I
How Humboldt was brought up on a beautiful farm in Ohio & how he was driven away
Once upon a time in Winesburg, Ohio, there lived a young boy on whom nature had bestowed the gifts of a gentle disposition, solid judgment, and complete openness of mind. Because of these gifts, the boy was called Humboldt, or so many people around Winesburg thought. Others speculated that the boy was called Humboldt after Humboldt County. The boy himself believed that he was called Humboldt after Humboldt County until the day he discovered that of all of Ohio’s eighty-eight counties not a single one was named Humboldt. Had he been named after a county, it was more likely that he would have been named Holmes or Wayne. There was even a slight chance that he would have been named Tuscarawas Tim. Humboldt was glad that he was Humboldt and not any of these other people. He was particularly glad that he was not Tuscarawas Tim, as he was aware that the ancient Indian word Tuscarawas meant “open mouth.” Humboldt was as far from being an emptyminded openmouthed blabberboy as he was from Humboldt County, California.
As a fledgling farmboy, Humboldt spent the majority of his days outside amongst the oxygen and unhurried hydrocarbons. During this time, Humboldt would amuse himself with the task of thinking. Thoughts were the tool that he used to till his brain’s terrain in hopes of understanding the world around him. Humboldt liked to think, although he doubted he was any good at it. Some days, Humboldt thought about what life would be like as Tuscarawas Tim. He thought about waking early in the morning and revving up his mouth as if it were the antiquated John Deere riding mower that his father kept in their dilapidated barn. Once revved, he would ride out into the day, diligently chewing ears as if they were unsuspecting leaves of long grass. Howyadoing? Mightyfineweatherwe’rehaving butthelocalnewscastersaidit’ssupposedtoraintomorrow. Iheardthatyourmotherhasgoutthat’sa darnshameforshe’sastrongwomanandgoodfriend. Didyahearaboutthe shootingoverinSummitCounty?Loverspat. Husbandlostbothtesticles.
When Humboldt wasn’t thinking about himself as someone else, he was thinking about something else. Many days, Humboldt thought about days. He thought about how there would always be days, stretching flat and boring towards the pink horizon like the flat and boring fields of his father’s farm. Humboldt could never think of life without days, just like he could never think of life without the flat and boring fields of his father’s farm.
Some days, Humboldt thought days were tiny and plentiful like soybeans. Other days, he thought they were big and lumpy like soy pods. Other other days, he thought days were like soy leaves: sprouting one on top of another, which was sprouting on top of another, which was sprouting on top of another. Weeks were like rows. No, months were like rows. No, days! Days were like rows and each plant was an hour. No, each plant was a minute and each soybean was a second. Nooo, each soybean was a moment: a tiny measureless soy entity that stretched, flat and boring, towards life’s pink lifeless horizon!
So many days. So many soybeans. So much sameness: the same pink lifeless horizon, the same flatness, the same boringness of the dayness. Nooo, of the soyness!
Days and days and days. Living was akin to being a compulsive eater and life was akin to one of those crass all-you-can-eat buffets that cluster around major highway exchanges and attract obese people like roadkill attracts vultures. And just when you thought you had eaten enough days and you couldn’t possibly stuff one more down your throat, you were served another day. And after that day: another day. And after that another day: another another day.
Life was a crass all-you-can-eat day buffet. No, life was a casserole served at a crass all-you-can-eat day buffet. No, life was a row of soy leaves sprouting on top of one another. Nooo, life was a casserole; a casserole made of days and soybeans; a casserole whose blandness stretched to the horizon and attracted obese vultures!
The casserole fields. The pods of life. And inside: daybeans!
So soymany! So tiny. So big! So empty. So full! So green. So soyboring!
Sooo overwhelming!
Inevitably, Humboldt would become so overwhelmed by the soyness of the dayfields that he would have to lie down. And in those same flat and boring green fields, he would stretch his arms and legs like fleshy pink leaves sprouting towards the lazy lifeless horizon. When he awoke hours later, with mud caked in all of his facial orifices and flies flapping aimlessly around his now open eyes, Humboldt would have forgotten all of the day’s thoughts on days. His forgetfulness freed him to begin thinking about days in the same way on the following day. And when he stepped into this new day, Humboldt quickly realized that it was, in fact, the same day.
