The Plant

by Stephen King

  Five minutes went by, then seven. I'd made up my mind that he wasn't coming, and then the door squeaked open and a very cautious, very un-Porterly voice whispered, “Sandra?”

  “Trot down here to the end,” said I, “and make it quick.”

  He came down and opened the stall door. To say he looked excited would be an understatement. And he no longer looked as if he had a socket-wrench stuffed down the front of his pants. By then it looked more like a good-sized Craftsman hammer.

  “Gee,” said I, reaching out to touch him, “I guess maybe the effect of that bicycle seat finally wore off.”

  He started fumbling at his belt. It kept sliding through his fingers. It was sort of funny, but also very sweet. I pushed his hands away and did it myself.

  “Quick,” he panted. “Oh, quick. Before it goes away.”

  “This guy isn't going anywhere,” said I, although I did actually have a certain short-term storage site in mind. “Relax.”

  “It was the plant,” he said. “The smell... oh my God, the smell... musky and dark, somehow... the way I'd always imagined the fields would smell in that county Faulkner wrote about, the one with the name no one can pronounce... oh Sandra, good Christ, I feel like I could pole-vault on this thing!”

  “Shut up and change places with me,” I said. “You sit down and then I'll”

  “To the devil with that,” he said, and lifted me up. He's strong—a lot stronger than I ever would have guessed—and almost before I knew what was happening, we were off to the races.

  As races of this sort go, it was neither the longest nor the fastest in which I have ever run, but it wasn't bad, especially considering that Herb Porter was last laid around the time Nixon resigned, if he was telling me the truth. When he finally set me down, there were tears on his cheeks. Plus there's this: before leaving he a. thanked me and b. kissed me. I don't subscribe to many of the romantic ideals, I'm more of a Dorothy Parker type (“good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere”), but sweet is nice. The man who left ahead of me (pausing at the door and checking both ways before going out) seemed a lot different from the man who came stalking into my office with a load in his balls and a chip on his shoulder. That's the kind of judgement only time can confirm, and I know very well that men after sex usually turn into exactly the same men they were before sex, but I have hopes for Herb. And I never wanted to change his life; all I wanted was to clear away as much of the crap between us as I could, so we can work as a team. I never knew how much I wanted this job until this week. How much I wanted to make a success of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I'd run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of knee-pads.

  Spent the rest of the day working on the joke book. How foul in concept, how scabrous in execution... and what a success it is going to be in an America that still longs for the death penalty and secretly believes (not everyone, but a goodly number of citizens, I'd bet) that Hitler had the right idea about eugenics. There is no shortage of these nasty, mean-spirited boogers, but the weird thing is how many I'm making up on my own.

  What's red and white and has trouble turning corners? A baby with a javelin through its head.

  What's small, brown, and spits? A baby in a frypan.

  Little girl wakes up in the hospital and says, “Doctor! I can't feel my legs!” Doctor replies, “That's normal in cases where we have to amputate the arms.”

  I am grossed out by my own inventiveness. Question is, is it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on sexual life?

  Never mind. Weekend's almost here. Supposed to be warm, and if so I'm going to Cony Island with my favorite niece, our yearly rite of spring. A couple of days away from this place may help to put all questions in perspective. And Riddley's due back next week. I'll be hoping to comfort him in his time of sorrow as much as possible.

  Keeping a journal reminds me of what old Doc Henries used to say after he gave me a tetanus shot when I was ten: “There, Sandra, that wasn't so bad, was it?”

  Not at all. Not at all.

  from the office of the editor-in-chief TO: John DATE 4/3/81

  MESSAGE: I've made two calls since reading your Ms. Report. The first was to that astute business lad and all around prince of a guy, Harlow Enders. I lofted a trial balloon concerning a Zenith House hardcover, and despite dredging up a phrase which I thought would appeal to his presumed imagination (if you're wondering, it was “Event Publishing”), he shot it down at once. His stated reason is there is no h'cover infrastructure either at Zenith or in the larger world of Apex Corporation, but we both know better. The real issue is lack of confidence. All right, okay, fine.

