Adventures of Homer Fink

by Sidney Offit

  “At your age children change every day,” said my mother.

  “Me more. Me more,” Pete said in the direction of my remaining sprouts.

  “I don’t think James Farley and Mark Hanna combined could manage your Homer Fink,” said my father.

  “Don’t take Homer too seriously,” advised my mother. Just thinking about Homer made my mother smile. She collected the teething ring and rattle and tied them to a string on the baby tenders.

  “Amo,” Pete said with his mouth full.

  “We love you too,” said my father. He squeezed my shoulder and said, “I sure hope Homer Fink can learn to play soccer from a book.”

  21

  According to Mr. Muncrief we were visiting the Latin. School to put napkins on our laps. The assistant principal gathered the ninth-graders in the assembly hall on Thursday and spoke to us. He spent about twenty minutes diagraming a “place setting.”

  It seems the last time the boys of P.S. 79 were invited to the Latin School for lunch was in 1942. There had been a discussion about whether the hosts were serving butter or oleomargarine and the representative of P.S. 79 resolved it by flipping portions against the walls. Butter would stick, according to the theory, oleo wouldn’t.

  The Latin’s dietician also made the error of placing fresh peas on the menu. Solemnly Mr. Muncrief told us that our boys had used the peas as “projectiles.”

  Before returning to the more serious business of “discipline and manners,” Mr. Muncrief had a few words about the soccer game. He quoted Grantland Rice, who believed it didn’t matter who won or lost as long as you played the game fair and square. That was the assistant principal’s way of letting us know he expected us to lose.

  Homer Fink thought Mr. Muncrief was inspired by Apollo, but most of us would have been happier if he had diagramed soccer strategy rather than table manners.

  “Remember now—knife blade always faces in,” said Mr. Muncrief. “And we help ourselves to pie à la mode with a fork.”

  Brian Spitzer wanted to know if we were having apple pie or blueberry. Mr. Muncrief told him he was not informed as to the menu but wanted us to be prepared for every emergency.

  After reminding us about saying “please” and “thank you” and pointing out the spoons and forks to use for soup, entrees, and salads, the assistant principal erased the blackboard. Then, he told us, “Above all else, do not be critical of the food. Try your best to eat what is on your plate. And for no reason whatsoever express dislike for what is served.” Mr. Muncrief must have remembered some of the expressions he had seen in the cafeteria when Alma Melchere was trying to trade her sardine sandwich at the boys’ table for a peanut butter and jelly.

  Elaine Steigmar wanted to know if the girls had been asked to lunch, too. When Mr. Muncrief told her the girls had only been invited to see the game, there was a long sigh of disappointment. I guess public-school girls really dig those poplin raincoats.

  Then Elaine suggested we organize a girls’ cheering section. Her sister was a cheerleader at Forest Park High and Elaine promised to bring her megaphone.

  Mr. Muncrief agreed but warned us not to be rowdy.

  During most of the meeting Trudy Deal had her hand up. I don’t think she knew exactly what she wanted to say until she was called upon, but Trudy didn’t like to take chances with being ignored. She was popping out of her seat and ohing and ahing as if the gym were on fire and we’d all be suffocated in seconds if she didn’t get the floor. It was Trudy’s idea that the girls turn out for the game wearing their togas. “You know Homer Fink is so interested in the Greeks and all, and them being the Latin School.”

  “They being,” said Mr. Muncrief.

  It took several seconds for Trudy to realize Mr. Muncrief was correcting her grammar. By that time all the girls were squealing about wearing togas and Mr. Muncrief could not hear Little Louie Bannerman when he said, “P.S. 79 should conduct a non-partisan inter-school policy.”

  “That’s a break for us,” I told Homer on our way from the auditorium. “Little Louie may be captain of the team, but we’ll have the best of the cheering section.”

  Homer kicked one foot and then the other. “Ball control. Trapping. Tackling. Heading.” He bobbed his head as if he had on a tight collar.

  I said, “I suppose you’ve been reading a book on soccer.”

  Homer Fink’s answer was, “Soccer was introduced into England by the Romans. Beware of Latin booters.”

