Stephen King - The Plant

“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.”