been “Scared stiff”) broke in the press.
There was a snake for every cage in Kerr’s basement menagerie …
except for one. The empty cage was unmarked, and the snake that popped out of my golf bag (the ambulance orderlies had packed it in with my “corpse” and had been practicing chip shots out in the ambulance parking area) was never found.
The toxin in my bloodstream-the same toxin found to a far lesser degree in orderly Mike Hopper’s bloodstream-was documented but never identified. I have looked at a great many pictures of snakes in the last year, and have found at least one that has reportedly caused cases of full-body paralysis in humans. This is the Peruvian Boomslang, a nasty viper that has supposedly been extinct since the I920s. Dupont Street is less than half a mile from the Derry Municipal Golf Course. Most of the intervening land consists of scrub woods and vacant lots.
One final note. Katie Arlen and I dated for four months, November I994 through February of I995. We broke it off by mutual consent, due to sexual incompatibility.
I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves.
BLIND WILLIE
Stephen King
6:15 A.M.
He wakes to music, always to music; the shrill beep-beep-beep of the clock-radio’s alarm is too much for his mind to cope with during those first blurry moments of the day. It sounds like a dump truck backing up. The radio is bad enough at this time of year, though; the easy-listening station he keeps the clock-radio tuned to is wall-to-wall Christmas carols, and this morning he wakes up to one of the two or three on his Most Hated List, something full of breathy voices and phony wonder. The Hare Krishna Chorale or the Andy Williams Singers or some such. Do you hear what I hear, the breathy voices sing as he sits up in bed, blinking groggily, hair sticking out in every direction. Do you see what I see, they sing as he swings his legs out, grimaces his way across the cold floor to the radio, and bangs the button that turns it off. When he turns around, Sharon has assumed her customary defensive posture - pillow folded over her head, nothing showing but he creamy curve of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blonde hair.
He goes into the bathroom, closes the door, slips off the pajama bottoms he sleeps in, drops them into the hamper, clicks on his electric razor. As he runs it over his face he thinks, Why not run through the rest of the sensory catalogue while you’re at it, boys? Do you smell what I smell, do you taste what I taste, do you feel what I feel. I mean, hey, go for it.
‘Humbug,’ he says as he turns on the shower. ‘All humbug.’
Twenty minutes later, while he’s dressing (the dark grey suit from Paul Stuart this morning, plus his favorite Sulka tie), Sharon wakes up a little. Not enough for him to fully understand what she’s telling him, though.
‘Come again?’ he asks. ‘I got eggnog, but the rest was just ugga-wugga.’
‘I asked if you’d pick up two quarts of eggnog on your way home,’ she says. ‘We’ve got the Allens and the Dubrays coming over tonight, remember?
‘Christmas,’ he says, checking his hair carefully in the mirror. He no longer looks like the glaring, bewildered man who sits up in bed to the sound of music five mornings a week - sometimes six. Now he looks like all the other people who will ride into New York with him on the 7:40, and that is just what he wants.
‘What about Christmas?’ she asks with a sleepy smile. ‘Humbug, right?
‘Right,’ he agrees. ‘All humbug.’
‘If you remember, get some cinnamon too - ‘
‘Okay.’
‘ - but if you forget the eggnog, I’ll slaughter you, Bill.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I know. You’re very dependable. Look nice too.’
‘Thanks.’
She flops back down, then props herself up on one elbow as he makes a final minute adjustment to the tie, which is a dark blue. He has never worn a red tie in his life, and hopes he can go to his grave untouched
There was a snake for every cage in Kerr’s basement menagerie …
except for one. The empty cage was unmarked, and the snake that popped out of my golf bag (the ambulance orderlies had packed it in with my “corpse” and had been practicing chip shots out in the ambulance parking area) was never found.
The toxin in my bloodstream-the same toxin found to a far lesser degree in orderly Mike Hopper’s bloodstream-was documented but never identified. I have looked at a great many pictures of snakes in the last year, and have found at least one that has reportedly caused cases of full-body paralysis in humans. This is the Peruvian Boomslang, a nasty viper that has supposedly been extinct since the I920s. Dupont Street is less than half a mile from the Derry Municipal Golf Course. Most of the intervening land consists of scrub woods and vacant lots.
One final note. Katie Arlen and I dated for four months, November I994 through February of I995. We broke it off by mutual consent, due to sexual incompatibility.
I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves.
BLIND WILLIE
Stephen King
6:15 A.M.
He wakes to music, always to music; the shrill beep-beep-beep of the clock-radio’s alarm is too much for his mind to cope with during those first blurry moments of the day. It sounds like a dump truck backing up. The radio is bad enough at this time of year, though; the easy-listening station he keeps the clock-radio tuned to is wall-to-wall Christmas carols, and this morning he wakes up to one of the two or three on his Most Hated List, something full of breathy voices and phony wonder. The Hare Krishna Chorale or the Andy Williams Singers or some such. Do you hear what I hear, the breathy voices sing as he sits up in bed, blinking groggily, hair sticking out in every direction. Do you see what I see, they sing as he swings his legs out, grimaces his way across the cold floor to the radio, and bangs the button that turns it off. When he turns around, Sharon has assumed her customary defensive posture - pillow folded over her head, nothing showing but he creamy curve of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blonde hair.
He goes into the bathroom, closes the door, slips off the pajama bottoms he sleeps in, drops them into the hamper, clicks on his electric razor. As he runs it over his face he thinks, Why not run through the rest of the sensory catalogue while you’re at it, boys? Do you smell what I smell, do you taste what I taste, do you feel what I feel. I mean, hey, go for it.
‘Humbug,’ he says as he turns on the shower. ‘All humbug.’
Twenty minutes later, while he’s dressing (the dark grey suit from Paul Stuart this morning, plus his favorite Sulka tie), Sharon wakes up a little. Not enough for him to fully understand what she’s telling him, though.
‘Come again?’ he asks. ‘I got eggnog, but the rest was just ugga-wugga.’
‘I asked if you’d pick up two quarts of eggnog on your way home,’ she says. ‘We’ve got the Allens and the Dubrays coming over tonight, remember?
‘Christmas,’ he says, checking his hair carefully in the mirror. He no longer looks like the glaring, bewildered man who sits up in bed to the sound of music five mornings a week - sometimes six. Now he looks like all the other people who will ride into New York with him on the 7:40, and that is just what he wants.
‘What about Christmas?’ she asks with a sleepy smile. ‘Humbug, right?
‘Right,’ he agrees. ‘All humbug.’
‘If you remember, get some cinnamon too - ‘
‘Okay.’
‘ - but if you forget the eggnog, I’ll slaughter you, Bill.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I know. You’re very dependable. Look nice too.’
‘Thanks.’
She flops back down, then props herself up on one elbow as he makes a final minute adjustment to the tie, which is a dark blue. He has never worn a red tie in his life, and hopes he can go to his grave untouched
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