The Plant

by Stephen King

  And, down in the far corner:

  Selling North American Rights Literary Agent: Self Approx 195,000 Words

  There was also a letter, addressed this way: TO THE EDITOR—OR WHOEVER SENDS THESE THINGS BACK WHERE THEY CAME FROM. As with the Tina Barfield letter, I have attached it. I'm not going to critique or analyze it here, and there's probably no reason to do so at all. Writers who have been trying to get their books published over a long period of time—five years, sometimes ten years, and once in my experience a full fifteen years which encompassed ten unpublished novels, three of them very long—share a similar tone, which I would describe as a thin coat of self-pitying cynicism stretched over a well of growing despair and, in many cases, hysteria. In my imagination, which is probably too vivid, these people always seem like miners who have somehow survived a terrible cave-in, people trapped in the dark and screaming Is there anyone out there? Please, is anyone out there? Can anyone hear me?

  What I thought as I folded the letter back into the envelope was that if ever there was a name that sounds as if it should belong to a writer, that name is James Saltworthy. My next thought was to just put the top back on the box and leave whatever was under the title page, good or bad, until I got home. But there's a little Pandora in most of us, I think, and I couldn't resist a look. And before I knew about it, I'd read the first eight or nine pages. It reads that easily, that naturally. It can't be as good as it seems to be, I know that, or it wouldn't be here. And yet a part of me whispers that that might not be true. He is serving as his own agent, and writers who do that are like self-defending lawyers: they have fools for clients.

  The pages I read were good enough so I have burned to read the rest ever since leaving the office; my mind keeps going back to Tracy Nordstrom, the charming psycho who is apparently going to be Saltworthy's main character. There's a war going on in my head, the armies of Hope on one side, those of Cynicism on the other. This conflict, I feel, is going to be decided in the two hours between now and midnight, when I really must turn in. But before leaving the typewriter chair in the kitchen for my reading chair in the living room area of my apartment, I must add one more thing.

  When I stood up with Saltworthy's purple box under my arm, I noticed that Zenith the common ivy has burst through the wall between the janitor's closet and the mailroom in at least three dozen places. There are ten steel shelves mounted on that wall, plain gray utilitarian things which are now perfectly empty—in my post-Ruth orgy of work, I cleaned them out completely, without finding a single thing even remotely worth publishing. In most cases it's not even incompetency—boring narration and dull prose—but outright illiteracy. Not one but several of the manuscripts which filled those gray shelves were scrawled in pencil.

  But all that's to the side. My point here is just that I could see that wall, because the stacks and jumbles of boxes, bags, and mailers are gone. The cream-colored sheetrock has now been pierced by a galaxy of green stars. In many cases the tips of the ivy's branches have only begun to penetrate, but in others, long and fragile snakelets have already slithered through. They are growing along the empty steel shelves, meeting, twining, climbing, descending. Staking out new territory, in other words. Most of the leaves are still tightly furled, like sleeping infants, but a few have already begun to open. I have a strong suspicion that within a week or two, a month at the outside, the mailroom is going to be as full of Zenith as Riddley's cubbyhole is now.

  Which leads to an amusing but perfectly valid question: where are we going to put Riddley when he comes back? And what, exactly, will he be doing?

  Enough. Time to see exactly what's in James Saltworthy's box.

  April 2, 1981

  Dear God. Oh my dear God. I feel like someone who has dipped his fishing line into a little country brook and has managed to hook Moby Dick. I had actually dialed the first five digits of Roger Wade's number before realizing that it's two o'clock in the fucking morning. It'll have to wait, but I don't know how I can wait. I feel like I'm going to explode. Names and book-titles keep dancing through my head. The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer. Raintree County, by Ross Lockridge. Peyton Place, by Grace Metalious. The Godfather, by Mario Puzo. The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty. Jaws, by Peter Benchley. Different kinds of books, different kinds of writers, some good, some only competent, but all of them creating a kind of bottled lightning, stories that millions of people simply had to read. Saltworthy's Last Survivor fits very neatly into this group. No goddam doubt about it. I don't think I've found a Masterpiece, but I know I've found The Next Big Thing.

  If we let this get away, I'll shoot myself.

  No.

  I'll walk into Riddley's closet and tell Zenith to strangle me.

  My God, what an incredible book. What an incredible story.

  February 19, 1981

  Editorial Staff and/or Mailroom Crew Zenith House 490 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10017

  TO THE EDITOR—OR WHOEVER SENDS THESE THINGS BACK WHERE THEY COME FROM,

  My name is James Saltworthy, and the attached albatross is a book I wrote. Last Survivor is a novel that was set five years in the future when I wrote it in 1977, and now by God that future's almost here! Looks like the joke's on me. This novel, which has been well-reviewed by both my wife and my department head (I teach 5th grade English at Our Lady of Hope in Queens), has been to a total of twenty-three publishers. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but since Zenith House is this manuscript's final stop on what has been a long and exceedingly dull train-ride to nowhere, I have decided to “let it all hang out,” as we used to say back in the Sexy Sixties, when we all thought we had at least one major novel in us.

