by Stephen King
"You could have taken the bus."
"I know that now, but I didn't then. The bus always used to be full up a week before the game. I didn't know so many people would stop coming to the games if the team started losing."
"Don't remind me," I said.
"So I went to Will. I knew Christine could do it, but no way she was street-legal. I mean, I was desperate."
How desperate? I wondered coldly and suddenly.
"And he came through for me. Said he understood how important it was, and if . . ." Arnie paused; seemed to consider. "And that's the story of the big date," he finished gracelessly.
And if . . .
But that wasn't my business.
Be his eyes, my father had said.
But I pushed that away too.
We were walking past the smoking area now, deserted except for three guys and two girls, hurriedly finishing a joint. They had it in a makeshift matchbook roachclip, and the evocative odor of pot, so similar to the aroma of slowly burning autumn leaves, slipped into my nostrils.
"Seen Buddy Repperton around?" I asked.
"No," he said. "And don't want to. You?"
I had seen him once, hanging out at Vandenberg's Happy Gas, an extra-barrel service station out on Route 22 in Monroeville. Don Vandenberg's dad owned it, and the place had been on the ragged edge of going bust ever since the Arab oil embargo in '73. Buddy hadn't seen me; I was just cruising by.
"Not to talk to."
"You mean he can talk?" Arnie said with a scorn that wasn't like him. "What a shitter."
I started. That word again. I thought about it, told myself what the fuck, and asked him where he had gotten that particular term.
He looked at me thoughtfully. The second bell rang suddenly, braying out from the side of the building. We were going to be late to class, but right then I didn't care at all.
"You remember that day I bought the car?" he said. "Not the day I put the deposit on it, but the day I actually bought it?"
"Sure."
"I went in with LeBay while you stayed outside. He had this tiny kitchen with a red-checked tablecloth on the table. We sat down and he offered me a beer. I figured I better take it. I really wanted the car, and I didn't want to, you know, offend him somehow. So we each had a beer and he got off on this long, rambling . . . what would you call it? Rant, I guess. This rant about how all the shitters were against him. It was his word, Dennis. The shitters. He said it was the shitters that were making him sell his car."
"What did he mean?"
"I guess he meant that he was too old to drive, but he wouldn't put it that way. It was all their fault. The shitters. The shitters wanted him to take a driver's road-test every two years and an eye exam every year. It was the eye exam that bothered him. And he said they didn't like him on the street--no one did. So someone threw a stone at the car.
"I understand all that. But I don't understand why . . ." Arnie paused in the doorway, oblivious of the fact that we were late for class. His hands were shoved into the back pockets of his jeans and he was frowning. "I don't understand why he let Christine go to rack and ruin like that, Dennis. Like she was when I bought her. Mostly he talked about her like he really loved her--I know you thought it was just part of his sales-pitch but it wasn't--and then near the end, when he was counting the money, he sort of growled, 'That shitting car, I'll be fucked if I know why you want it, boy. It's the ace of spades.' And I said something like I thought I could fix it up really nice. And he said, 'All that and more. If the shitters will let you.'" '
We went inside. Mr. Leheureux, the French teacher, was going someplace fast, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "You boys are late," he said in a harried voice that reminded me of the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. We hurried up until he was out of sight and then we slowed down again.
Arnie said, "When Buddy Repperton got after me like that, I was really scared." He lowered his voice, smiling but serious. "I almost pissed my pants, if you want to know the truth. Anyway, I guess I used LeBay's word without even thinking about it. In Repperton's case it fits, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes."
"I gotta go," Arnie said. "Calculus, then Auto Shop III. I think I've learned the whole course on Christine the last two months anyway."
He hurried off and I just stood there in the hall for a minute, watching him go. I had a study hall with Miss Rat-Pack period six on Mondays, and I thought I could slip in the back unnoticed . . . I had done it before. Besides, seniors get away with murder, as I was rapidly learning.