  Second call was to Alan Williams, a senior editor at Viking Press. Williams is one of the best in the business, and save your nasty (“Then how do you know him?”) question. The answer is, from The New York Health Club racquetball tournament, where the gods of chance paired us three years ago. We have played off and on ever since. Alan says that if the Saltworthy is as good as you say it is, that we can probably swing a soft-to-hard deal, with Viking doing the h'cover and Zenith the pb. I know it isn't precisely what we wanted, John, but think of it this way: did you ever in your life believe there might come a day when we would be doing the pb edition of a Viking Press book? Little Zenith? And as for the cynical Mr. Saltworthy, I think you could say his luck has changed with a vengeance. We might have been able to swing $20,000, and that much only if we'd been able to get Enders enthusiastically on board. With Viking as a partner, we may be able to score this guy a $100,000 advance. That's my salary for almost four years.

  Williams wants to see the ms. ASAP. You should take a copy over to their offices on Madison Avenue yourself. Put on a title page that says something like LAST SEASON, by John Oceanby. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but Williams thinks it's necessary, and so do I.

  Roger

  PS: Make me a copy that I can take home and read over the weekend, would you?

  interoffice memo TO: Roger FROM: John RE: “LAST SEASON,” by “John Oceanby”

  Are you saying you set all this in motion without reading the book? That takes my breath away.

  John

  from the office of the editor-in-chief TO: John DATE: 4/3/81

  MESSAGE: You're my guy, John. We may have had our differences from time to time, but I've never doubted your editorial judgement for a single moment. If you say this is the one, this is the one. On that score, the ivy makes no difference. You're my guy. And while I probably don't need to tell you this, I will: no contact with James Saltworthy until we hear from Alan Williams. Okay?

  Roger

  interoffice memo TO: Roger FROM: John RE: Vote of confidence

  To say I'm touched by your confidence in me doesn't go far enough, boss. Especially after the Detweiller fuck-up. Fact is, I'm sitting here at my desk and damned near blubbering on my blotter. All will be as you say. My lips are sealed.

  John

  PS: You do know, don't you, that Saltworthy must have already sent the book to Viking?

  from the office of the editor-in-chief TO: John DATE: 4/3/81

  MESSAGE: First, no blubbering on the blotter—blotters cost money, and as you know, all expenses must now be forwarded to the parent company on a week by week basis (if we needed another sign that The End Is Near, surely that's it). Blubber in your wastebasket... or go on down to Riddley's former quarters and water the plant with your grateful tears.

  (Yes, I know perfectly well that no one is paying the slightest attention to my strong recommendation that we all stay clear of the ivy. I could put it in writing, I suppose, but it would just be a waste of ink. Especially since I've been down there a time or two myself, breathing deep and drawing inspiration.)

  Second, how can you call the Detweiller business a fuck-up, considering how it has turned out? Harlow Enders and Apex may not know we're ready to turn the corner into a glorious future, but we do!
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  Third, Alan Williams checked the files over there. Last Survivor was supposedly read (or scanned, or perhaps just shifted from the envelope it came in to the one it went back in) and rejected in November of 1978. The editor who signed off on it was one George Flynn, who left publishing to set up his own job-printing business in Brooklyn about a year ago. According to AW, and I quote, “George Flynn had the editorial antennae of a rutabaga.”

  Fourth, don't give the ms. to LaShonda. Make the copies yourself, and remember the false title page.

  Fifth (I'm ready for a fifth, believe me), please no more memos until at least afternoon. I know I said “everything in writing” from here on out, but my head is starting to ache. I have one from Bill I haven't even looked at.