On the days that he was not thinking about days, Humboldt often thought about his mother; or rather, he often thought about how he didn’t think about his mother. Humboldt thought about how he never thought it was strange that he had never known who his mother was. For Humboldt, it was not fatherhood, but motherhood that was a mystery. But this mystery was not Eleusinian in scope or Agatha Christian in tone; it was simply a mundane matronly mystery. And it was not that Humboldt’s mother had died in childbirth or anytime soon thereafter. No, as far as he knew, his mother was alive and well. Whenever he questioned his father about the woman with whom he had procreated, Humboldt always received the same faraway look. This faraway look was always followed by the same awkward silence, which was followed by the same loud sigh. And then, his father would say the same thing: “South.”
Humboldt was not by nature a questioning soul. He considered follow-up questions rudely invasive. This meant that he never knew if his mother had moved south, if the marriage had gone south, or if her name had been South.
Another reason why Humboldt never asked his father follow-up questions was he feared that if he pressed further, his father’s pause would awkwardly stretch for days. Such a thing had happened once when Humboldt had asked his father if he knew who Sherwood Anderson was. After his usual long thoughtful silence, his father answered: “writer.”
Without thinking, Humboldt blurted out: “What did he write?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Humboldt knew he had made a terrible mistake. By the time his father finally answered this follow-up question, Humboldt was three-quarters finished with the essay Hands, concerning Wing Biddlebaum.
This is not to say that Humboldt was an exceptionally curious soul either. He didn’t really care about Sherwood Anderson and he never mustered up enough dedication to finish reading his concerns over Wing Biddlebaum. It is entirely possible that Humboldt would have finished Anderson’s essay, and perhaps even his entire book, had his copy of Winesburg, Ohio not been confiscated by an angry librarian who worked in the Winesburg branch of the Holmes County Library. This confiscation had taken place after Humboldt had absentmindedly attempted to walk out of the library with the book. Humboldt never would have guessed that such a small library would have such a big alarm. As the alarm angrily scratched its fingernails across the ceiling, Humboldt patiently attempted to defend himself against the librarian’s accusation of intellectual property theft.
—YOU CAN’T STEAL WHAT SOMEONE ELSE HAS WRITTEN!!! the angry librarian screamed over the screeching alarm.
—I’M NOT TRYING TO STEAL ANYTHING! I’M JUST CURIOUS! Humboldt screamed back.
—BUT YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE CURIOUS ABOUT LITERATURE!!! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SERIOUS!!!
—BUT I AM SERIOUS! SERIOUSLY CURIOUS!
—YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SERIOUSLY SERIOUS!!!
—I’M SERIOUSLY SERIOUS ABOUT BEING SERIOUSLY CURIOUS ABOUT THIS BOOK!
—BUT YOU HAVE TO GET A LIBRARY CARD BEFORE YOU CAN GET A BOOK!!!! the librarian screamed, grabbing Winesburg, Ohio and giving it a determined yank. For an elderly woman, the librarian had an iron grip, which Humboldt attributed to years of strength training with a rubber date stamp.
—BUT I ALREADY HAVE THE BOOK! Humboldt screamed, yanking back.
—WHAT’S HAPPENING? cried a confused little old lady who was fearfully clutching a stack of picturesque Jodi Picoult novels.
—IT’S AN AIR-RAID!!! screamed an elderly gentleman, who Humboldt recognized as the same elderly gentleman referred to by locals as Crazy Pete. On most afternoons, Crazy Pete could be found seated on a bench in front of the local 7-Eleven. Whenever anyone neared, Crazy Pete would bare his front teeth and emit a rapid stream of loud sucking noises, as his eyeballs swam wildly within their sockets. Guess what animal that is, Crazy Pete would ask once his facial features regained their human qualities. The correct answer: rabid squirrel.
Crazy Pete’s appearance in the library only made the already confusing situation more confusing. What was he doing away from his natural habitat? Was he researching rabid squirrels? If so, perhaps Crazy Pete wasn’t so crazy after all. Perhaps he played a vital role in the community’s ongoing fight against rabidity.
—BUT YOU NEED A CARD TO CHECK OUT A BOOK!!! the librarian screamed, emphasizing the words ‘card’ and ‘book’ with short determined tugs. As she tugged, her face twisted into a look of muscular intensity most commonly associated with professional arm wrestling.
—BUT I DON’T WANT TO CHECK THIS BOOK OUT! I WANT TO READ IT! Humboldt shouted, tugging back.
—EVERYBODY DOWN TO THE BASEMENT!!! yelled Crazy Pete, who was exhibiting much more commanding sanity than normal.
