Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  I listened to Phillip Moore go on about the great issues of our time. He was so sincere, so dedicated. He sounded even more convinced than Homer Fink that he could change the world.

  “We have something so old it’s fresh and exciting,” said Phillip. “The concept of the individual as introduced by the Greeks is the truth we need to fight the materialism in the world today.”

  I listened a while longer and then I said, “Why don’t you draw up the statement of objectives, Phillip? Homer’s not available and I’m sure there’s no one he knows who understands him as well as you do.”

  “But it was Homer’s idea,” said Phillip. “He deserves the honor of leading us.”

  “You’d be doing Homer a great favor, Phillip. Our man has his hands full winning this election. And just between you and me—I’m not even sure he wants to win.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Phillip Moore. “Homer cared enough to make the speech at the terminal. He wanted to run for the presidency. He asked us to support him.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and then I said, “That’s the way it goes sometimes Phillip. I wanted to be a policeman before I grew up.”

  My answer wasn’t enough for Phillip Moore. I could see he was thinking hard. And then he said with a relieved smile, “Homer Fink must be writing a book. He’s putting it all down in black and white. Pretty soon they’ll be hearing from him all over the world.”

  “In the meantime you get the crusade going,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Homer about bringing Argus to school. It’s time that mut made himself useful.”

  29

  I was wasting my time.

  When they gathered around him after school, clamoring for a final speech, Homer explained he had to be on his way. “It’s traditional on the eve of great events to visit the Oracle of Delphi.”

  Elaine Steigmar thought that was “cute.” And Marvin Bloom said, “Homer Fink has better sense than to waste his afternoon arguing with Louie Bannerman when he could be playing ball.” Neil Machen wanted to know what the Oracle was and I explained that it seemed to be a kind of poll announced in riddles.

  But Little Louie made a big point out of Homer’s absence from school. Without accusing Homer directly, he implied that his opponent was encouraging school drop-outs. There was no great cheering for Little Louie, but the students listened to him. What he lacked in color he made up for with work. Little Louie spoke about delinquency. He said all the things we’d heard a hundred times, but he sounded as if he cared.

  Little Louie was back to discussing the noise in the school cafeteria when I grasped Brian Spitzer by the sleeve. Sleeving is a great thing in politics. When you want somebody to do something for you, you pull him gently by the sleeve and talk in whispers as if the whole thing is very confidential and involves a great trust. I guided Brian Spitzer to the back of the yard.

  “As soon as Little Louie wraps this up, we’ll give them a big ‘Phooey to Louie,’” I told Brian. “Then you start them on ‘Think with Fink.’”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Brian.

  “What d’you mean—not sure?” I sleeved Brian again. “The kids are bored to death with Louie. They’re just waiting for an excuse to start screaming for Homer.”

  “That may be,” said Brian Spitzer. “But what I mean is I’m not so sure I’m for Homer any more.”

  I sleeved Brian really hard, pulling him up close and whispered into his ear, “Don’t be ridiculous. There aren’t a dozen students in this school who are going to vote for Bannerman. Why, Homer Fink’s practically a national institution.”

  “That’s just it. That’s the point,” said Brian. “Where’s he been all week? He comes to school one day and bing-bang he rushes to some oracle. It’s just the calisthenics class and the soccer game all over again. Little Louie knocks himself out and Homer Fink gets all the attention.”

  I shook my head. “I’m disappointed in you, Brian. I’m beginning to have some doubts about Homer appointing you to the athletic committee.”

  “What athletic committee?”

  “Homer racks his brains setting up an air-tight organization for him and he asks what committee.” I dropped my voice so low Brian could hardly hear. “Let me tell you—buzz buzz—a sports program that will be city-wide—buzz buzz—and you’re the man to lead it. Those are Homer’s very words.”

  Brian shook his arm loose and scratched his head. “I’d like to, Richard. Maybe if Homer were around a little more. But the way things stand right now—” Brian Spitzer looked toward Little Louie Bannerman who was back to harping on an after-school athletic program. “I know Little Louie is no match for Homer when it comes to brains, but to tell you the absolute truth—I’m not so sure I exactly go for all this thinking with Fink. What’s it got me so far? I’m in hot water in biology class and stuck with two hours of Latin homework.”

  I didn’t have to visit any oracles to see the signs of this election. Brian Spitzer told me all I needed to know.

  When I called Homer’s house that night, he didn’t seem the least nervous and refused to discuss the election. “Good luck,” I said before hanging up.

  Homer’s answer was, “Contra felicem vix deus vires habet.” He didn’t translate, but I wrote it down and found out later it meant, “Against a lucky man even a god has little power.”

