our way to the next class Phillip Moore said to me, “At this stage of the campaign, every day is crucial. Without Homer the issues get confused.”

  “Every knock is a boost,” I reassured Phillip. But I wasn’t convinced. Remembering my conversation with Homer on the telephone, I was sure he was off somewhere—contemplating.

  At the end of the school day students from all over the city gathered in our yard to meet Homer. Wally and Oliver led a group from the Latin School, and there were girls anxious to get to work on the toga committee. Several boys from East Baltimore came with their shoelaces untied and their shirt-tails out. Word had gotten around that Homer recommended contemplation in a garbage can and a boy from Garrison rode over on his bicycle dragging a G.I. can behind him.

  “It’s just wonderful,” Patty Esposito said to me. “Everyone loves Homer. He’ll win the election for sure.” Then she said, “Remember that cute little boy running down the aisle. I hear he’s Homer’s brother and he was born speaking Latin. It runs in the family.”

  Somebody started chanting, “Think with Fink.” And then a boy from the Latin School turned the G.I. can upside down, stood on top of it, and led a cheer. “Amo, amas. Amamus Fink.”

  It caught on and soon the whole yard was echoing the conjugation of the verb “to love” with Homer’s name as the object.

  With so many rumors, issues, and philosophies making the rounds, Homer’s campaign was building its own momentum. I was just beginning to enjoy running a campaign without a candidate when Little Louie Bannerman asked for equal time on the garbage can.

  Neil Machen protested and even Brian Spitzer seemed reluctant to let Little Louie have the floor. But Phillip Moore reminded everyone that conflicting views were the strength of a democracy and he prepared the way for Little Louie.

  “I’m certainly not against Homer’s program for a return to the classics,” Little Louie reassured us. “A doctor can’t write prescriptions without Latin.”

  That was greeted by applause and a new call for Homer Fink.

  Little Louie’s face was flushed and for the first time in the campaign there was a tremble to his voice. He must have known as well as the rest of us that he was not campaigning against a boy any longer. At that moment Homer Fink was as close as a schoolboy at P.S. 79 could come to having his own private seat right up there on Olympus.

  Impatiently, the boys from other schools objected to Louie’s starched shirt. Someone sneered, “You can’t trust him. He uses Vitalis.” Others voiced suspicion because Little Louie’s shoes were shined. He had made his testimonial to Homer and now they wanted Louie Bannerman to step down.

  Again Phillip Moore protected Louie Bannerman’s right to have his say.

  “Friends, classmates, fellow students,” Little Louie pleaded. “I’m not here to debate with Homer Fink. I dig him.”

  Little Louie wasn’t the kind of boy you would expect to understand a word like “dig,” much less to use it. The audience quieted. It was obvious to me Little Louie had been thinking long and hard all weekend—and probably getting some grown-up political advice too. He went on to praise the things Homer had done for our school. Most particularly, he cited Homer’s performance in the soccer game and the debt we all owed Homer for “getting us to think about really important things.”

  Standing tall on the garbage can, Little Louie Bannerman came to the heart of his speech—the really important part that I knew right away was meant to make the voters doubt Homer. “I’m for truth and justice,” explained Little Louie, “but whatever the results of this election may be we must not forget—home—and mother and pets.”

  There was a groan from some parts of the yard, but applause too. Moving quickly, I approached Phillip Moore. “You’d better talk next,” I urged Phillip. “Give them world poverty and doing our part to save the peace. I’ll try to contact Homer.”

  As I started out of the yard, Phillip Moore was talking. I heard him telling Homer’s fans about ways to save wax paper from sandwich wrappings and “making a friend a year in an underdeveloped country to save the peace.” Phillip was tying the whole thing in with the Greeks’ respect for the individual, and the girls in togas were jumping up and down screaming, “Score with Moore.”

  27

  I went to homer Fink’s house.

  I was going to tell him how important it was for him to return to school. There was no doubt in my mind that with Little Louie Bannerman and Phillip Moore taking turns on the platform, by Friday many of the voters would forget all about the living legend.

  Homer was my friend and regardless of how difficult he was at time, I felt I owed it to him to make one last effort to get him back into the campaign. Homer had entered our routine school election and turned it into a city-wide movement. There was some confusion about his platform, and half the kids who were screaming didn’t have the least idea what they were screaming about. But I remembered the dullness of past campaigns and the uneasy feeling of boys like Phillip Moore who wanted to be involved in something important and never had the chance until Homer Fink had started to talk.

  It seemed to me we needed Homer. And Homer needed us. He had told me P.S. 79 would be his base. I was convinced that without us he would be another daydreamer, tripping over his shoelaces. I was even beginning to feel as if I were on an historic mission. Homer Fink needed me the way all great men needed a friend. I was ready to beg, argue, even fight, if necessary, to get him back into the race.

  Professor Fink greeted me at the door. He was wearing slippers and a vest sprinkled with pipe ashes. His glasses were low on his nose and in one hand he held a book.

  “Welcome, Richard.” He clasped my forearm.