—THE BASEMENT? ISN’T THAT WHERE THEY KEEP THE GIRLIE MAGAZINES? the confused little old lady questioned, her confusion obviously growing. And no one really could blame her for choosing a fiery death from above rather than descending into a dark basement with Crazy Pete.
—BUT YOU STILL NEED A LIBRARY CARD!!! screamed the librarian, ignoring Crazy Pete’s repeated gestures toward the basement stairs.
—BUT I DON’T WANT A CARD!
—I DON’T WANT TO DIE! yelled Crazy Pete, who was not helping the situation.
—I DON’T WANT GIRLIE MAGAZINES! yelled the confused little old lady.
—WHAT?
—GIRLIE MAGAZINES!
—GIRLIE KAMIKAZES?
—YOU NEED A CARD!!!
—CARDIKAZE?
—I WANT A BOOK!
—KAMI-FUCKING-KAZE!!!!!!!!
The conversation continued in this annoying fashion until Humboldt finally capitulated, his ears aching from the screaming above and his throat aching from the screaming within. Also his shoulders were beginning to ache from the librarian’s repeated attempts to angrily yank the book out of his hands. Humboldt’s fear was that the slim Signet Classic paperback with the charming Americana folk art painting on the cover would be torn viciously in half, and he was surprised that the librarian was less concerned about the book being ripped to shreds than being stolen.
Humboldt’s release caused the librarian to stumble backwards, toppling a shelf of young adult fiction.
—MAN DOWN! TAKE COVER! Crazy Pete shouted as the librarian fell.
—MADAM? DON’T THINK TALKING FRENCH IS GOING TO GET ME UNDER THE COVERS, YOU PERVERT! shouted the little old lady with rising indignation.
As the librarian crashed to the ground, the alarm abruptly stopped. In the piercing silence that followed, Crazy Pete shuffled away, muttering something about a better target being the New Philadelphia mall. The confused yet relieved little old lady quickly shuffled in the opposite direction, still clutching her stash of Jodi Picoult novels. Their departures left Humboldt alone with the librarian’s angry cursing. Humboldt kindly offered to help pick up the piles of paperbacks with their innocent uplifting covers, but before he could start cleaning up the mess of juvenilia, he was roughly ejected from the library and warned never to come back. This warning was unnecessary as Humboldt had already decided that reading books was not worth the hassle. Contributing to this decision was the fact that he had also found Anderson’s prose dull, especially when compared to the excitement of the alarm, the angry cursing, and the librarian’s overexaggerated cinematic swan dive.
Furthermore, Humboldt disliked reading. He enjoyed words, but it was often difficult to keep his mind from wandering whenever he began reading large groups of them. An Early Childhood specialist had once diagnosed him as “horticulturally dyslexic.” Whenever Humboldt saw a word with double oo’s in it, like look or book, the tiny circles would remind him of two soybeans sweetly packed in a pod. And once this thought flashed through Humboldt’s frontal lobe, other round letters began to resemble soybeans. Words like onomatopoeia and photography would startle Humboldt with their size and plumpness. And it wasn’t just plump words that surprised him. Once the visual dislocation of his “horticulture dyslexia” had been sparked, every tiny o, in every tiny no or so, began to grooow. Extra letterbeans began sprouting everywhere. In American history class, Humboldt would stumble over names like Herbert Hoooover, Calvin Coooolidge, and both Roooosevelts. In Science class, unnatural compound elements would crystallize in his mind with the formulaic equivalents H2O15 and CO32. Even math class was not immune to such dyslexic trickery as zeroooos would grow at a rate that confounded the Exponential Law of Growth.
But Humboldt’s worst class was English; he was awful in English. Not only did his “horticulture dyslexia” cast him as a chronic misspeller, he was also an endemic inventor of words. And the words he didn’t invent, he misused and abused. He routinely used the incorrect word at the incorrect place in an incorrect sentence. He would conjoin unconjoinable words and console inconsolable words. And this was to say nothing of his prose stylings. Every writing exercise Humboldt completed was returned to him with phrases like “PLODDING!!!” or “TOO PEDANTIC!!!” or “PEDESTRIAN!!!” tattooed in big red letters in the margins. For Humboldt, writing was as exhausting as harvesting extra letterbeans. Inevitably, his mind would drift out of the classroom and float, educationally unencumbered, back to the vast flat leafy fields of his father’s farm.