  We voted by secret ballot. After writing the name of our choice on a two-by-four card, each student deposited his ballot in a box in the school auditorium. Phillip Moore acted as a poll watcher for Homer Fink, and at the last minute Neil Machen agreed to do the job for Louie Bannerman.

  Patty Esposito and Brian Spitzer represented the candidates as official tally clerks. The counting went on in Mr. Muncrief’s office that afternoon. Neither Patty nor Brian returned to class, and we knew it was a very close election. Most of us remained in our homerooms after school waiting for the results.

  Homer Fink preferred to receive the news in Druid Hill Park. “I’ll be on Pan’s hill,” he told me. “Have no fears, Richard. I know I voted for the right man.”

  He walked across the schoolroom with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his oversized overcoat. Several tattered books were under his arm—and I noticed the lace of his right shoe was coming undone.

  At three-thirty we heard a great cheer in the hall. Rushing from our classroom, we received the news that a group was gathered in front of Mr. Muncrief’s office. Mr. Aberdenally, the custodian, was standing there. The broomstick was in one hand and in the other hand the custodian held a mouse by the tail.

  It relieved the tension of the election momentarily, and I guess I was grateful for that. But I heard myself say, “Rest in peace, Persephone.”

  The mouse had been hiding in the ballot box, one of the tellers told me later. She had revealed herself when Mr. Muncrief brought forth the last ballot.

  Several minutes later the assistant principal appeared. It had been a very close election, he explained. “The ballots have been counted and recounted. There is no doubt. Elected by a majority of one vote, the new president of the student body is—Louis Bannerman.”

  I thought I saw a tear in the corner of Mr. Muncrief’s eye as he started down the hall to help Mr. Aberdenally dispose of the last remains of Persephone. I hurried to Druid Hill Park to tell the news to Homer Fink.

  30

  When I arrived at the hill, Homer wasn’t there. I found a piece of broken shoelace and saw the footprints of a small dog whom I knew must be Argus. Cupping my hands over my mouth I called, “Homer-rrr—Homer-rr. Fink-kkk.” I was sure Homer was some place nearby, probably examining a bird nest or looking down a gopher hole. But there was no answer. It’s just as well, I thought. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to breaking the bad news.

  I sat and twirled the strip of shoelace between my fingers. I tried to imagine how Homer had managed to step on his shoelace and break it without falling down. I remembered the lace of his right shoe was loose when he left school that afternoon and I
regretted not having tied it for him. I wondered why I hadn’t. At first, I thought it was because of the campaign. Things had changed between Homer and me since he decided to run for office. I considered the way Homer had walked out on the race and left me holding the bag.

  I got to thinking about all I had done for Homer—organizing his campaign, putting up his signs, talking him up to the students. And then I considered the things Homer Fink had done for me. It isn’t easy to understand the things people do for you. First of all you have to face the truth about yourself and nobody wants to admit that he isn’t personally responsible for the best breaks in his life. Take me, for example. I had a date with Katrinka Nonningham all set for Saturday, and if things went well my prom date was going to be the kind of girl who was every boy’s dream. I would have liked to think it was all due to my personality, my way with girls. But the truth was I couldn’t even talk to Katrinka Nonningham if it hadn’t been for Homer. She would have passed in and out of my life at the tennis courts.

  Homer hadn’t set out to bring us together, but it was because we both knew Homer Fink that Katrinka was prepared for me and I was able to understand her.

  The more I thought about it the more convinced I was that Homer Fink had done something special for each of us who knew him. Phillip Moore may have been the best in everything without Homer, but it was because of Homer that Phillip finally found something to challenge him. The student crusade was right up Phillip Moore’s alley, but nobody—not even Phillip himself—would have got it going if it hadn’t been for Homer Fink.

  Little Louie Bannerman was going to be a doctor and a pretty good one, judging from how serious he was about his homework and how energetic he’d been in the campaign. But I was certain, after his campaign with Homer, the world was never going to look the same to Little Louie. Some day when he was in a laboratory somewhere ready to start cutting up a dog or shoving needles into a cat I was sure Little Louie would start thinking about “the order of the universe” or some other phrase of Homer Fink’s that I never quite understood but which I was certain was very clear to a good science student like Little Louie.

  And Brian Spitzer and Neil Machen and even Marvin Bloom would remember “truth and justice.” All their lives they would be proud because Homer Fink had made them consider these things if only for a moment.

  Trudy Deal, Alma Melchere, Patty Esposito, all the girls who had worn togas when others were showing off in tight blue jeans, would never be quite the same because of Homer. For a while they had belonged to a great and noble tradition that went all the way back to Socrates and the Roman Forum. No matter how you cut it, I’m sure all the girls of P.S. 79 realized they had shared, though briefly, a glimpse of a more enduring heritage than rock and roll.

