“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.”
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.”