I stood there, trying to shake a feeling of fright that would never be so amorphous or un-concrete again. Something was wrong, something was out of place, out of joint. There was a chill, and not all the bright October sunshine spilling through all the high school windows in the world would dispel it. Things were as they always had been, but they were getting ready to change--I felt it.
I stood there trying to get myself in gear, trying to tell myself that the chill was no more than my fears about my own future, and that was the change coming that I was uneasy about. Maybe that was part of it. But it wasn't all. That shitting car, I'll be fucked if I know why you want it, boy. It's the ace of spades. I saw Mr. Leheureux coming back from the office, and I started moving.
I think that everybody has a backhoe in his or her head, and at moments of stress or trouble you can fire it up and simply push everything into a great big slit-trench in the floor of your conscious mind. Get rid of it. Bury it. Except that that slit-trench goes down into the subconscious, and sometimes, in dreams, the bodies stir and walk. I dreamed of Christine again that night, Arnie behind the wheel this time, the decomposing corpse of Roland D. LeBay lolling obscenely in the shotgun seat as the car roared out of the garage at me, pinning me with the savage circles of its headlights.
I woke up with my pillow crammed against my mouth to stifle the screams.
19 / The Accident
Tach it up, tach it up,
Buddy, gonna shut you down.
--The Beach Boys
That was the last time I talked to Arnie--really talked to him--until Thanksgiving, because the following Saturday was the day I got hurt. That was the day we played the Ridge Rock Bears again, and this time we lost by the truly spectacular score of 46-3. I wasn't around at the end of the game, however. About seven minutes into the third quarter I got into the open, took a pass, and was setting myself to run when I was hit simultaneously by three Bears defensive linemen. There was an instant of terrible pain--a bright flare, as if I had been caught on ground zero of a nuclear blast. Then there was a lot of darkness.
Things stayed dark for a fairly long time, although it didn't seem long to me. I was unconscious for about fifty hours, and when I woke up late on the afternoon of Monday the twenty-third of October, I was in Libertyville Community Hospital. My dad and mom were there. So was Ellie, looking pale and strained. There were dark brown circles under her eyes, and I was absurdly touched; she had found it in her heart to cry for me in spite of all the Twinkies and Yodels I had hooked out of the breadbox after she went to bed, in spite of the time, when she was twelve, that I had given her a little bag of Vigoro after she had spent about a week looking at herself sideways in the mirror with her tightest T-shirt on so she could see if her boobs were getting any bigger (she had burst into tears and my mother had been super-pissed at me for almost two weeks), in spite of all the teasing and the shitty little I'm-one-up-on-you sibling games.
Arnie wasn't there when I woke up, but he joined my family shortly; he and Leigh had been down in the waiting room. That evening my aunt and uncle from Albany showed up, and the rest of that week was a steady parade of family and friends--the entire football team showed up, including Coach Puffer, who looked as if he had aged about twenty years. I guess he had found out there were worse things than a losing season. Coach was the one who broke the news to me that I was never going to play football again, and I don't know what he expected--for me to bust out cr
ying or maybe have hysterics, from the drawn, tense look on his face. But I didn't have much of a reaction at all, inwardly or outwardly. I was just glad to be alive and to know I would walk again, eventually.
If I had been hit just once, I probably could have bounced right up and gone back for more. But the human body was never meant to get creamed from three different angles at the same time. Both of my legs were broken, the left in two places. My right arm had whipped around behind me when I went down, and I had sustained a nasty greenstick fracture of the forearm. But all of that was really only the icing on the cake. I had also gotten a fractured skull and sustained what the doctor in charge of my case kept calling "a lower spinal accident," which seemed to mean that I had come within about a centimeter of being paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of my life.
I got a lot of visitors, a lot of flowers, a lot of cards. All of it was, in some ways, very enjoyable--like being alive to help celebrate your own wake.