  I would guess that at several of the publishing houses where Last Survivor visited—sort of like an unwelcome in-law that you get rid of as soon as possible—it was actually read (partially read might be a better way to put it). From Doubleday came the response “We are looking for more upbeat fiction.” Cheers! From Lippincott: “The writing is good, the characters distasteful, the storyline frankly unbelievable.” Mazel tov! From Putnam's came that old favorite: “We no longer look at unagented material.” Hooray! Agents, schmagents. My first one died on me—he was eighty-one and senile. The second was a crook. The third told me he loved my novel, then offered to sell me some Amway.

  I am enclosing $5. 00 for return postage. If you feel like using it to send my story back to me after you finish not reading it, that would be fine. If you want to use it to buy a couple of beers, all I can say is cheers! Mazel tov! Hooray! Meantime, I see that Rosemary Rogers, John Saul, and John Jakes are still selling well, so I guess American literature is doing fine and forging bravely forward toward the 21st century. Who needs Saltworthy?

  I wonder if there's money in writing instruction manuals. There certainly isn't much in teaching fifth graders, some of whom carry switchblade knives and sell drugs around the corner. I suppose they wouldn't believe that at Doubleday, would they?

  Cordially,

  Jim Saltworthy

  73 Aberdeen Road

  Queens, New York 11432

  From Roger Wade's Office Answering Machine, April 2, 1981

  3:42 A. M.: Hello, you have reached Roger Wade at Zenith House. I can't take your call right now. If this is about billing or accounting, you need to call Andrew Lang at Apex Corporation of America. The number is 212–555–9191. Ask for the Publishing Division. If you want to leave a message for me, wait for the beep. Thanks.

  Roger, this is John, your old Central Falls safari buddy. I'm calling at quarter of four in the morning, April 2nd. I won't be in today. I've just finished the most incredible fucking book of my life. Holy God, boss, I feel like someone put my brain on a damn rocket sled. We need to be extremely clever about this—the book needs hardcover pub, a real all-the-bells-and-whistles launch, and as you know, Apex has no hardcover house. Like most companies that get into the book biz, they don't have a clue. But we better. We just better have a damn clue. Who do you know a
t the better hardcover houses? And who do you trust? If we lose the paperback rights to this in the course of getting Saltworthy a hardcover publisher, I'll kill myself. I

  3:45 A. M.: Hello, you have reached Roger Wade at Zenith House. I can't take your call right now. If this is about billing or accounting, you need to call Andrew Lang at Apex Corporation of America. The number is 212–555–9191. Ask for the Publishing Division. If you want to leave a message for me, wait for the beep. Thanks.

  Motormouth John, even on the goddam answering machine, right, Roger? I can't even remember what I was talking about. I'm just giddy. I'm going to bed. I don't know if I can get to sleep or not. If I can't, maybe I'll come in to work, anyway. Probably in my fucking pajamas! [Laughter] If not, I'll do a Manuscript Report first thing on Friday, okay? Please don't let us fuck this up, Roger. Please. Okay, I'm going to bed.

  3:48 A. M.: Hello, you have reached Roger Wade at Zenith House. I can't take your call right now. If this is about billing or accounting, you need to call Andrew Lang at Apex Corporation of America. The number is 212–555–9191. Ask for the Publishing Division. If you want to leave a message for me, wait for the beep. Thanks.

  Jesus, Roger. Wait til you read this fucker. Just you wait.

  3:50 A. M. Hello, you have reached Roger Wade at Zenith House. I can't take your call right now. If this is about billing or accounting, you need to call Andrew Lang at Apex Corporation of America. The number is 212–555–9191. Ask for the Publishing Division. If you want to leave a message for me, wait for the beep. Thanks.

  If anyone does anything to that plant, they're going to die. You got that? They will fucking... die.

  Zenith House Manuscript Report

  EDITOR: John Kenton DATE: April 3, 1981 MANUSCRIPT TITLE: Last Survivor AUTHOR'S NAME: James Saltworthy FICTION/NONFICTION: F ILLUSTRATIONS: N AGENT: None RIGHTS OFFERED: Author offers North American but doesn't know what he's talking about, so TBD SUMMARY: This novel is set in the year 1982, but was originally written in 1977. To keep to the writer's intention, the time would have to be changed to at least 1986, 1987, or five years from time of pub.