  I also learned from Homer that soccer is played in more countries and seen by more people than any other sport in the world. You sure couldn’t have proved it at the 79 practice session that afternoon.

  Little Louie called for all the boys who were interested in the team to meet at Druid Hill Park. It was no help to Homer’s campaign to have Louie Bannerman running things, but I forced myself to put principle over personality and listened to Little Louie.

  “Soccer is played with eleven-man teams,” Little Louie began. “There is a goalie, a right fullback, a left fullback—”

  “Just like football,” Marvin Bloom interrupted. “Let’s play.”

  Little Louie tried to explain to Marvin that there was a great difference between the two games but when Marvin heard about the center, right, and left halfback, Little Louie’s warning was wasted.

  Jerry Trout was impressed with the fact that there was a center forward. Jerry is just about the best basketball player at P.S. 79 (with the exception of Phillip Moore, who is the best in everything), and he was sure he could play soccer.

  Little Louie explained the other positions—right and left wings and right and left insides, but as far as the boys of P.S. 79 were concerned you kicked the ball toward the goal and that was all there was to soccer.

  Dividing us into two teams, Little Louie took charge of one group and asked Phillip Moore to run the other. Homer and I were on Phillip’s squad and for all Little Louie’s insistence upon a non-partisan varsity the scrimmage definitely seemed political.

  Several seconds after the kickoff from center, Brian Spitzer crashed into Homer and sent him sprawling. Homer stood up, smiled, and announced, “Charging from behind is prohibited in accordance with the rule established in 1870.”

  No one was going to argue with that.

  Several minutes later, Homer explained to Jerry Trout that when the ball was in play only the goalie was allowed to use his hands. “That condition became effective in 1871.”

  The scrimmage wasn’t turning out to be much more than a kicking contest. One side would boot the ball up the field and the other would kick it back. There was very little dribbling and practically no passing.

  Homer Fink kept advising, “Use your head. Use your head.”

  Most of us were convinced that came from Plato, too, and we expected Homer to quote the original Greek. But when Phillip Moore deflected the ball with his forehead, we got the idea.

  Little Louie finally brought the ball up the field by himself. He had a tricky way of dribbling with the inside of his foot and when another boy tried to boot the ball away from him Little Louie stopped the ball dead in its tracks by stepping on it and holding it with the sole of his foot. Neil Machen was playing the goal for us, and from the way he was shifting around and waving his hands he seemed to think he was on ice skates holding a hocky stick. Anyway, Little Louie passed Neil with a fast boot.

  That was the lone score of the afternoon. Little Louie spent the rest of the time lining up a first team. He put Phillip Moore at goal and suggested that Homer Fink play right fullback. “You seem to know the rules, Homer,” said Louie Bannerman. “And we need someone who understands the game on our first team.”

  I became suspicious of Little Louie’s lineup when Brian Spitzer said, “It would be just like Homer Fink to cost us this game and if he does—I’ll positively vote for Bannerman.”

  22

  “What happened to truth and justice and contemplating the governing of men from a garbage can?” Phillip Moore asked Homer Fink
in school the next morning.

  “I was kind of wondering why we haven’t been seeing the head of our women’s committee around lately,” I said.

  Homer told us, “Maxima enim est hominum semper patientia virtus.”

  Before he could translate, an eighth-grade boy who overheard him said, “I wouldn’t be quoting the enemy on the day of the big game if I were you, Homer Fink.”

  “The greatest of human virtues is always patience,” Homer announced cheerfully.

  We were standing in the hall between classes and I told Homer, “You better lay low with the Latin and stick with the Greek for a while. That kid does have a point.”

  At one o’clock we had a farewell rally. Little Louie took advantage of his position as head of the team to say a few words. He promised we would all do our best to make our school proud. “I feel honored to have contributed in some small way to establishing this contact,” Little Louie concluded. “And I know the rest of the team is not going to let you down.”

  It was corny for Louie to put on that modest act about “contributing in some small way,” but Mrs. Everswell, the principal, ate it up. When she complimented us for “initiative” everyone knew exactly about whom she was talking. Little Louie Bannerman received a big cheer. With less than a week to go before the election, it wasn’t encouraging to the Fink campaign.

