Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  “No, sir.” From the sound of his voice I knew Bannerman didn’t have the least idea of what Mr. Muncrief was driving at.

  “You see girls every day in class, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And they’re not really that different, are they? After all they have two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth—just the same as you or I.”

  “That’s true,” Little Louie agreed.

  “Now, I wouldn’t try to pretend to you—a doctor’s son—that boys and girls are exactly alike. No indeed, I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Muncrief. “Why, for all I know you’ve been poking around in your dad’s books and seeing a thing or two that might be news to me. And if that’s agreeable to your parents, it is certainly acceptable to us.”

  “Excuse me, sir. What books?” Louie asked suddenly.

  “Your dad’s books—his medical books,” said Mr. Muncrief. “Come along now, Louis, I’m not going to punish you. There’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Surely a boy who would climb on the fence to look into the girls’ yard would be tempted to browse through a medical book—if only to see the pictures.”

  “I looked up ‘impetigo’ once,” said Louie Bannerman. “You treat it with sulfonamides or penicillin.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Mr. Muncrief. There was a long pause and then I heard Mr. Muncrief say to Louie Bannerman, “Suppose you tell me, Louis, in your own words exactly why you were on the fence looking into the girls’ yard?”

  Little Louie was a politician all the way. Without the slightest hesitation he announced, “No comment, sir.”

  When Mr. Muncrief started to talk there was a forced cheerfulness to his voice. “You know what you and I are going to do tomorrow at recess, Louis? We are going to organize group calisthenics. How would you like that? We’ll do push-ups and deep-knee bends. Some fine, exhausting exercises to help build strong bodies and sound minds. After a half hour, why, we won’t give two hoots about the girls’ yard. Youngsters your age need an activity to keep them occupied. It’s just that simple.”

  There was the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and I knew I had to get away fast. Starting down the steps to the basement, I looked over my shoulder and saw Mr. Aberdenally. The school custodian was headed to Mr. Muncrief’s office with a broomstick in one hand and an empty mousetrap in the other.

  “I looked all over the yard. Homer’s not there,” Phillip Moore reported.

  Patty Esposito had to be getting home for a music lesson and the others had long since departed. Phillip and I sat on the curb and tried to consider other possibilities.

  Phillip suggested we call Homer’s house. I volunteered a dime and we made the call from the drugstore. Mrs. Fink hadn’t seen her son since he left for school in the morning.

  “Homer must be around the school area,” Phillip insisted. “Either he’s in the girls’ locker room or concealed in the yard or hiding out in the cafeteria.”

  We agreed we would need a girl to check the girls’ locker and Phillip thought it would be a good idea to get in touch with Katrinka. I wasn’t going to argue with that. We looked up “Nonningham” in the telephone book and discovered Katrinka had her own phone. When I told Katrinka that Homer Fink had disappeared, she said she was on her way.

  While we were waiting for Katrinka, Phillip Moore told me some of his ideas for the campaign. The way he saw it, we should be introducing “major issues.” Phillip wanted to get the students talking about the emerging nations of Africa and Asia and fighting poverty and things like that.

  “I’m sure if Homer Fink applied himself he could make really important contributions to solving these problems,” said Phillip.

  I told him what I had learned outside the door to Mr. Muncrief’s office. It seemed to me that if Little Louie Bannerman was responsible for the boys doing calisthenics during recess, that would prove a far more effective issue for us than Homer’s position on world peace.

  Katrinka Nonningham arrived in a taxicab. She was wearing a polo coat and had on tennis shoes and lacy black stockings. “Where is he? What happened to Homer?”

  “He’s probably all right,” I said. “But we need somebody to search the girls’ locker.”

  It wasn’t exactly my idea of an exciting afternoon date, but Katrinka was anxious to get to it.

  Down the hall from the girls’ room was the kitchen. Phillip and I made a thorough search of that area. The freezer was locked and so was the refrigerator. I couldn’t remember the names of any Norse gods, but I prayed silently that Homer hadn’t decided to conceal himself in either of those places.