But I also got a lot of pain and a lot of nights when I couldn't sleep; I got an arm suspended over my body by weights and pulleys, likewise a leg (they both seemed to itch all the time under the casts), and a temporary cast--what is called a "presser cast"--around my lower back. Also, of course, I got the prospect of a long hospital stay and endless trips in a wheelchair to that chamber of horrors so innocently labelled the Therapy Wing.
Oh, and one other thing--I got a lot of time.
I read the paper; I asked questions of my visitors; and on more than a few occasions, as things went on and my suspicions began to get out of hand, I asked myself if I might not be losing my mind.
I was in the hospital until Christmas, and by the time I got home, my suspicions had almost taken their final shape. I was finding it more and more difficult to deny that monstrous shape, and I knew damned well I wasn't losing my mind. In some ways it would have been better--more comforting--if I could have believed that. By then I was badly frightened, and more than half in love with my best friend's girl, as well.
Time to think . . . too much time.
Time to call myself a hundred names for what I was thinking about Leigh. Time to look up at the ceiling of my room and wish I had never heard of Arnie Cunningham . . . or Leigh Cabot . . . or of Christine.
20 / The Second Argument
The Dealer came to me and said,
"Trade in your Fo'd,
And I'll put you in a car that'll
Eat up the road!
Just tell me what you want and
Sign that line,
I'll have it brought down to you
In an hour's time."
I'm gonna get me a car
And I'll be headed on down the road;
Then I won't have to worry about
That broken-down, ragged Ford.
--Chuck Berry
Arnie Cunningham's 1958 Plymouth became street-legal on the afternoon of November 1, 1978. He finished the process, which had really begun the night he and Dennis Guilder changed that first flat tire, by paying an excise tax fee of $8.50, a municipal road tax of $2.00 (which also enabled him to park free at the meters in the downtown area), and a license-plate fee of $15.00. He was issued Pennsylvania plate HY-6241-J at the Motor Vehicle Bureau in Monroeville.
He drove back from the MVB in a car Will Darnell had loaned him and rolled out of Darnell's Do-It-Yourself Garage behind the wheel of Christine. He drove her home.
His father and mother arrived together from Horlicks University an hour or so later. The fight started almost at once.
"Did you see it?" Arnie asked, speaking to them both but perhaps a little more to his father. "I registered it just this afternoon."
He was proud; he had reason to be. Christine had just been washed and waxed, and she gleamed in the late afternoon autumn sunlight. There was still a lot of rust on her, but she looked a thousand times better than she had on the day Arnie bought her. The rocker panels, like the hood and the back deck, were brand new. The interior was spick and span and neat as a pin. The glass and the chrome gleamed.
"Yes, I--" Michael began.
"Of course we saw it," Regina snapped. She was making a drink, spinning a swizzle-stick in a Waterford glass in furious counter-clockwise circles. "We almost ran into it. I don't want it parked here. The place looks like a used-car lot."
"Mom!" Arnie said, stunned and hurt. He looked to Michael, but Michael had left to make a drink of his own--perhaps he had decided he was going to need it.
"Well it does," Regina Cunningham said. Her face was a trifle paler than usual; the rouge on her cheeks stood out almost like clown-color. She knocked back half of her gin and tonic at a swallow, grimacing the way people grimace at the taste of bad medicine. "Take it back where you had it. I don't want it here and I won't have it here, Arnie. That's final."
"Take it back?" Arnie said, now angry as well as hurt. "That's great, isn't it? It's costing me twenty bucks a week there!"
"It's costing you a lot more than that," Regina said. She drained her drink and set the glass down. She turned to look at him. "I took a look at your bankbook the other day--"
"You did what?" Arnie's eyes widened.
She flushed a little but did not drop her eyes. Michael came back and stood in the doorway, looking unhappily from his wife to his son.
"I wanted to know how much you'd been spending on that damned car," she said. "Is that so unnatural? You have to go to college next year. So far as I know, they're not giving away free college educations in Pennsylvania."
"So you just went into my room and hunted around until you found my bankbook?" Arnie said. His gray eyes were hard with anger. "Maybe you were hunting for pot, too. Or girlie books. Or maybe come-stains on the sheets."