  Oliver and Wally, the boys we had met at Goldenheimer’s Drugstore, were on the welcoming committee. Little Louie accepted their greeting, but they addressed themselves to Homer Fink. “Tapioca. Tapioca. Cha. Cha. Cha.”

  “Is that some kind of password?” Little Louie wanted to know. I told him it was a Latin song Homer Fink had written.

  Oliver and Wally led us into the dining room and directed us to a long wooden table. The Latin School boys ate in a great hall with a high ceiling. There were plaques on the walls with the names of honor students and championship teams.

  A group of faculty stood by the head table. We arranged our places with a boy from the host school between each of the Lafayette players. (They kept calling our school “Lafayette,” and that’s what we were for the rest of the afternoon.)

  The dining room quieted when a man in a vested tweed suit rang a bell.

  Except for Marvin Bloom, we had the idea that something had to be said or done before it was right to sit down and begin eating. Marvin plunged into his seat, put two rolls on his plate, and made for the butter.

  “We say Grace before partaking,” a man whom the Latin boys called a “master” whispered to Marvin.

  Marvin accepted the suggestion and stood.

  After several lines of “Lord, we thank Thee,” there was the scraping of chairs and the sound of voices that signaled the beginning of the meal.

  Maryland ripe tomato juice with a slice of lemon was the first item on the menu. Momentarily there was hesitation about what to do with the lemon. Bite it? Save it? Squeeze it? We followed the example of our hosts and squeezed it into the juice. Brian Spitzer preferred his tomato juice straight—so he tried a shot of lemon at Neil Machen. The master, whose name was Mr. Willens, suggested, “If you have no taste for lemons, it would be appropriate to leave the slice on your plate.”

  There was that definite feeling in the air that Mr. Willens was prepared to ask us questions to “bring us out.” But fortunately Jerry Trout was studying the walls looking for oleo stains. The master must have thought Jerry wanted to know more about the plaques. That was all the cue he needed to tell us about the Latin School’s lacrosse team. It seems lacrosse was their sport and the one in which Mr. Willens had a particular interest. Phillip Moore knew all about the Johns Hopkins’ teams which had won the national championship.

  Phillip recited the names of the Hopkins all-American attack and Mr. Willens identified the fellows in his class who had gone on to coach college teams. The lunch was going along pretty well until a fellow asked for the bread tray. It was a kind of straw basket lined with a napkin and it was in front of me. I noticed it was empty. That wouldn’t have been particularly important except that Bloom was sitting right next to the fellow who had requested the bread and Marvin had three rolls on his bread-and-butter plate in addition to a couple of slices of white bread waiting on the table in reserve.

  Mr. Willens had no way of knowing that even though Marvin was big for his age, all he ever brought for lunch was rolls which he ate along with the free milk.

  Everyone at our table was quiet. Mr. Willens hinted that perhaps the fellow requesting the bread could “make a loan from the boy who is stocking inventory to open a bakery.” Marvin wasn’t pleased with himself for sitting before the prayer and now that he was caught cold in another breach of Mr. Muncrief’s “discipline and manners,” all Marvin could do was ignore the master and try to make the whole thing disappear. He tried to do this by swallowing a roll in a gulp. A second roll was poised in one hand while with the other Marvin made an effort to shield his bread plate from our stares.

  No one could think of a thing to say to divert attention from Marvin. All eyes were glued on him. Would he knock off the rolls gulp by gulp? Did he plan to eliminate the bread in a similar manner? Or would Marvin Bloom change his mind and share his booty with the fellow from the Latin School?

  But Marvin Bloom wasn’t exactly the kind of fellow who talked his way out of a tight spot. When cornered, Marvin closed his eyes and swung. With two rolls gone and only one remaining, Marvin seemed about to create another legend to hold its place with the class of ’42’s oleo caper.

  Marvin needed time to save himself, and Homer Fink came to the rescue. “Duas tantum res anxius optat. Panem et circenses,” said Homer. It meant absolutely nothing to us, but there was no denying the ponderous tone of Homer’s voice. Several of the Latin boys were about to rise to their feet as if in response to another prayer. Mr. Willens was delighted. “Precisely. Absolutely to the point.”