  We met Katrinka by the door leading to the girls’ yard. “I’m sure Homer Fink has made himself invisible. When he’s ready, he’ll return.”

  Phillip Moore said, “You don’t seem to realize the gravity of the world situation, Katrinka. We need Homer now.”

  I suppose Katrinka and Phillip could have gone on discussing whether Homer was more valuable as a deity or as a statesman, but we heard voices echoing in the basement.

  “Steady. Steady as you go,” Mr. Muncrief was saying. “If there’s a mouse we’ll find it.”

  “I saw that mouse go up the riser,” Mr. Aberdenally, the custodian, replied. “I tell you he’s in your office somewhere.”

  The assistant principal’s voice came closer. “It is much more likely that a mouse would be nesting in the basement.”

  “That’s him. I’m sure that’s Homer.” I had to grasp Katrinka Nonningham’s arm to keep her from starting in the direction of the voices.

  “That’s Mr. Muncrief, the assistant principal of our school,” I told her. “And if he finds us here, Homer will have to start looking for a new campaign team. We have to hide.”

  “Don’t you remember? Didn’t Homer teach you anything? The Greek gods change their form all the time.”

  “Homer’s too small to disguise himself as Mr. Muncrief or Mr. Aberdenally. Their clothes would never fit him.”

  “Homer’s not a man,” Katrinka announced. “Homer Fink must—be—the—mouse.”

  “I doubt it,” said Phillip Moore. “I really don’t believe transmigration is possible.”

  “Behind the garbage cans,” I insisted. “They’re coming.”

  We darted around the dishwashing machine and made our way between the racks of cups and bowls. The cans were lined up in a semi-circle and we crouched behind them.

  “I’m sure I’m right. We don’t have to hide. There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Katrinka.

  “Keep your head down,” I whispered.

  Phillip Moore hunched into a tight corner and Katrinka and I huddled beside him. Mr. Muncrief and Mr. Aberdenally came closer.

  “The first time in thirty-five years a mouse in my school,” the custodian said. “I tell you it is an evil sign—bad luck.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Muncrief consoled him. “It is no such thing. We just have to keep the cafeteria a little cleaner, that’s all.”

  “It’s those children,” said Mr. Aberdenally. “They throw crumbs and food all over the floor. It’s a wonder we didn’t have mice long ago. No table manners and too much to eat. The only trouble with this school is those spoiled brats.” There was the sound of Mr. Aberdenally’s broom slamming against the floor. “Thought I had her. Must have been a shadow.”

  “Take it easy. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Mr. Muncrief advised Mr. Aberdenally. “Remember, it may be a mouse to you but it’s some creature’s daughter.”

  I put my arm around Katrinka Nonningham’s shoulder to help her keep her balance. A wisp of her hair brushed against my cheek.

  “Plato is right,” I confessed, quoting Homer Fink. “I am a wolf.”

  “No. No,” Katrinka Nonningham whispered.

  “They’re leaving—sh-hh,” Phillip Moore reminded us.

  That moment I didn’t care if Phillip Moore saw us or if Mr. Muncrief and Mr. Aberdenally discovered us or if the world ended with everyone frozen right where he was f
orever. I had my arm around Katrinka Nonningham. Life was perfect.

  A loud thumping from inside one of the garbage cans interrupted us. A voice demanded, “Sell me to the man who needs a master.”

  “It’s he. It’s Homer,” Katrinka exclaimed, and she was on her feet and out of my arm.

  Everybody I know says, “It’s him,” except those girls from private schools.

  14

  “If you want to do something for me,” Homer Fink said to Katrinka, “please do not shield the light.”

  “You can come out now, Homer,” she said. “You’re safe.”

  Homer’s knees were pressed close to his chin and his shoulders rolled forward. He blinked his eyes, and as Phillip Moore helped him to his feet he had great difficulty straightening himself.