Regina's mouth dropped open. She had perhaps expected hurt and anger from him, but not this utter, no-holds-barred fury.
"Arnie!" Michael roared.
"Well, why not?" Arnie shouted back. "I thought that was my business! God knows you spent enough time telling me how it was my responsibility, the both of you!"
Regina said, "I'm very disappointed that you feel that way, Arnold. Disappointed and hurt. You're behaving like--"
"Don't tell me how I'm behaving! How do you think I feel? I work my ass off getting the car street-legal--over two and a half months I worked on it--and when I bring it home, the first thing you say is get it out of the driveway. How am I supposed to feel? Happy?"
"That's no reason to take that tone to your mother," Michael said. In spite of the words, the tone was one of awkward conciliation. "Or to use that sort of language."
Regina held her glass out to her husband. "Make me another drink. There's a fresh bottle of gin in the pantry."
"Dad, stay here," Arnie said. "Please. Let's get this over."
Michael Cunningham looked at his wife; his son; at his wife again. He saw flint in both places. He retreated to the kitchen clutching his wife's glass.
Regina turned grimly back to her son. The wedge had been in the door since late last summer; she had perhaps recognized this as her last chance to kick it back out again.
"This July you had almost four thousand dollars in the bank," she said. "About three-quarters of all the money you've made since ninth grade, plus interest--"
"Oh, you've really been keeping track, haven't you?" Arnie said. He sat down suddenly, gazing at his mother. His tone was one of disgusted surprise. "Mom--why didn't you just take the damn money and put it in an account under your own name?"
"Because," she said, "until recently, you seemed to understand what the money was for. In the last couple of months it's all been car-car-car and more recently girl-girl-girl. It's as if you've gone insane on both subjects."
"Well, thanks. I can always use a nice, unprejudiced opinion on the way I'm conducting my life."
"This July you had almost four thousand dollars. For your education, Arnie. For your education. Now you have just over twenty-eight hundred. You can go on about snooping all you want--and I admit it hurts a
little--but that's a fact. You've gone through twelve hundred dollars in two months. Maybe that's why I don't want to look at that car. You ought to be able to understand that. To me it looks like--"
"Listen--"
"--like a big dollar bill flying away."
"Can I tell you a couple of things?"
"No, I don't think so, Arnie," she said with finality. "I really don't think so."
Michael had come back with her glass, half full of gin. He added tonic at the bar and handed it to her. Regina drank, making that bitter grimace of distaste again. Arnie sat in the chair near the TV, looking at her thoughtfully.
"You teach college?" he said. "You teach college and that's your attitude? 'I have spoken. The rest of you can just shut up.' Great. I pity your students."
"You watch it, Arnie," she said, pointing a finger at him. "Just watch it."
"Can I tell you a couple of things or not?"
"Go ahead. But it won't make any difference."
Michael cleared his throat. "Reg, I think Arnie's right, that's hardly a constructive atti--"
She turned on him like a cat. "Not one word from you, either!"
Michael flinched back.
"The first thing is this," Arnie said. "If you gave my savings passbook more than a cursory look--and I'm sure you did--you must have noticed that my total savings went down to an all-time low of twenty-two hundred dollars the first week of September. I had to buy a whole new front-end kit for Christine."
"You speak as if you're proud of it," she said angrily.
"I am." He met her eyes levelly. "I put that front-end kit in myself, with no help from anybody. And I did a really good job. You wouldn't" --here his voice seemed to falter momentarily, and then firmed again-- "you wouldn't be able to tell it from the original. But my point is, the total savings is back up six hundred dollars from then. Because Will Darnell liked my work and took me on. If I can add six hundred dollars to my savings account every two months--and I might do better if he puts me on the run over to Albany where he buys his used cars--there'll be forty-six hundred dollars in my account by the time school ends. And if I work there full-time next summer, I'll be starting college with nearly seven thousand dollars. And you can lay it all at the door of that car you hate so much."