  Wally volunteered that the last two words meant “bread and circus games.” They got to conjugating and declining-all that stuff that sends our ninth-graders flying from Latin into Spanish. But it worked. While all the talking was going on, Marvin Bloom quietly offered his bread tray to his neighbor. Homer Fink had saved our school’s reputation. But that was before the main course.

  23

  Baltimore is famous for being a seafood town. I don’t know that for a fact. I mean from personal experience. The truth is I have only been out of the United States once and that was on a weekend trip to Quebec, Canada, when I was ten years old. We stayed at a big hotel that looked like a fort. When we registered, I was standing right next to my father. There was no doubt he wrote “Baltimore” plainly and clearly, but all the clerk said was, “With your brood I suppose you’ll be needing two connecting rooms.” Not a word about Baltimore’s soft-shell crabs or oysters or Potomac herring.

  None of the fellows at camp mentioned it either. There were boys from Philadelphia and Wilmington, Richmond, and New York City. They would talk about the Colts and the Orioles and when we had the camp quiz contest someone asked a question about the home of the “Star Spangled Banner.” That was the only time Baltimore ever came up. I could have come from Cleveland or Dallas, Texas, for all they mentioned seafood. The reason I know Baltimore is famous for seafood is that my Uncle Harry, who lives in Salt Lake City, says so. Whenever Uncle Harry comes to visit he tells my dad right off, “Let’s go to the Chesapeake or Pimlico House and get some seafood. No place in the world makes crab cakes as good as they do in good old Bawlermuh.” (Uncle Harry says it just like that. He always makes a big thing about how we say the name of our town. It splits him up.)

  Baltimore may be famous for seafood, but Homer Fink is the only fellow my age who would rather eat crab cakes than hamburgers.

  The only kind of fish they served at P.S. 79’s cafeteria was fried scallops. We ate them with ketchup, and the way they were battered and fried they tasted like French fried potatoes. I don’t know who made the menus at the Latin School, but they sure didn’t know
much about the eating habits of public-school boys. We could smell fish the minute the waiters brought the trays from the kitchen. A big white hunk was sitting in the middle of each dish, all dolled up with chopped parsley, mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts. They must have been on sale all over town that week.

  Across the table from me Brian Spitzer was rolling his eyes and nodding his head. There was no doubt about the message. Brian was no fonder of fish than I was. (Sometimes in the spring I would eat baked shad if my mother picked out all the bones.)

  Neil Machen was exchanging pained stares with Jerry Trout. And Little Louie Bannerman said, “Fish is brain food. It certainly is brain food. Very good for you.” But his fork progressed no further than the mashed potatoes.

  “I always get a little tense before a game,” Phillip Moore said to Oliver. “And I have no appetite.”

  That was good thinking on Phillip’s part, but it wasn’t an excuse we could all use.

  “Mr. Muncrief was in great form, the other day,” Brian Spitzer reminded us. “I know I’m never going to forget the wonderful advice he gave us.”

  “Me either,” said Neil and he tried a small piece of fish and a larger swallow of water.

  “Excellent fillet,” said Mr. Willens.

  Homer Fink had a Latin quote handy that immediately absorbed the master in a discussion of Juvenal.

  I watched as Wally forked a Brussels sprout and ate it. He followed with a slice of fish, then another sprout. He said to me, “Chef is putting his best foot forward in honor of our guests.”

  Oliver agreed the fish was particularly tasty. The battlelines were drawn and the boys of 79 had been ambushed. Not only were we confronted with an impossible menu but in the face of our host’s enthusiasm, there seemed no way to put the dish aside.

  Finally, in desperation, I shred and spread the white fish and buried it under the mashed potatoes. No one would ever know what was in those small hills spaced at irregular intervals on the large plate. Brian Spitzer took the cue from me and Jerry Trout followed Brian. At the other end of the table I could see Little Louie Bannerman cautiously storing what was left of his fish portion into the fluffy potato mass.