  The strip of Homer Fink’s shoelace was in my hand while I was considering all these things. Staring at it, studying the pattern of the separation, I got to thinking about Homer again. It seemed I had been writing Homer’s obituary in my mind. Although I wasn’t as much for visitations of the spirits and gods as Homer was, this made me very uncomfortable.

  I wondered if perhaps Homer had fallen and been fatally injured. That seemed unlikely. But the mood persisted and I couldn’t help but feel that something sad—perhaps even tragic—had happened to my friend, Homer Fink.

  It was true he had done all these things for so many of us. But what had we done for him? I could understand Homer feeling betrayed by all of us. Hadn’t we failed him in our determination to achieve the ideal? Weren’t we too petty and selfish in our thinking?

  And finally—hadn’t Homer suspected all along that he would lose the election? Did he feel unwanted and alone? In this melancholy state—I shuddered to even consider it—was my friend, Homer Fink, moved to kill himself?

  “Homer. Homer Fink. It’s me, Richard. Amo. Amas. Amamos, Homer,” I screamed at the top of my voice.

  I rushed down the hill and searched the wooded area adjacent to the falls. Finding no clue of Homer there, I dashed to the field leading to the mansion house and finally ran to the zoo. I moved from the elephant house to the lion’s den, from the bird cages to the camel enclosure calling, “Homer-rrr. Homer-rr Fink-kkk. Amo. Amas. Amamus, Homer.”

  When I returned to the hill there was a pounding in my temples and I could feel a trickle of sweat on my upper lip. I remembered Homer telling me, “I’ll be on Pan’s hill.” For all his indifference to the details of appearance and routine, I was positive Homer would not forget this appointment.

  I was just beginning to think—to think, as Homer had insisted all along we should. And the thought that came to my mind was—we have destroyed him. He was too good, too pure, too honest, and we were unable to face him—for in facing him we had to face ourselves. And so we destroyed him, erased him from the face of the earth. It was probably the most dramatic moment I had ever made up all by myself. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

  It was then that I heard a dog bark. Looking down from the summit of the hill, I saw the shepherd and his sheep coming around the turn of the woods. Argus was chasing a stray lamb, barking at his heels and forcing him back to the herd.

  The shepherd was piping a tune on a great wooden flute and by his side I saw Homer Fink, jumping and skipping and clicking his heels together in his uncoordinated way.

  There were tears in my eyes and I swallowed hard when I spoke to him. “Sorry, Homer, but you lost.”

  “Nick, this is my best friend, Richard Sanders,” said Homer Fink. “We’re classmates at P.S. 79. Perhaps you remember him from the assembly.”

  Nick held the pipe with one hand and extended the other to greet me.

  “The spirit of Pan is in him,” said Homer. “Why else would we find a shepherd in Druid Hill Park?”

  “Because I no like work m’brother’s res’rant,” said the spirit of Pan. “And the taste of sheep’s milk, she’s O.K.”

  “Stick with him and you’ll learn how to milk a sheep,” said Homer.

  We followed the flow of the falls until we came to a small house overlooking a grassy field. A man was there whom I recognized as the one Homer had called “Silenus.” The shepherd put down his pipe and wiped his sleeve across his lips. He called, “Hey, Tony, put downa bottle, we’se home.” The shepherd was piping again as we started to the house. Argus was barking and the sheep were moving in line.

  “Sorry about the news, Homer,” I said. “If it makes you feel any better you only lost by one vote.”

  Homer smiled softly and then I asked, “Whom did you vote for anyway?”

  “The best man,” said Homer Fink. “The beginning of knowledge is to know your own limitations.”

  Silenus was coming to greet us. He had a jug in one hand, a hunk of cheese in the other. “Ahooey, mates,” he called. “Steady as you go. We’re short of spirits but high on produce.”

  Homer stumbled, and Argus deserted the sheep and started barking at his heels.

  Homer Fink bent down to fasten the broken lace. He tied a small knot. “How’s that, Richard?” he said standing. With his thumb and forefinger he made an “O” for onward.

  “It’s a beginning, Homer,” I said. And Homer Fink said, “Did I ever tell you about the American naturalist Henry Thoreau? Now he thought …”

  I listened a while and then I said, “Say, Homer, suppose you called Patty Esposito or Elaine Steigmar. We could double-date on Saturday.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Originally published by St. Martin’s Press

  Copyright © 1966, 2002 by Sidney Offit

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3614-6

  Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

  www.openroadmedia.com

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  Sidney Offit, Adventures of Homer Fink