by Stephen King
I sighed. “I suppose.”
“Let’s discuss something more important, Dink … how did it feel?”
“Fucking wonderful.”
“Good. Don’t question wonder, Dink. Don’t ever question wonder.”
And he hung up.
XVII
Sometimes I have to send actual letters—print out the stuff I whomp up in DINKY‘S NOTEBOOK, stick it in an envelope, lick stamps, and mail it off to somebody somewhere. Professor Ann Tevitch, University of New Mexico at Las Cruces. Mr. Andrew Neff, c/o The New York Post, New York, New York. Billy Unger, General Delivery, Stovington, Vermont. Only names, but they were still more upsetting than the phone numbers. More personal than the phone numbers. It was like seeing faces swim up at you for a second inside your Norden bombsight. I mean, what a freak-out, right? You’re up there at twenty-five thousand feet, no faces allowed up there, but sometimes one shows up for a second or two, just the same.
I wondered how a University Professor could get along without a modem (or a guy whose address was a fucking New York newspaper, for that matter), but I never wondered too much. I didn’t have to. We live in a modern world, but letters don’t have to be sent by computer, after all. There’s still snail-mail. And the stuff I really needed was always in the database. The fact that Unger had a 1957 Thunderbird, for instance. Or that Ann Tevitch had a loved one—perhaps her husband, perhaps her son, perhaps her father—named Simon.
And people like Tevitch and Unger were exceptions. Most of the folks I reach out and touch are like that first one in Columbus—fully equipped for the twenty-first century. SENDING DINKYMAIL, DINKYMAIL SENT, velly good, so long, Cholly.
I could have gone on like that for a long time, maybe forever— browsing the database (there’s no schedule to follow, no list of primary cities and targets; I’m completely on my own … unless all that shit is also in my subconscious, down there on the hard disk), going to afternoon movies, enjoying the Ma-less silence of my little house, and dreaming of my next step up the ladder, except I woke up feeling horny one day. I worked for an hour or so, browsing around in Australia, but it was no good—my dick kept trespassing on my brain, so to speak. I shut off the computer and went down to News Plus to see if I could find a magazine featuring pretty ladies in frothy lingerie.
As I got there, a guy was coming out, reading the Columbus Dispatch. I never read the paper myself. Why bother? It’s the same old shit day in and day out, dictators beating the ching-chong out of people weaker than they are, men in uniforms beating the ching-chong out of soccer balls or footballs, politicians kissing babies and kissing ass. Mostly stories about the Skipper Brannigans of the world, in other words. And I wouldn’t have seen this story even if I’d happened to look at the newspaper display rack once I got inside, because it was on the bottom half of the front page, below the fold. But this fucking dimbulb comes out with the paper hanging open and his face buried inside it.
In the lower right corner was a picture of a white-haired guy smoking a pipe and smiling. He looked like a good-humored fuck, probably Irish, eyes all crinkled up and these white bushy eyebrows. And the headline over the photo—not a big one, but you could read it— said NEFF SUICIDE STILL PUZZLES, GRIEVES COLLEAGUES.
For a second or two I thought I’d just skip News Plus that day, I didn’t feel like ladies in lingerie after all, maybe I’d just go home and take a nap. If I went in, I’d probably pick up a copy of the Dispatch, wouldn’t be able to help myself, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any more about that Irish-looking guy than I already did … which was nothing at all, as you can fucking believe I hastened to tell myself. Neff couldn’t be that weird a name anyway, only four letters, not like Shittendookus or Horecake, there must be thousands of Neffs, if you’re talking coast to coast. This one didn’t have to be the Neff I knew about, the one who loved Frank Sinatra records.
It would be better, in any case, to just leave and come back tomorrow. Tomorrow the picture of that guy with the pipe would be gone. Tomorrow somebody else’s picture would be there, on the lower right corner of page one. People always dying, right? People who aren’t superstars or anything, just famous enough to get their pictures down there in the lower right corner of page one. And sometimes people were puzzled about it, the way folks back home in Harkerville had been puzzled about Skipper’s death—no alcohol in his blood, clear night, dry road, not the suicidal type.
The world is full of mysteries like that, though, and sometimes it’s best not to solve them. Sometimes the solutions aren’t, you know, too eventual.
But willpower has never been my strong point. I can’t always keep away from the chocolate, even though I know my skin doesn’t like it, and I couldn’t keep away from the Columbus Dispatch that day. I went on inside and bought one.
