a. he's an editor b. he loves books c. he is sharing the bizarre experience of Life With Ivy.)
"Herb," I said.
"What if you catch a disease?" expostulated Herb. "What if he talks about you to his friends, when they're sitting on their stoops and drinking their GIQs?"
"Herb," I said.
"What if he's got a drug habit? Friends who are criminals? What if... "
And there was something sweet at the end of that ellipsis, something that made my heart melt a little. For a racist blowhard Republican, Herb Porter really isn't a bad guy.
What if... HE'S MEAN TO YOU?
That was how the last ellipsis ended, and after that Herb just stood there with his shoulders slumped, looking at me.
"Come here," I said, and patted the chair behind my desk. I had about a billion rotten jokes about dead babies, nympho nuns, and stupid Europeans to go through ("Polish Public Service Announcement: It's ten o'clock! Do you know what time it is?"), but I felt very close to Herb just then. I know how strange that would sound to John, who probably thinks Herb Porter is from another world (Planet Reagan), but Herb isn't. Herb Porter is just one more fucked-up Earthling.
Know what I really think? I think telepathy changes everything.
Simply EVERYTHING.
"Listen to me," said I. "The first thing is that Riddley is more likely to catch something from me than me from him. He's the healthiest person in this office, that's my guess. Certainly he's in the best shape. The second thing is that he's more like us than you think. He's working on a book. I know because I saw one of his notebooks one day. It was on his desk, and I peeked."
"Impossible!" Herb snapped. "The idea of the JANITOR writing a BOOK... especially the janitor in THIS PLACE...!"
Chapter CHAPTER EIGHT
"The third thing is that I doubt very much if he sits on his stoop, drinking GIQs with his friends. Riddley has a wonderful little apartment in Dobbs Ferry, I had the privilege of being there once, and I don't think they're much for drinking on stoops in that neighborhood."
"I believe Riddley's Dobbs Ferry address is a convenient fiction," said Herb in his most pompous oh-dear-I-seem-to-have-a-stick-up-my-ass voice. "If he took you to a place up there, I doubt like hell it was HIS place. As for the supposed book, how would a novel by Riddley Walker start? 'Come on ovah heah, I'se gwineter tell y'all a story?'"
An extremely hateful thing to say, but with almost no sting in it. Thanks to Zenith, whose soothing atmosphere now absolutely pervades our offices, I knew that what Herb really felt just then was stunned surprise... and, inadequacy. I think that his subconscious mind has been aware for a long time that there's more to Riddley than meets the eye. I also have reason to believe that Herb and inadequacy go together like a horse and carriage, as the song says. At least until yesterday. That's the part I'm getting to.
"The last thing is this," said I (as gently as I could). "If Riddley is mean to me, I will have to deal with it. And I can. I have before. I'm not a child, Herb. I'm a grown woman." And then I added: "I also know that you've been coming in here when I'm elsewhere and sniffing the seat of my chair. I really think that ought to stop, don't you?"
All the color fell out of his face, and for one moment I thought he was going to faint. I have an idea the telepathy may have saved him. Just as I knew what he'd come in to accuse me of, he knew - if only a few seconds in advance - that I'm now aware of his little hobby. So what I said didn't come to him out of a completely clear blue sky.
He started to puff up again, a little of the color came back into his face... and then he just wilted. It made me feel bad for him. When guys like Herb Porter wilt, they are not a pretty sight. Think jellyfish washed up on the beach.
"I'm sorry," he said, and turned to go. "I'm very sorry. I've known for some time that I have... certain problems. I suppose it's time for me to seek professional help. I'll stay out of your way as much as possible in the meantime, and I'd thank you to stay out of mine."
"Herb," said I.
He had one hand on the doorknob. He didn't