Farming made Humboldt happy, as did days, soybeans, and thinking. Silence also made Humboldt happy. Humboldt liked to think about silence; what it looked like, where it came from, and how he and his father spent the majority of their days together in it. Theirs was a stretching silence; a growing season of silence that engulfed them both like pondwater surrounding a swimmer. It was a swimming silence, an ebbing and flowing of the pond of life. It was a swallowing silence, but it was not the silence of the swallow, who chirped incessantly from his perch, but rather the silence of the perch, the widemouth swallower who was, in turn, swallowed by the silence of water.
While it was uncommon for Humboldt and his father to speak to each other while farming the fields together, it was not uncommon for Humboldt’s father to periodically emit a loud grunt, followed by the exclamation: “Edamame.” He would then shake his head in disbelief, as if the existence of such a word was the darnest thing he had ever heard.
During their silent hours together, Humboldt often thought about his father. He wondered what his father’s thoughts felt like. Did his father think about silence in the same way he did? And what about days? Did he ever think about their soyness or sameness? And what about his son? What did he think about him? Did he ever regret not naming him Wayne or Holmes? And why had he once told his son that when he was born, he looked like a slimy soybean freshly shucked from a fleshy pink pod? The thought of being a human soybean always made Humboldt squeamish. Did it mean that his father was disappointed to have not produced a son who was produce? Or perhaps, he had expected a more lucrative crop, like a radish or a turnip. Whenever these thoughts crept into his consciousness, Humboldt comforted himself with the knowledge that his father loved soybeans. And the fact that his father had been so intently staring at his newborn son, comparing his appearance to a legume, helped explain why he had forgotten to notice the woman who had just given birth. When Humboldt once questioned his father about South’s appearance, he received the usual longthoughtful pause, followed by the usual loud sigh. And then a single word was spoken: “Hair.” After another long pause, his father continued speaking in an oddly pensive voice.
—Lots of hair and not just on her head, he said.
And this was how Humboldt thought of his mother: a large, fuzzy, nondescript mental image of maternal hair. But to be honest, Humboldt seldom thought of his mother. He mostly thought about soybeans and days and how happy he was being around both. And he thought about silence and the Edamame family whom his father found so disdainful.
Humboldt often thought that he might be better at thinking if he had been allowed to continue school. He knew that education was important, although apparently not for him. He harbored particularly fond memories of his eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Featherweight, who Humboldt considered to be one of the most intelligent people in all of Holmes County. And since his world only consisted of Holmes County, Humboldt considered Mrs. Featherweight one of the most intelligent people in the entire world. Mrs. Featherweight was so intelligent that she was the only person Humboldt knew smart enough to cut her own hair, which, as she often mentioned to the class, was not only financially advantageous, but also a great timesaver if done while reading. Humboldt could always tell when Mrs. Featherweight had cut her hair the night before because she would appear in class with a splotchy scalp and strands of fallen human hair strewn atop her shoulders. During the course of the year, Humboldt became adept at differentiating between human hair and the cat hair that covered every available inch of Mrs. Featherweight’s clothing. An unabashed catlover, Mrs. Featherweight often incorporated cats into her lectures; for example, during her lecture on Renaissance Italy, Mrs. Featherweight described how Galileo had invented the telescope solely for the purpose of rescuing neighborhood strays and would’ve never pointed the contraption heavenward had it not been for a frisky calico kitten, named Copurrnicus, who bumped the lenshaft skyward with her slinky, silky butt.
Not only did Humboldt consider Mrs. Featherweight one of the most intelligent people in the entire world, he also considered her one of the worst dressed people in the entire world. During her lectures, Humboldt was often distracted by violent clashes of mint green, rawhide leather, and lush purple. It was not uncommon within the same blouse for pinks to pummel reds while menopausal blues danced with orangutan orange. And all of these vivid colors were painted against Mrs. Featherweight’s skin like abstract art on a fleshy pink canvas. Humboldt suspected that Mrs. Featherweight was colorblind and he knew that it was impolite to mock the blind, even if they were wearing brown shoes with green socks. He also suspected that Mrs. Featherweight’s fashion sense was an offshoot of her genius, like Albert Eisenstein’s hair, van Gogh’s bloody ear, or Leonardo da Vinci’s handwriting. During her lecture on Leonardo, Humboldt was able to easily envision the King of the Renaissance wearing blue sandals with mismatched socks, red glasses, and an ill-fitting, billowy green toga embroidered with orange hummingbirds as he hunched over his desk diligently drawing a crude backwards helicopter.
