Stephen King - The Plant

Herb went on, a little more subdued. “Lisa left me when I was twenty-four, because I couldn't satisfy her as a woman. I never hated her for it; she gave it her best for two years. Couldn't have been easy. Since then, I think I've managed it... you know, it... maybe three times.”

I thought about this and my mind boggled. Herb claims to be forty-three, but thanks to our ivy-induced ESP, I know he's forty-eight. His wife left him in search of greener pastures (and stiffer penises) half a lifetime ago. If he's only had successful sexual relations three times since then, that means he's gotten laid once every time Neptune circles the sun. Dear, dear, dear.

“There's a good medical reason for this,” said he, with great earnestness. “From the age of ten to the age of fifteen—my sexually formative years—I was a paperboy, and—”

“Being a paperboy made you impotent?” I asked.

“Would you be quiet a minute?”

I mimed running a zipper shut across my lips and settled back in my chair. I like a good story as well as anyone; I just haven't seen many at Zenith House.

“I had a three-speed Raleigh bike,” Herb said. “At first it was all right, and then one day while it was parked behind the school, some asshole came along and knocked off the seat.” Herb paused dramatically. “That asshole ruined my life.”

Do tell, I thought.

“Although,” continued Herb, “my cheapskate father must also bear part of the blame.”

Plenty of blame to go around, thought I. Everyone gets a helping but you.

“I heard that,” he said sharply.

“I'm sure you did,” said I. “Just go on with your story.”

“The bike was obviously ruined, but would that cheapskate get me a new one?”

“No,” I said. “Instead of a new bike, the cheapskate got you a new seat.”

“That's right,” said Herb., by this point too deep into his own narrative to realize I was stealing all of his best lines right out of his head. The truth is, Herb has been telling himself this story for a lot of years. For him, My Dad Wrecked My Sex Life is right up there with The Democrats Ruined the Economy and Let's Fry the Addicts and End America's Drug Problem. “Only the bike-store didn't have a Raleigh seat, and could my father wait for one? Oh no. I had papers to deliver. Also, the no-brand seat the guy showed him was ten bucks cheaper than the replacement Raleigh seat in the catalogue. Of course it was also a lot smaller. In fact, it was a pygmy bicycle seat. This little vinyl-covered triangle that shoved right up... well... “

“Up there,” I said, wanting to be helpful (also wanting to get back to work at some point before July Fourth).

“That's right,” he said. “Up there. For almost five years I rode all over Danbury, Connecticut with that goddamn pygmy bicycle seat pushing up into the most delicate region of a young boy's body. And look at me now.” Herb raised his arms and then dropped them, as if to indicate what a pitiful, wasted creature he has become. Which is quite funny, when you consider the size of him. “These days my idea of a meaningful physical experience with a woman is going down to The Landing Strip, where I might stuff a five dollar bill into some girl's g-string.”

“Herb,” I said. “Do you get a hardon when you do that?”

He drew himself up, and I saw an interesting thing: Herb had a pretty damned good one right then. Hubba, hubba!

“That's a damned personal question, Sandra,” said he in a grave and heavy tone of voice. “Pretty gosh-damn personal.”

“Do you get a hardon when you masturbate?”

“Let me tell you a little secret,” he said. “There are basketball players who can shoot it from downtown all over the court, nothing but net until practice is over and the buzzer goes off. Then every toss is a brick.”

“Herb,” said I, “let me tell you a little secret. The bicycle seat story has been around since bicycles were invented. Before that it was the mumps, or maybe a cross-eyed look from the village witch. And I don't need telepathy to know the answer to the questions I've been asking. I've got eyes.” And I dropped them to the area just below his belt. By then it looked like he had a pretty good-sized socket wrench hidden down there.

“Doesn't last,” said he, and right then he looked so sad that I felt sad. Men are fragile creatures, when you get right down to it, the real animals in the glass menagerie. “Once the action starts, Mr. Johnson likes life a lot better in the rear echelon. Where nobody stands at attention and nobody salutes.”

“You're caught in a Catch-22,” said I. “All men suffering from chronic impotency are. You can't get it up because you're afraid you won't be able to, and you're afraid you won't be able to because—”

“Thank you, Betty Freidan,” said Herb. “It just so happens that there are a great many physical causes of impotency. Some day there'll probably be a pill that will take care of the problem.”

“Some day there'll probably be Holiday Inns on the moon,” I said. “In the meantime, how would you like to do something a bit more interesting than sniffing the seat of my office chair?”

He looked at me unhappily. “Sandra,” said he, with no trace of his usual bluster, “I can't. I just can't. I've done this enough—tried to do this enough, I should say—to know what happens.”

Inspiration struck then... although I don't entirely believe I can take credit for it. Things have changed here. I never thought I'd be glad to get to the office, but I think that for the rest of this year I'll just about race into my clothes so I can get here early. Because things have changed. Lights have come on in my head (other places, as well) that I never even suspected until now.

“Herb,” said I. “I want you to go down to Riddley's cubby. I want you to stand there and look at the plant. Most of all, I want you to take four or five really deep breaths—pull them all the way down to the bottom of your lungs. Really smell those good smells. And then come right back here.”

He looked uneasily out through the window in my door. John and Bill were out there, talking in the hall. Bill saw Herb and gave him a little wave.

“Sandra, if we were to have sex, I hardly think your office would be a viable—”

“You let me worry about that,” I said. “Just go on up there and take a few deep breaths. Then come on back. Will you do that?”

He thought about it, then nodded reluctantly. He started to open the door, then looked back at me. “I appreciate you bothering with me,” said he, “especially when I was giving you such a hard time. I just wanted to tell you that.”

I thought of telling him that altruism does not form a large part of Sandra Jackson's makeup—my motor was revving pretty hard by then—and decided he probably knew that.

“Just go on,” I said. “We don't have all day.”

When he was gone, I took out my pad and scribbled a note on it: “The ladies' room on six is usually deserted at this time of day. I expect to be there for the next twenty minutes or so with my skirt up and my knickers down. A man of stout heart (or stout something) might join me.” I paused, then added: “A man of moderate intelligence as well as stout heart might toss this note in the wastebasket before leaving for the sixth floor.”

I went up to six, where the ladies' is almost always deserted (it has crossed my mind that perhaps there are currently no female employees on that floor of 490 Park Avenue South), went into the stall at the end, and removed certain garments. Then I waited, not sure what might happen next. And I mean that. Whatever telepathy there may be in the fifth-floor offices of Zenith House, its effective range is even shorter than that of a college FM radio station.