“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.
Five minutes went by, then seven. I'd made up my mind that he wasn't coming, and then the door squeaked open and a very cautious, very un-Porterly voice whispered, “Sandra?”
“Trot down here to the end,” said I, “and make it quick.”
He came down and opened the stall door. To say he looked excited would be an understatement. And he no longer looked as if he had a socket-wrench stuffed down the front of his pants. By then it looked more like a good-sized Craftsman hammer.
“Gee,” said I, reaching out to touch him, “I guess maybe the effect of that bicycle seat finally wore off.”
He started fumbling at his belt. It kept sliding through his fingers. It was sort of funny, but also very sweet. I pushed his hands away and did it myself.
“Quick,” he panted. “Oh, quick. Before it goes away.”
“This guy isn't going anywhere,” said I, although I did actually have a certain short-term storage site in mind. “Relax.”
“It was the plant,” he said. “The smell... oh my God, the smell... musky and dark, somehow... the way I'd always imagined the fields would smell in that county Faulkner wrote about, the one with the name no one can pronounce... oh Sandra, good Christ, I feel like I could pole-vault on this thing!”
“Shut up and change places with me,” I said. “You sit down and then I'll”
“To the devil with that,” he said, and lifted me up. He's strong—a lot stronger than I ever would have guessed—and almost before I knew what was happening, we were off to the races.
As races of this sort go, it was neither the longest nor the fastest in which I have ever run, but it wasn't bad, especially considering that Herb Porter was last laid around the time Nixon resigned, if he was telling me the truth. When he finally set me down, there were tears on his cheeks. Plus there's this: before leaving he a. thanked me and b. kissed me. I don't subscribe to many of the romantic ideals, I'm more of a Dorothy Parker type (“good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere”), but sweet is nice. The man who left ahead of me (pausing at the door and checking both ways before going out) seemed a lot different from the man who came stalking into my office with a load in his balls and a chip on his shoulder. That's the kind of judgement only time can confirm, and I know very well that men after sex usually turn into exactly the same men they were before sex, but I have hopes for Herb. And I never wanted to change his life; all I wanted was to clear away as much of the crap between us as I could, so we can work as a team. I never knew how much I wanted this job until this week. How much I wanted to make a success of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I'd run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of knee-pads.
Spent the rest of the day working on the joke book. How foul in concept, how scabrous in execution... and what a success it is going to be in an America that still longs for the death penalty and secretly believes (not everyone, but a goodly number of citizens, I'd bet) that Hitler had the right idea about eugenics. There is no shortage of these nasty, mean-spirited boogers, but the weird thing is how many I'm making up on my own.
What's red and white and has trouble turning corners? A baby with a javelin through its head.
What's small, brown, and spits? A baby in a frypan.
Little girl wakes up in the hospital and says, “Doctor! I can't feel my legs!” Doctor replies, “That's normal in cases where we have to amputate the arms.”
I am grossed out by my own inventiveness. Question is, is it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on sexual life?
Never mind. Weekend's almost here. Supposed to be warm, and if so I'm going to Cony Island with my favorite niece, our yearly rite of spring. A couple of days away from this place may help to put all questions in perspective. And Riddley's due back next week. I'll be hoping to comfort him in his time of sorrow as much as possible.
Keeping a journal reminds me of what old Doc Henries used to say after he gave me a tetanus shot when I was ten: “There, Sandra, that wasn't so bad, was it?”
Not at all. Not at all.
from the office of the editor-in-chief TO: John DATE 4/3/81
MESSAGE: I've made two calls since reading your Ms. Report. The first was to that astute business lad and all around prince of a guy, Harlow Enders. I lofted a trial balloon concerning a Zenith House hardcover, and despite dredging up a phrase which I thought would appeal to his presumed imagination (if you're wondering, it was “Event Publishing”), he shot it down at once. His stated reason is there is no h'cover infrastructure either at Zenith or in the larger world of Apex Corporation, but we both know better. The real issue is lack of confidence. All right, okay, fine.