Mrs. Featherweight particularly loved world history and Humboldt found her lectures on the topic captivating. After all, it was from these lectures that Humboldt learned about the world outside Holmes County. For example, he learned about the Mayan calendar, the Calendar Islands, and the movie Calendar Girls, starring Helen Mirren. It was also from these lectures that Humboldt learned that Versailles was a palace in France, Julius Caesar a person in Rome, and Caesar’s Palace a casino in Las Vegas where Mrs. Featherweight’s ex-husband had once gambled away the family’s retirement. What Humboldt particularly loved about Mrs. Featherweight’s genius was its quirky, uncategorizingly unchronological quality. One day, the class would learn about the Middle Ages; the next day, they would be discussing Middle Earth, and the following lecture would focus on the Middle West. And this is to say nothing of the theoretical leaps that occurred daily within each lecture. One minute, Mrs. Featherweight would be describing a solar eclipse; the next, detailing the potential lucrative future of investments in solar energy; and the next, demonstrating how the buttons on a man’s shirt can be used to swiftly identify his solar plexus, which, she insisted, is particularly useful when your ex-husband appears unannounced and intoxicated in your garage, claiming to be in search of “his” gardening tools.
Some weeks moved so rapidly and haphazardly that Humboldt’s mind struggled to stay afloat. During those weeks, as he sought sleep, questions swam through his consciousness. Who were Jason and the Argonauts? Humboldt knew that they were associated with a boat, but which boat? Were they the band that continued playing as the Titanic sunk? Or were they the handsome, doomed fishermen in A Perfect Storm? And what about the Mound Builders; who were they, why did they disappear so stealthily after doing such a shoddy job, and how did this behavior differ from modern-day building contractors? And what about Sigmund Freud? Did he write On the Origins of Species or was it The Wealth of Nations? Or did the Earl of Essex really write them both? And why had Julius Caesar been castrated? Was it because of his forbidden love of Héloïse? Or was that Shakespeare?
Many mornings, Humboldt awoke determined to ask Mrs. Featherweight a question about the previous day’s lecture, but his determination was quickly swept aside as Mrs. Featherweight jumped immediately into a new lecture on Hopalong Cassidy’s character in Gone with the Wind, Benedict Arnold’s favorite breakfast, or the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in Area 51.
The more interest Humboldt exhibited towards Mrs. Featherweight’s lectures, the more interest Mrs. Featherweight exhibited towards him. Many times as he passed her desk after class, Mrs. Featherweight would stop him with the same polite question.
—Did you like today’s lecture, Humboldt?
—Yes, ma’am.
—And what was your favorite part?
—I liked the painting of the homeless guy sleeping on the steps.
—That wasn’t a homeless man, Humboldt. That was the great cynic philosopher Diogenes the dog.
Humboldt nodded skeptically. He was pretty sure that he could tell the difference between a man and a dog. Mrs. Featherweight was obviously thinking of the wrong painting, but he knew that it would be rude to correct her mistake. He also knew it would be rude to stare too intently at her bright turquoise scarf, red glasses, and large dangly green earrings that resembled windchimes.
—Diogenes, Mrs. Featherweight continued, was such a respected philosopher that Alexander the Great asked him to be his teacher.
—He asked a dog to be his teacher?
—No, Humboldt. He was only called “the dog.”
—Why would somebody called “the Great” ask somebody called “the dog” to be his teacher?
—Because he was a famous philosopher.
Humboldt watched as Mrs. Featherweight adjusted her turquoise scarf, looping it around her neck and pulling it taut as if she were tightening a tie. Her movements were accentuated by the fact that she had recently painted her fingernails pink.
—Then why wasn’t he called “the Great,” Mrs. Featherweight, instead of “the dog?”
—Because he lived like a dog.
—So somebody called “the Great” wanted to learn how to live like a dog?
—That’s right, Humboldt. Alexander the Great thought that Diogenes possessed true wisdom.
Pink met green, as Mrs. Featherweight removed an earring and attempted to straighten one of its chimes that had become twisted during the storm of her lecture.
—Alexander the Great thought living like a dog was true wisdom? Humboldt thought about this idea for a moment. I guess that explains why he wasn’t called Alexander the Smart.
Her windchime fully operational, Mrs. Featherweight tactfully changed topics.
—Do you think you would’ve liked to have lived in Ancient Greece, Humboldt?
Humboldt thought for a moment.
—No, Mrs. Featherweight. Too many homeless people.
—Those weren’t homeless people, Humboldt. Those were philosophers.