  Roger

  interoffice memo TO: Roger FROM: Bill Gelb RE: Possible Bestseller

  You asked for ideas, and I've had what might be a doozy, boss. I went over to Smiler's earlier in the day (warning: that idiotic woman with the guitar is still in front—if she gets picked up and institutionalized, I hope the judge sends her to music school) and checked out their paperback rack. It's a pretty good one (i. e., lots of Pocket Books, Signets, Avons, Bantams, no Zenith Houses except for one dusty Windhover that was published 2 years ago). I counted five so-called nonfiction books about aliens and/or flying saucers, and six on investing in the Reagan Era stock market. My idea is suppose we combined the two?

  The core concept is this: a stockbroker is abducted by little gray men who first read his brainwaves, suck blood from his nasal cavities, and probe his anus—standard stuff, in other words, been-there done-that. But then, to make up for the inconvenience, they give him stock tips based on their certain market knowledge, obtained in faster-than-light trips to the future. Most of it would be zen stuff like “Never fill your barrow with old bricks” and “Ancient stars offer the best navigation.” This crap would, however, be spiced with more practical advice like “Never sell short in a bull market” and “In the long run, power and light stocks always rise.” We could call it Alien Investing. I know that at first blush the idea sounds crazy, but who would have figured a breakout bestseller called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?

  I even have a writer in mind—Dawson Postlewaite, aka Nick Hardaway, the Macho Man himself. The stock market is Dawson's hobby (fuck, it's his mania, what keeps him poor and thus in our stable) and I think he'd almost do it gratis.

  What do you think? And feel free to tell me I'm nuts, if that's what you think.

  Bill

  from the office of the editor-in-chief TO: Bill Gelb DATE: 4/3/81

  MESSAGE: I don't think you're nuts. No more so than the rest of us, anyway. And it's a great title, almost a guaranteed pick-it-up-and-take-a-look on a rack of paperbacks. Alien Investing is hereby green-lit. On the cover I see a photo of the Stock Exchange with a space alien laid in, shooting cosmic rays (green, like the color of money) from his big black eyes. Get Postlewaite on it at once. I know he's got a deadline on Fresno Firestorm, but I'll see he gets the necessary extension.

  R.

  WHILE YOU WERE OUT!

  Caller Riddley Walker For Roger Wade Date April 3rd 1981 Time 12:35 PM Message He will be back Wednesday or Thursday of next week. Winding up mother's affairs taking longer than he thought, There are difficulties with his brother and sister. Mostly sister. Asks if you will water plant but not mention to J. Kenton that you are doing it. Says “hoodoo ivy make dat boy pow'ful nervous.” Whatever that means. Message taken by LaShonda

  From Roger Wade's Audio Journal, Cassette 1

  This is Friday the third of April. Afternoon. Bill Gelb has come up with an idea. It's a dandy, too. I'm not surprised. Given what's happening, brilliance around here is almost a foregone conclusion. When I returned from lunch... with Alan Williams... what a wonderful guy he is, not in the least because he treated at Onde's, a place that would collapse my meager expense account allowance for a month... anyway, when I got back I spied an amusing thing. Bill Gelb was sitting in his office and rolling dice on his desk. He was too absorbed to notice me noticing him. He'd roll, make a notation on one of those mini legal pads, then roll again, then make another notation. Of course we all know he shoots craps with Riddley every chance he gets, but Riddley's in Alabama and won't be back until the middle of next week. So what's this about? Staying in practice? Just can't get enough of dem bones? Some new system? All gamblers have systems, don't they? Who the hell knows. He's had a great idea... Alien Investing, forsooth... and that earns him a little eccentric-editor time.

  Herb Porter has been going around all day with a big, silly smile on his chops. He is actually being nice to people. What in God's name can that be about? As if I didn't know, nyuck-nyuck-nyuck.