  Homer’s father wasn’t usually in a talkative mood, but I could see this was a time when he welcomed company. When I asked for Homer, the Professor told me, “Homer is not about.” He invited me in to share a pomegranate and I followed him to the kitchen.

  The Professor’s back was to me as he leaned into the refrigerator. He couldn’t see my expression when he said, “I’m delighted you dropped by, Richard. Perhaps you can help solve the riddle of Homer’s sudden interest in the Romantic poets.”

  “Romantic?” I could feel the blood rush to my face.

  “Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,” said the Professor. “The chief authors of the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century were Romantics.”

  In a voice that was barely a whisper I said, “Homer Fink’s in love.” I didn’t wait for the pomegranate. “Excuse me. Some other time, Sir. I have to be getting home.”

  The Professor was still searching for the fruit when I heard him say, “Of course Romanticism is not a systematic philosophy, but an intuitive faith.…”

  “Good-by,” I said from the door.

  I went to Goldenheimer’s and had a double-scoop hot fudge sundae with whipped cream, and when Mrs. Goldenheimer was wiping the table and filling the sugar bowls I asked if she had a telephone book. She brought me one from the back and told me that even though they made it a point not to have a public telephone, for a good customer like me they would make an exception. She offered me the use of the store phone. I thanked her and explained I was just checking an address.

  Mrs. Goldenheimer looked a little confused. “Suit yourself. Cha. Cha. Cha.”

  I took the crosstown and then the Charles S
treet bus. It was late afternoon by the time I arrived at Katrinka Nonningham’s. The sun was shaded by a cloud in the west and the big trees on Howard’s Lane were gray and bare. I walked up and down the block and thought once more about finding a public phone and calling. Finally I walked right up the path to Katrinka’s front door. There was no bell, but a large brass knocker. It was stiff and made a soft, thudding sound that I was sure no one inside could hear. I knocked twice and a man in a starched white jacket with a black bowtie answered. I told him I’d come to see Katrinka. He asked my name, directed me in, and said, “Madam will be with you shortly.”

  In the hall there were two armless chairs covered by a fabric that looked like silk. I was certain if I sat I would leave a permanent impression in them. My bookbag was tucked tightly under my arm and I searched for something to look at to seem busy. There was only the crystal chandelier and a gold-framed mirror, so I stood absolutely still.

  After several seconds I heard a door open and then the tinkling of glasses and the sound of polite conversation. A woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

  Across the hall I saw a tall, beautiful lady. Her hair was swept up high on her head and a jeweled comb was in the midst of it. She was wearing the kind of dress my mother only put on for weddings and from the way she was standing I knew she had come as far as she ever would to greet anyone.

  I told her, “I’d like to see Katrinka.”

  The woman said nothing but just looked at me. I thought for a moment I had the wrong house and I was going to excuse myself and leave.

  “Katrinka?” the woman repeated. “You mean Chookey. She’s upstairs.” There was a glassy look in the lady’s eyes, as if she had come in from the sun or been crying.

  I asked if I could see Katrinka.

  “I suppose so.” And then the lady said, “It never rains, but it pours.” That made her laugh. I couldn’t understand why. It didn’t seem the kind of thing a beautiful lady who wore such an expensive dress in the middle of the afternoon would say. I started to the staircase.

  When I had gone several steps she spoke again, “No doubt you’ve had the mea-sles.” She made it sound like something dirt, but I admitted I had.

  At the top of the stairs was a long hall with paintings on the walls. I would have liked to look at them, so I could tell my parents. But when I reached the top step I heard a familiar voice and hurried toward the direction from which it came.

  The door was slightly ajar. I looked in and saw Katrinka sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her head. She was wearing a plaid woolen bathrobe like the one my father had given me for Christmas and her hair was loose and falling forward on her face. The shades were drawn, but I could see Katrinka’s face clearly. There were faint blotches about her cheeks and chin.

  “This was Hector’s prayer for his son,” I heard Homer Fink say. “It’s part of his moving farewell to Andromache, his wife.” Homer started to recite from the Iliad.

  «Ζε λλοι τε θεοί, δότε δ κα τόνδε γενέσθαι

  παδ’ μόν, ς κα γώ περ, ριπρεπέα Τρώεσσιν,

  δε βίην τ’ γαθόν, κα ’Ιλίου φι. νάσσειν·

  καί ποτέ τις εποι ‘πατρός γ’ δε πολλν μείνων’

  κ πολέμου νιόντα· φέροι δ’ ναρα βροτόεντα

  κτείνας δήϊον νδρα, χαρείη δ φρένα μήτηρ.»

  I stood by the door to Katrinka Nonningham’s bedroom and listened. Homer’s voice was stronger than I had ever heard it. There was a musical quality about his recitation as if he were chanting a prayer that was every word the truth and the listener had better pay attention to understand the mysteries of life. After reciting a while, Homer translated and he explained the story to Katrinka.

  Several times I heard Homer say, “You must know Aphrodite. You must remember.”

  Katrinka Nonningham’s eyes were half-closed. She seemed drowsy and I saw her head bob. “Go on,” she whispered to Homer. “Please go on.”