  “You look wretched,” said Katrinka. “How you must have suffered.” Katrinka liked that idea and she brushed Homer’s hair back from his forehead.

  “Move slowly. Don’t take it too fast,” Phillip Moore advised. “Your muscles have to get used to action again.”

  Homer Fink tried to raise his arms and his back was hunched. But he was smiling and seemed tremendously satisfied. “Absolutely remarkable. An incredible experience.”

  I explained to Homer that we had been looking for him all afternoon and I told him what had happened to Little Louie. Homer was more concerned with telling us about a Greek philosopher.

  “If I hadn’t remembered Diogenes I would never have thought of hiding in a barrel.”

  Katrinka asked if Homer wanted a drink of water, and Phillip Moore was interested in finding out if Homer had a Charley horse.

  “Diogenes tried to live his life with the barest essentials,” Homer went on. “That way he was able to think without distraction about the governing of men. You know it works.”

  “As close as you were to the school cafeteria, you should have some terrific ideas on the hot-lunch menu,” I said.

  “I am definitely going to recommend that every student at P.S. 79 spend an hour a week in a garbage can,” Homer announced.

  “I have some of my most meaningful thoughts when I’m in the bathtub,” said Katrinka.

  Homer managed to straighten his back and he was moving his arms freely now. “I owe it all to you, Richard. It was you who catapulted me into the girls’ yard and sent me soaring into unexplored regions of contemplation.”

  “I was only trying to protect you from Mr. Muncrief,” I admitted. “Little Louie is in real trouble. Because of him, the boys are going to have calisthenics at recess tomorrow.”

  “I was hoping we would have time to go over my nominating speech this afternoon,” Phillip Moore told Homer.

  Homer flailed his arms and tried to run. “What we must do is create an army of young people all over the world who are willing to spend a little time in garbage cans.”

  “I’d take it slow introducing garbage cans into your campaign,” I said.

  “Are you sure the world is ready for you?” said Katrinka.

  “It’s not important to win every time,” Homer told us.

  Phillip Moore was anxious to get down to business. It was easy to see why he always made A’s for homework. He started to tell Homer his ideas about the United Nations fighting poverty, but Homer no longer thought the peace organization was adequate. The experience in the barrel had inspired a new approach. Homer Fink had visions. “Students from Calcutta to Caracas, Peking to Peoria, London to Leopoldville will exile themselves in barrels to contemplate truth and justice.”

  Katrinka Nonningham said she thought it was the most original idea she had ever heard. “We’re spoiled and that’s the truth,” she said. “It’s time we made some sacrifices to help our fellow man.”

  I held fast to my clip-board. It wasn’t exactly the perfect time to talk about committees and raising a campaign fund, but if there was a political situation that called for a manager, I knew this was it.

  “I don’t understand you, Homer,” I began. “Here you have an absolutely perfect campaign issue practically forced on you and you turn it down.”

  Homer shook his head. “I will not take advantage of Bannerman’s misfortune, Richard.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said. “But that’s not the point.” I turned to Katrinka. “You’re right, Katrinka. We’re spoiled.”

  When we were on the sidewalk safely beyond the school I continued, “You’re always seeing signs, Homer. How did you miss this one? He was right in front of you—bigger than life.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what you’re driving at,” Katrinka said impatiently.

  “Are you inferring that the divinites were communicating and I ignored them?” asked Homer.

  “Figure it out for yourself.”

  “Who was it, Richard? Hermes? Apollo? Zeus?”

  “Mr. Aberdenally was saying some very strange things for a man who is a school custodian.” I paused and then facing Homer directly I said, “I hope you weren’t daydreaming in the garbage can, Homer.”

  I could see by Homer’s expression that I had him hooked, and if I had Homer, Katrinka and Phillip were on the same line. “You were the one who taught me to look to the lowliest of creatures for divine expression.”

  “Are you trying to tell us Mr. Aberdenally is a divinity? Is it possible you’re suggesting he’s related to the man we met in the park?” Katrinka explained to Phillip about our meeting with Silenus.

