The Plant. Part 21

Demeter. Only no death! Only move on to next level of existence.

COME DEMETER!.

COME GREEN!.

SAKRED MONTH OF APRA (Entry #78)

Must beware of one thing. I am still having dreams of "The

General." Who is "The General." Why does he think about supposi

tories. Why does he think of Designated Juice. What is Designated

Juice. Perhaps a holy drink like gooseberry bane or nutmeg milk. I don't

know. Sense danger. Meantime have found a cheap hotel about 3 blocks

from Z.H. Cannot hang around any longer. 1. Might attract wrong

attention. 2. Can no longer stand Guitar-playing Woman b.u.m.

Someone ought to wrap her guitar around her neck. Boy she plays like

s.h.i.t. Maybe it's John Kenton in disguise! Haaaa haaaaa haaaa.

Weekend almost here. Trials & tribs almost over. Kenton you will

pay for rejecting my book and then sikking the Police on me you c.r.a.p

Head.

Who is "The General." Who can he be.

Never mind. Weekend almost here.

COME GREEN!.

From Sandra Jackson's Journal

April 3 1981 I haven't kept a journal since I was an eleven-year-old girl with mosquitob.u.mps for b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a love-life that consisted of moaning over Paul Newman and Robert Redford with my friends Elaine and Phyllis, but here goes. I'm going to skip writing about the plant, as I'm sure John and Roger will have covered that pretty completely (having read a few of John's memos, probably TOO completely). A lot of what I DO have to say, at least in this entry, is of a personal nature, not to say of a s.e.xual nature. I am no longer that little girl, you see! I thought long and hard about whether I should write this down, and finally I decided "why not!" It will probably never be seen by anyone but me anyway, and even if it is, so what? Am I supposed to be ashamed of my s.e.xuality in general, or my attraction to the killingly handsome Riddley Walker in particular? I think neither. I am a modern woman, hear me roar, and see no reason to be ashamed of a. my intellect b. my workplace ambitions (which go a lot higher than the s.h.i.thole known as Zenith House, believe-youme) or c. my s.e.xuality. I'm not afraid of my s.e.xuality, you see-not to talk about it, and certainly not to let it out for the more-than-occasional walk in the park. I said as much to Herb Porter when he confronted me yesterday. Just thinking about it makes me mad (it also makes me laugh, I'm relieved to say). As if he had the RIGHT to confront me. Me Tarzan, you Jane, this chast.i.ty belt.

Herb came into my office around quarter of ten without so much as a byyour-leave, closed the door, and just stood there glowering at me.

"Come on in, Herb," said I, "and why don't you close the door so we can talk in private."

Not so much as a hint of a smile. He just went on glowering. I think I was supposed to be terrified. Certainly Herb Porter is big enough to terrify; he must stand six-one and weigh two hundred and fifty, and given his high color (he was as red as the side of a fire truck yesterday morning, and I'm not exaggerating one little bit), I worry about his blood pressure and his heart. He also talks big, but I was around when the hate-mail started coming in from General Hecksler, and those letters made Herb small in a hurry. The way he looked on Wednesday, actually, when John suggested that, all evidence to the contrary, General Hecksler STILL might not be dead.

"You've been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Riddley," Herb said. This was probably supposed to come out sounding like the accusation of an Old Testament prophet, but it emerged in an unimpressive dry squawk. He was still standing just inside the door, his hands opening and closing. With his green leisure suit and red face, he looked like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for Christmas in h.e.l.l. "You've been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the G.o.dd.a.m.ned JANITOR!"

Last week that might have put me off my stride, but things around here have changed since last week. I think the New Order will take some getting used to. What I'm talking about is TELEPATHY, my dear little journal. Of course. ESP. Absolutely. MIND READING. No doubt about it. In other words, I knew what was on Herb's mind from the moment he stepped through my door, and that pretty well did away with the shock value.

"Why don't you say the rest of it?" I asked.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Going into that patented Herb Porter bl.u.s.ter of his.

"Yeah, you do," I said. "That I'm f.u.c.king the janitor bothers you a lot less than the fact I'm f.u.c.king the BLACK janitor. The HANDSOME black janitor."

From the first f.u.c.k f.u.c.k. I had him on the run. I should be ashamed to tell you how much I enjoyed it, but I'm not.

"The fact is, Herbert," said I, "he's hung like a stallion. Such equipment is not the sole property of black men, racist canards to the contrary, but few men, white or or black, know how to use what G.o.d and genetics have given them. Riddley does. And he's livened up many a dull day in this dump, believe me." black, know how to use what G.o.d and genetics have given them. Riddley does. And he's livened up many a dull day in this dump, believe me."

"You can't . . . I won't . . . he isn't . . . " Then he just spluttered. But, thanks, to the aforementioned New Order at good old Zenith House, there are no more ellipses around here. For better or worse, every thought is finished. What I could not hear with my ears I could hear in my mind.

You can't . . . DO THIS!

I won't . . . ALLOW IT!

He isn't . . . OUR KIND OF PERSON!

As if Herb Porter, the Ranting Republican, was MY type of person. (He is, of course, in some important ways: 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 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 f.u.c.ked-up Earthling. 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 f.u.c.ked-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 . . . !"

"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-a.s.s voice. "If he took you to a place up there, I doubt like h.e.l.l 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 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 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 completely clear blue sky. 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 doork.n.o.b. He didn't leave, but he didn't turn around, either. I sensed both hope and dread. G.o.d knows what he sensed coming from me.

"Herb," said I once more.

Nothing. Poor Herb just standing there with his shoulders hunched almost up to his ears and me knowing he was trying his hardest not to cry. People who make their living reading and writing are a lot of things, but immune to shame is not one of them.