  As Homer repeated more of the Iliad Katrinka Nonningham reached to her night table and poured a glass of apple juice. She was having some difficulty controlling the pitcher and I wanted to help. But there was a spell in the room and I could not intrude.

  Homer was telling Katrinka about a translator named Chapman and a poem of Keats. I heard him recite:

  Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

  And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

  Round many western islands have I been

  Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

  Homer made it sound as if the words came directly from his own heart and I believed him, even though I know the only place he had ever visited was Ocean City.

  Katrinka Nonningham fumbled with the pillow. I thought she was going for a handkerchief because she was moved to tears. But she located a pair of sun glasses and put them on.

  When Homer said:

  Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

  When a new planet swims into his ken …

  I knew exactly how John Keats felt. Only it wasn’t the Iliad that was turning me on. It was Katrinka Nonningham. With her dark glasses, wool bathrobe, and measles I was absolutely positive she wasn’t a goddess at all. It was as though I were seeing her for the first time. Katrinka Nonningham was a girl my age having a tough time at home. She was sad and lonely and needed a boy friend.

  Homer continued reciting but I didn’t hear another word he said. I just stood and looked at Katrinka. Finally her head slumped forward.

  Homer rose from his chair and went to her. I felt a weakness about my knees. I was sure if I had even a little character I would turn away and leave. Homer had probably been visiting Katrinka all afternoon, keeping her company through the measles, and I knew it was none of my business how he was rewarded for it.

  I saw Homer stand by the bed and slowly remove a pillow from beneath the perfect golden head. He pulled the pink spread close to Katrinka’s chin and then Homer Fink returned to his chair and continued to recite.

  On the way home I thought about what my mother had meant when she said, “Some children pass from childhood into adolescence more slowly than others.” I was wondering if Homer Fink was still a child or if perhaps, genius that he was, he had skipped adolescence and plunged right into being an old man.

  Greek and Latin and even the entire first team of the Romantic poets weren’t going to get him any closer to Katrinka Nonningham. It seemed to me Homer Fink needed to win the school election more than he or I realized.

  In the meantime I made up my mind to ask Katrinka for a real date. And I didn’t plan to prepare myself by reading poetry.

  28

  Homer didn’t return to school Tuesday. I called him that evening to let him know Little Louie Bannerman was getting support from the Boy Scout troop. “Little Louie’s also picking up help from the kids who sing in the church glee club,” I informed Homer. “And he’s recommending we organize a pet club for the protection of stray dogs and cats.”

  Homer cautioned me to warn the students about Little Louie’s commitment to vivisection. “Find out what he intends doing with the stray pets,” said Homer. “Doctors will traditionally murder to dissect.”

  I suggested that Homer could make an issue of that point more easily than I could. “Why don’t you pop into class tomorrow and let the kids know you’re still around.”

  Homer said he was occupied with “personal commitments.” If he didn’t want to tell me about Katrinka Nonningham, I wasn’t going to press him. Even the Iliad has to end some time, I thought, and I wondered what Homer would perform next. The more I considered, the more convinced I was that there was no end to Homer’s readings and recitations—so Wednesday I called Katrinka.

  I didn’t say anything about the election. I didn’t even mention the women’s committee. I told Katrinka I was sorry to hear she had the measles and I asked her when she thought
she would be up and around again. Her doctor had given her permission to go out on the weekend, but Katrinka told me she doubted if she would look well enough to see people.

  I suggested we take a walk. “I’ve seen measles lots of times,” I said. “I had them and so did Pete. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen a redhead with red spots.”

  That made her laugh and Katrinka agreed she could stand it if I could. “It’s wonderful about Homer,” she said. “With all the stories about him in the papers I’m sure he’ll win the election.”

  I said, “I’ll see you Saturday and tell you all about it.”

  Thursday morning Homer was accompanied to school by his mother. After a long conference in Mr. Muncrief’s office, he returned to class.

  “How did you talk your way out of that one?” I asked Homer during lunch hour. “Did you tell Mr. Muncrief you were absent because you were sick? Or was your grandmother dying?”

  Homer disapproved of both standard excuses. According to him, “such fabrications tempt the wrath of the gods.”

  I had heard all I cared to hear about the gods. They seemed to have deserted Homer at a crucial time in the election, and as far as I was concerned they were a luxury he could no longer afford.

  “I explained to Mr. Muncrief that I was comforting a stray and wounded creature,” said Homer Fink. “Another Persephone.”

  “That’s blackmail, Homer.” And then I smiled, “You know you may make a politician after all. You’re learning.”

  Phillip Moore was less confident. “Convince Homer to speak at the meeting this afternoon,” Phillip told me. “Fink chapters from all over the city are clamoring for a statement of objectives. If Homer doesn’t show, we’ll have to proceed without him.”

  I explained to Phillip Moore that I was more concerned with having Homer rally the local students. “Little Louie is pumping some hot issues. Between dogs, and mothers and home, he has a little something for everybody.”

  Phillip Moore confessed to an interest greater than the campaign. “It seems to me the contribution Homer Fink has made goes far beyond the schoolyard of P.S. 79. We have the makings of an international student crusade.”