  As soon as Phillip was up to date I thrust my clip-board in front of me and read, “Crumbs on floor bring mouse. Mouse sign of bad luck. Who makes crumbs? Spoiled brats.”

  “Why are you talking like an Indian?” Katrinka asked. “Is this some kind of code between you and Homer?”

  “Me savvy,” said Homer Fink.

  “It is a code,” said Katrinka. “Homer’s talking that way too.”

  “We only talk this way when we want to boil things down. Get to the point fast,” I said. “We developed it when we were younger and Homer and I played cowboys and Indians with older boys who made us the Indians.”

  “How do we translate this observation into political action?” Phillip Moore wanted to know.

  “In the nominating speech,” I said. “Only we won’t go into too much detail about how this is going to affect the starving masses of India. Let’s keep it simple. Suppose we begin by recommending that no one bring more in his lunch bag than he or she can eat. Then insist that every student make an effort to clean up around his lunch area.”

  Phillip Moore took a notebook from his coat jacket and started to write. “Excellent point, Richard. Imagine the effects that second peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich could have on the economy of Ruanda-Urundi?”

  “Wouldn’t the sandwiches be stale when they got there?” asked Katrinka.

  “Phillip isn’t going to suggest that we ship sandwiches,” I said. “He’s going to make the students aware of waste.”

  “It’s very unlikely that Mr. Aberdenally is a god of heaven,” said Homer Fink. “He must be a divinity from the underworld and I’m certain it could all be conveniently explained, once we have established the identity of the mouse.”

  “You’ll figure it out, Homer,” I said. “In the meantime let’s make sure we’re set for the nominating assembly.” Phillip seemed to feel he had the speech under control and Homer wanted to plan the demonstration. “Plan big heap powwow,” I said to Homer before he started home. “Me walk squaw to bus.”

  That was all I had to say to have Katrinka Nonningham to myself.

  15

  She didn’t have the slightest need to talk, and as soon as Homer and Phillip were out of sight all I could do was look at Katrinka Nonningham.

  Katrinka held her head high. She seemed to be studying the tops of trees and passing birds and cloud formations, low in the distant sky. Rarely did she move her head. I was sure she was poised on the brink of a revelation of great beauty.

  I felt lost without Homer, and I regretted having maneuvered to be with Kat
rinka before I had prepared wonderful things to say.

  We started across Park Avenue and walked along a wing of Mount Vernon Place. There were empty benches and the stone fountain was dry. In front of us loomed the monument of George Washington. The first President stood looking south. In his hand he held his resignation as Commander in Chief. I had once written a term paper on the monument and I thought about telling Katrinka that it was the first tribute built to Washington and the money had been raised by a lottery. But even George Washington paled in the presence of Katrinka Nonningham. I couldn’t speak.

  When we arrived at the bus stop Katrinka moved directly to the sign and stood near the curb marked in red. She offered me her hand.

  It was tan with long tapering fingers and the firm wrists I would expect from a tennis player. I was ready to say good-by when I noticed her fingernails. Katrinka Nonningham bit her fingernails, and when I knew that I said, “I’d like to see you home.”

  Katrinka answered, “Suit yourself.”

  We waited silently until the bus rolled up the hill of Charles Street, stopped, and let us board. There was a seat on the aisle near the door. Katrinka sat and offered to hold my books.

  I held the hand-guard near her seat. When the bus lurched forward, I rolled with the motion and didn’t lose my balance. With my free hand I reached for Katrinka’s shoulder and braced her so she wouldn’t fall forward.

  I said, “Katrinka, do you love Homer Fink?”

  “I don’t know what love is,” she answered.

  “Everybody knows something about love,” I said. “I’m sure your mother loves you and your father loves you even if he does live in California.”

  Katrinka blushed. “How did you know my parents were separated? Who’s been talking about them?”

  “You told Homer the first day we met,” I said. “I was standing right there.”

  Katrinka lowered her eyes and studied the books on her lap.