  The basic premise is unique and exciting. A network fading in the ratings (auth calls it UBA, United Broadcasting of America, but it feels like CBS) comes up with a unique game show idea. Twenty-six people are stranded on a desert island, where they must survive for six months. Three trained camera operators are among the contestants. In fact each contestant has a “job” on the island, and the camera operators have to train several contestants in use of the equipment. Other contestants are “farmers,” “fishers,” “hunters,” and so on. The idea is that each week for twenty-six weeks, the contestants as a group must vote one person off the island and into exile. First exile gets one dollar for his trouble. The second gets ten. The third gets one hundred. The fourth gets five hundred. And the last survivor gets a cool million. I know this idea sounds wonky, but Saltworthy actually makes us believe that such a program might find its way onto the air someday, if a network was desperate enough for ratings (and tasteless enough, but on network TV that has never been a problem).

  What makes the story brilliant is Saltworthy's delineation of character. TV viewers see the contestants in very simple ways—the Good Young Mother, the Cheerful Athlete, the Rugged Old Fellow, the Tough But Religious Widow. Underneath, however, they are extremely complex. And one of them, a personable young truck driver named Tracy Nordstrom, is actually a dangerous psychopath who will do anything to win the million dollars. In one breathlessly orchestrated scene early in the book, he induces food-poisoning in the Rugged Old Fellow, substituting hallucinogenic mushrooms for the harmless ones gathered by one of the farmers, a sweet ex-hippie who is heartbroken by her perceived mistake and actually attempts suicide (which the network covers up, as Last Survivor has become a monster hit). Ironically, Nordstrom is the most liked contestant, both by the others on the island and by the huge TV audience. (Saltworthy actually made this reader believe such a show could become a national obsession.)

  Only one person, Sally Stamos (the Good Young Mother), suspects how evil Tracy Nordstrom really is. Eventually Nordstrom realizes she's onto him, and sets out to silence her. Will Sally be able to convince the others what's happening? Will she ever get back to her kids?

  Saltworthy builds suspense like an old pro, and I simply couldn't put the book down... or turn the pages fast enough. The novel climaxes with a huge storm that accomplishes what until then has just been a cynical TV illusion: the contestants are cut off from everything, real castaways instead of pretend ones. What we've got here is a high concept hybrid between And Then There Were None and Lord of the Flies. I don't want to put the conclusion in this summary; it needs to be read and savored in the author's own vivid prose. Let me just say that it is so shocking that all the editors who have read it so far have dropped the book like a hot potato. But it works, and I think an American reading public that could accept the supernatural horrors of Rosemary's Baby and the criminous ones of The Godfather will embrace it, recommend it to their friends, and talk about it for years.

  EDITORIAL RECOMMENDATION: We've got to publish this. It's the best and most commercial unpublished novel it has ever been my pleasure to read. If ever there was a book that could put a publisher on the map, this is the one.

  John Kenton

  from THE SAKRED BOOK OF CARLOS

  SAKRED MONTH OFAPRA (Entry #77)

  Time has almost come. Stars and planets almost right, praise Demeter. GOOD, as my own time is short. The traitor bitch Barfield disposed of, spell worked and plane went down. No problem there, praise Abbalah, but in the end she double-crossed me just the same. Thieving bitch took my Talisman (it was an Owl's Beak actually). I have looked everywhere but my Beak is gone. I bet she had it in her pocket when the plane went down. Burned! Nothing but ASHES!! With my Protection gone, my Time is short. Never mind, am tired of being Carlos anyway. Time for next stage but first will rid myself of Poop-Shit Kenton. I'll teach you what rejection REALLY MEANS, you Judas! Let plant take care of rest of them when the Innocent Blood comes.

  I have been all around the neighborhood where Kenton works. All office buildings except for small market across the street. Crazy old Bum outside. Woman with a Guitar. Plays almost as bad as Poop-Shit Kenton edits books. Ha! Thought of using her, Innocent Blood, but also Crazy, so no good. “You can't work wood if the wood won't work” as Mr. Keen used to tell me. Wise Man in his way.

  A few other “regulars” on the street it looks like. One fellow selling watches and etc. at a folding table. No problem but weekend would be best. I'll find a way to get inside, best would be to follow someone who's “pulling a little overtime.” I'll sneak upstairs to their offices and just “lie low” as they say until Monday morning. Plan to cut Poop-Shit Kenton's throat myself with Sakred Sacrifice Knife. Take his heart if poss. When his blood flows down my hands I can die happy, praise Abbalah, praise 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 suppositories. 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 Bum. Someone ought to wrap her guitar around her neck. Boy she plays like Shit. 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 Crap-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 mosquito-bumps for breasts 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 sexual 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 sexuality 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 shithole known as Zenith House, believe-you-me) or c. my sexuality. I'm not afraid of my sexuality, 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 chastity belt.