Humboldt watched as Mrs. Featherweight stabbed her earlobe with the thin pin in search of its hole. The movement added an air of danger to their conversation.
—What’s the difference, Mrs. Featherweight?
Still stabbing, it was Mrs. Featherweight’s turn to lapse into a thoughtful pause.
—I don’t know, Humboldt. I don’t know.
—I think I’d rather just live here in Winesburg, Mrs. Featherweight. The only philosopher here is Crazy Pete. He lives like an animal, but it’s not a dog; it’s a rabid squirrel.
—That’s nice, Humboldt. Good-bye. I’ll see you tomorrow.
—Good-bye, Mrs. Featherweight. See you tomorrow.
After Mrs. Featherweight’s class ended for the year, Humboldt was looking forward to continuing his education. He wanted to learn more about the world outside of Winesburg, but then an odd thing happened on what would have been his first day of ninth grade. On that day, Humboldt was escorted out of Winesburg Middle School by the principal, Mr. Tendergast, who kindly explained to him that Amish children were not required to attend school past eighth grade. Mr. Tendergast then gave Humboldt a kindly principalian shove in the back and slammed the school’s heavy door behind him. Never one to question authority, Humboldt returned to his father’s farm, where he found his father hard at work pruning a particularly unruly bougainvillea vine.
—Am I Amish? Humboldt asked his father.
While undoubtedly a man of few words, Humboldt’s father was not stupid. He knew that a child of a Jewish mother was Jewish, regardless of his father’s Jewness. Thus it made sense that the same was true of being Amish. And since he could not remember who Humboldt’s mother was, let alone her ethnicity or religious convictions, he concluded that it was entirely possible that his son could be Amish or Jewish or both. And perhaps, Humboldt’s father explained, Mr. Tendergast knew something that they did not and when in doubt, it was best not to question authority. Humboldt’s father ended his musings over his son’s potential genealogy with a loud grunt, an exclamation of “Edamame,” and a confused shake of his head.
Humboldt never really missed school, but he constantly worried that the vast knowledge he had already accumulated in his eight whole years of schooling was slowly slipping away. One day soon, Humboldt feared his knowledge would all be gone, spent like a spendthrift’s purse at Caesar’s Palace. On that terrifying day, Humboldt would be forced to declare himself bankrupt of knowledge and enter the debtor’s prison of stupidity, like a character in a Charles Darwin novel. Whenever Humboldt felt knowledgeless, he comforted himself with the memory of Mrs. Featherweight’s lectures. He also comforted himself with the thought that stupidity, like red hair and obesity, was genetic. And while he knew nothing of South’s intelligence, Humboldt was certain that his father wasn’t stupid. A stupid man could not own one of the largest farms in Holmes County, or so Humboldt told himself. Humboldt also told himself that a stupid man could not possess the vast culinary knowledge that his father possessed. To Humboldt’s amazement, his father had apparently memorized millions of recipes for things like soybean stew, soy speckled dick, and something that Humboldt had taken to calling “kamikaze casserole.” Humboldt also told himself that stupid men were not able to have girlfriends, as women were too intelligent to date ignoramuses. Humboldt suspected that he was not supposed to know about his father’s girlfriend, but in reality he would have been pretty stupid to have not known. It was that obvious.
Edna the Onion Bringer lived in downtown Winesburg. Twice a week, she would ride her rusty greenish army-issued bicycle out to their farm with a basket full of fresh onions. Humboldt never knew where these onions came from or why Edna brought them with her when she visited. Humboldt only knew one thing for certain: he hated onions. He hated their vulgar bulbous shape. He hated their purple color, sticky feel, and papery peel. He hated their zesty permeating flavor. But most of all, he hated their eyeassaulting nosetingling stench.
Humboldt could smell the stench of onions long before he spied Edna pedaling down their dirt driveway or heard her loud panting. Once she saw Humboldt, Edna would rrrrring the dainty whirling rrrrringer of her bikebell and wave with frantic friendliness. Such waving never failed to cause her bicycle to list dangerously from side-to-side.
Waving back, Humboldt wondered why the army had made the tactical blunder of issuing bicycles like hers. Why would any soldier want to ride into battle on such an unstable contraption? As he watched Edna struggle through the waves, Humboldt envisioned entire bicycle brigades being mowed down on the field of battle, the naked and the dead piling atop the awkward and the clumsy. He saw bellicose generals, with tiny shiny jewelry strewn across their chestbarrels, bemoaning their government’s decision to cut the military budget.