  Never mind Bill and Herb. Never mind Sandra's hot thighs, either. I have another and more interesting thing to ponder. There was a pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT slip on my desk when I got back from lunch. Riddley called and LaShonda took the message. He says he won't be back until next Wednesday or so, because winding up his mother's affairs is taking longer than he thought. But that isn't the interesting part. LaShonda has written, and I quote, “There are difficulties with his brother and sister. Mostly sister.” Did Riddley actually tell her that? They have never seemed particularly friendly, in fact I've always gotten the idea that LaShonda considers Riddley to be beneath her, maybe because she believes the Amos 'n Andy accent... although that's a little tough to swallow. Mostly I think it's because he comes to work in gray fatigues from Dickey and she always shows up dressed to the nines... some days to the tens.

  No, I don't think Riddley exactly said anything about having problems with his brother and sister. I think L. just sort of... knew. Zenith isn't out in the reception area, so far the garlic seems to be working and it's mostly growing in the other direction... toward the end of the hall and the window that looks out on the airshaft... but its influence may have reached the reception area.

  I think LaShonda read his mind. Read it over fifteen hundred miles or so of long distance telephone line. And without even knowing it. Maybe I'm wrong but...

  No, I'm not wrong.

  Because I'm reading her mind, and I know.

  [Five second pause on tape]

  Whoo, Jesus.

  Jesus Christ, this is big.

  This is fucking big.

  From Bill Gelb's Diary

  4/3/81

  I'm at my apartment tonight, but am thinking about Paramus, New Jersey, tomorrow night. There's an all-night poker game there on Saturdays, pretty high stakes and connected to the Italian Brotherhood, if you know what I mean. Ginelli's game, or so I've heard (he's the Mafia type who owns Four Fathers, two blocks from here). I've only gone there a couple of times and lost my shirt on both occasions (I paid up, too, you don't fuck with the Italian gentlemen), but I have a feeling that this time things might be different.

  Today in my office, after R. W. okayed my book idea (Alien Investing is going to sell at least 3 million copies, don't ask me how I know that but I do), I took my dice out of the desk drawer where I keep them and started rolling. At first I was barely paying attention to what I was doing, then I took a closer look and holy shit, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I got out a legal pad and recorded forty straight rolls.

  Thirty-four sevens.

  Six elevens.

  No snake-eyes, no boxcars. Not even a single point.

  I tried the same experiment here at home (as soon as I got in through the door, as a matter of fact), not sure it would work because the telepathy doesn't travel much beyond the fifth floor at 490 Park. The fact is, you can feel it fade each time you go down (or up) in the elevator. It drains away like water draining out of a sink, and it's a sad sensation.

  Anyway, tonight, rolling forty times on my kitchen table produced twenty sevens, six elevens, and fourteen “points”—i. e. spot combos adding up to three, four, five, six, eight, nine, and ten. No snake-eyes. No boxcars. The luck isn't quite so strong away from the of
fice, but twenty sevens and six elevens are pretty amazing. More amazing still, I didn't crap out one single time, not at 490, not even here at home.

  Will I be as successful at five-card stud and jacks or better on the other side of the Hudson?

  Only one way to find out, baby. Tomorrow night.

  I can hardly believe what's happening, but there isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that it is happening. Roger suggested that we stay away from the plant, and what a joke that is. Might as well suggest the tide not to turn, or that Harlow Enders not be such an asshole. (Enders is a Robert Goulet fan. All you have to do to know that is to look at him.)

  I found myself wandering down toward Riddley's closet once or twice an hour all day long, just to take a big brain-clearing whiff. Sometimes it smells like popcorn (the Nordica Theater, where I copped my first feel... I didn't tell the others that part, but given current conditions I'm sure they must know), sometimes like freshly cut grass, sometimes like Wildroot CrЏme Oil, which is what I always wanted the barber to put on my hair as the finishing touch when I was but a wee slip of a lad. On several occasions others were there when I arrived, and just before quitting time we all turned up at once, standing side by side and breathing deep, storing up those good aromas—and good ideas, maybe—for the weekend. I suppose we would have looked hilarious to an outsider, like a New Yorker cartoon without a caption (would we even need one to be amusing? I think not), but believe me, there was nothing hilarious about it. Nothing scary, either. It was nice, that's all. Plain old nice.