—I asked for tanks, damnit! TANKS! one general screamed at another, his face bloated with anger.
—The G-D civilians have cut our budget again! They’re probably trying to fund FREE SCHOOL LUNCHES and AFTERSCHOOL PROGRAMS! the other general screamed back, the veins in his thickneck bulging gallantly.
—Have you ever tried to go into battle carrying nothing but a FREE SCHOOL LUNCH? You might as well have A BOTTLE OF WINE in your sheath! the general yelled, the heroic hairs of his well-manicured flattop bristling bravely.
—Have you ever tried to drive a TANK through an AFTERSCHOOL PROGRAM? It’s a TACTICAL DISASTER! the other general yelled in response, the blood vessels in his eyes bursting boldly.
—I’m sick and tired of this country’s Education Industrial Complex! the general hollered, his trapezoids taunt and twitching.
—This is a TOUR OF DUTY, not the Tour de France! Sell off the surplus of those G-D bikes to little old ladies, STAT! the other general hollered, his nostrils flaring aggressively.
—WAIT UNTIL I TELL MY BIOGRAPHER ABOUT THIS!!!!!
With this scene of Hollywood heroics playing in his head like an old movie, Humboldt would stop whatever he was doing and dutifully walk towards the driveway. On this walk, he would often encounter his father. While they walked side-by-side in silence, it was not uncommon for Humboldt to resolutely mutter “onions” under his breath at the same time that his father resolutely muttered “sex.”
When she could see the whites of their eyes, Edna would tightly squeeze the handbrake and the bicycle would squeal to a stop, negating any chance of a sneak attack. Once stationary, Edna would smile at them both. She was a pleasant woman, plump and genuine, who was not unattractive by the standards of Holmes County, even when sweaty and panting heavily. Once she had unclasped her helmet and hung it on her handlebars, Edna would pass her large basket of onions to Humboldt. The three of them would then walk into the house together: Humboldt holding his breath, his father holding his silence, and Edna happily rapidly talking about some mundane feature of her day, week, ride, or life. Her lady chatterly presence was a stark contrast to the usual cloud of silence that hung over the house.
As Edna and Humboldt’s father ventured up the front staircase, Humboldt would position himself at the kitchen sink, dreading the task at hand. As the loud, strange noises began above him, Humboldt would begin peeling onions. It was not long before his eyes started to sting and pour. Big wet tears slid down his cheeks and plopped into his pile of peelings. Humboldt knew from experience that if he attempted to dry his eyes, they would only sting worse. As the stinging and sobbing continued, Humboldt did his best to hold his breath. He visualized himself discovering the light-switch for his lungs and flipping it off. His breathing stopped. The stench stopped. After a moment of breathless bliss, his mouth burst open and every gasp afterward filled his nostrils with a fresh blast of onionsmell. There was no escape. He was a prisoner in the gulag of an onion.
The noises above Humboldt’s head would sometimes grow so loud that he had trouble concentrating on holding his breath and remembering to not wipe the tears from his tingling eyes with the back of his sleeve. And then the noise would stop and the house would regain its quietude. But this silence was usually shortlived; inevitably, the noises would start up again. Although he never knew the exact particulars of the act, Humboldt deduced that sex involved two people being alone in a room making an ungodly racket. And because the human brain is a confusing labyrinth, it was difficult for Humboldt to think about sex without the putrid aroma of onions ghosting through his nostrils.
Humboldt never spoke much to Edna after her onions had been peeled. He would usually be standing in the kitchen, his eyes full of tears, as she staggered down the front staircase, her eyes full of tears. After tearfully smiling at each other, Humboldt would watch Edna’s fuzzy greenish outline travel down their driveway and rrrring its way out onto the main road.
One afternoon on her way out the door, Edna paused in between the old Frigidaire and the large wooden cabinet where Humboldt’s father kept bags of beans and dried spices. In a soft voice, she spoke to Humboldt.
—Good luck at college, Humboldt.
It took a moment for Humboldt to realize that he was being spoken to. Edna’s whisper could have easily been missed in the din of loud sniffling. Good luck at college, Humboldt? The words seemed to be illogically glued together, as if spoken by one of those strange foreign exchange students that appeared sporadically on other people’s porches.
Unaware that Edna had already disappeared out the back door and was bicycling down the driveway, Humboldt turned around and politely addressed the empty space in front of the Frigidaire.
—Thank you, he said, his eyes full of oniony tears.
Later that night, over a dinner of soybean and onion casserole, Humboldt asked his father if it was true that he would soon be attending college.
—Yes, his father replied, not lifting his eyes from his plate.
His father’s nonchalance was almost reassuring to Humboldt. And while it was normally not in his nature to ask follow-up questions, Humboldt decided that this development warranted further examination.
—When?
—Tomorrow.
This answer surprised Humboldt and he decided that another follow-up question was warranted.
—Shouldn’t I finish Junior High School first?
Humboldt’s father shook his head and continued eating.
—Homeschooled, he mumbled.
Humboldt found the news that he had been homeschooled almost as surprising as the news that he was scheduled to start college in less than twenty-four hours. He didn’t remember being homeschooled any more than he remembered applying for college.
—Are you sure I was homeschooled?
Humboldt’s father nodded.
—Everyone’s schooled at home, even this casserole.
Humboldt took a bite of his homeschooled casserole. He chewed thoughtfully and thought chewfully, but he didn’t feel any smarter. Humboldt had never thought about change before. Was this what it tasted like? And what did change look like? Did it stretch and grow like silence and days? Was it small like a soybean or large like a watermelon? And where were its gusty breezes? The air in the dining room was deathly still.
—How did this happen?
—Edna. She’s the guidance counselor at Winesburg High School. She helped me fill out your application. And congratulations, you graduated summa cum laude.
In addition to feeling proud of his unknown academic excellence, Humboldt felt confused. He had never heard his father speak so eloquently, and this eloquence made Humboldt wonder if their casserole really had been homeschooled. Humboldt was also confused about Edna. In addition to free onions and sex, Humboldt never realized that she was also providing his father with guidance. Guidance? Didn’t she have difficulty guiding her bike down the driveway?
—Edna thinks you’ll do fine at college.
What did Edna know about college? College was a foreign country. When people spoke of it, they lowered their voices, as if they were discussing something terrible. From these whispers, Humboldt had learned that when someone went to college, they never came back! Sure, they were sometimes granted parole for a holiday or a month in the summer, but when this parole was over, they were gone. Gone. College disappeared people.
If these were indeed the winds of change and he a ship and college the seacoast, Humboldt was certain that he would run aground! Shipwrecked and stranded, Humboldt foresaw himself alone on that distant shore, unprotected and vulnerable, like a wailing illtempered baby amidst a tempest.
—Why can’t I just stay here? Humboldt asked his father. I don’t want to be a college student; I want to be a farmer.
Humboldt’s father shook his head again.
—Foreclosed. Subprime mortgage. Housing bubble, he said, before adding “Edamame” and shaking his head in dismay.
—But what does any of that mean?
Humboldt’s father shrugged.
—I don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why you have to go to college. After a couple of weeks, you should be smart enough to know what we have to do to save the farm. Your acceptance packet is near the front door.
Humboldt spent the rest of the meal silently brooding over forprime subclosure bubble houses. His father was silent too. Perhaps he too was moody brooding over futurebubbles. Once he had silently said good-bye to his casserole, Humboldt said good-bye to his father.
As he casually leafed through the stack of papers that had been left for him on the table next to the front door, Humboldt felt a hand tenderly touch his shoulder.
—Son, never forget that the goal of college is to learn how to think like everyone else. Don’t be one of those damn fools who goes to college to learn how to think for yourself.
Humboldt thanked his father for this piece of fatherly advice and promised that he would not try to learn how to think for himself while at college. And then Humboldt was banished from the farm he loved.
Once outside, Humboldt could still see the wobbly line that Edna’s bike tires had carved into the dirtskin of their driveway. Humboldt followed this line towards the main road. At the end of the driveway, Humboldt paused near a soy patch. Bending his knees, Humboldt lowered himself to plant level and took one last look at the sprouting leaves and the tiny packed pods. Off in the distance, through the dense canopy of leaves, Humboldt could still see the illuminated windows of his father’s farmhouse. Without thinking, Humboldt twisted a single soy pod from its stem, staring at it quizzically before putting it into his pocket. He then continued his forward march down the driveway, eventually merging with the aggressive vehicular confusion of the main road.
Scott Navicky has an Honors Master’s Degree in art history with a focus on photography theory from the University of Auckland. He has lived in New York City, Auckland, Boston, Brooklyn, and Portland, Maine. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio. Humboldt, or The Power of Positive Thinking is his first novel.
Buy The Power of Positive Thinking at CCLaP Publishing.