I started home, then had a funny thought. The funny thought was that I didn’t want a newspaper with Andrew Neff’s picture on the front page going out with my trash. The trash pick-up guys came in a city truck, surely they didn’t—couldn’t—have anything to do with TransCorp, but …
There was this show me and Pug used to watch one summer back when we were little kids. Golden Years, it was called. You probably don’t remember it. Anyway, there was a guy on that show who used to say “Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.” It was like his motto. And I sort of believe that.
Anyway, I went to the park instead of back home. I sat on a bench and read the story, and when I was done, I stuck the paper in a park trashbarrel. I didn’t even like doing that, but hey—if Mr. Sharpton has got a guy following me around and checking on every little thing I throw away, I’m fucked up the wazoo no matter what.
There was no doubt that Andrew Neff, age sixty-two, a columnist for the Post since 1970, had committed suicide. He took a bunch of pills that probably would have done the trick, then climbed into his bathtub, put a plastic bag over his head, and rounded the evening off by slitting his wrists. There was a man totally dedicated to avoiding counselling.
He left no note, though, and the autopsy showed no signs of dis ease. His colleagues scoffed at the idea of Alzheimer’s, or even early senility. “He was the sharpest guy I’ve ever known, right up to the day he died,” a guy named Pete Hamill said. “He could have gone on Challenge Jeopardy! and run both boards. I have no idea why Andy did such a thing.” Hamill went on to say that one of Neff’s “charming oddities” was his complete refusal to participate in the computer revolution. No modems for him, no laptop word processor, no handheld spell-checker from Franklin Electronic Publishers. He didn’t even have a CD player in his apartment, Hamill said; Neff claimed, perhaps only half-joking, that compact discs were the Devil’s work. He loved the Chairman of the Board, but only on vinyl.
This guy Hamill and several others said Neff was unfailingly cheerful, right up to the afternoon he filed his last column, went home, drank a glass of wine, and then demo’d himself. One of the Post‘s chatter columnists, Liz Smith, said she’d shared a piece of pie with him just before he left on that last day, and Neff had seemed “a trifle distracted, but otherwise fine.”
Distracted, sure. With a headful of fouders, bews, and smims, you’d be distracted, too.
Neff, the piece went on, had been something of an anomaly on the Post, which sticks up for the more conservative view of life—I guess they don’t come right out and recommend electrocuting welfare recipients after three years and still no job, but they do hint that it’s always an option. I guess Neff was the house liberal. He wrote a column called “Eneff Is Eneff,” and in it he talked about changing the way New York treated single teen mothers, suggested that maybe abortion wasn’t always murder, argued that the low-income housing in the outer boroughs was a self-perpetuating hate machine. Near the end of his life, he’d been writing columns about the size of the military, and asking why we as a country felt we had to keep pouring on the bucks when there was, essentially, no one left to fight except for the terrorists. He said we’d do better to spend that money creati
ng jobs. And Post readers, who would have crucified anyone else saying stuff like that, pretty much loved it when Neff laid it down. Because he was funny. Because he was charming. Maybe because he was Irish and had kissed the Blarney Stone.
That was about all. I started home. Somewhere along the way I took a detour, though, and ended up walking all over downtown. I zigged and zagged, walking down boulevards and cutting through parking lots, all the time thinking about Andrew Neff climbing into his bathtub and putting a Baggie over his head. A big one, a gallon-size, keeps all your leftovers supermarket-fresh.
He was funny. He was charming. And I had killed him. Neff had opened my letter and it had gotten into his head, somehow. Judging by what I’d read in the paper, the special words and symbols took maybe three days to fuck him up enough to swallow the pills and climb into the tub.
He deserved it.
That’s what Mr. Sharpton said about Skipper, and maybe he was right … that time. But did Neff deserve it? Was there shit about him I didn’t know, did he maybe like little girls in the wrong way or push dope or go after people too weak to fight back, like Skipper had gone after me with the shopping cart?
We want to help you use your talent for the betterment of all mankind, Mr. Sharpton said, and surely that didn’t mean making a guy off himself because he thought the Defense Department was spending too much money on smart-bombs. Paranoid shit like that is strictly for movies starring Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme.
Then I had a bad idea—a scary idea.
Maybe TransCorp didn’t want him dead because he wrote that stuff.
Maybe they wanted him dead because people—the wrong people—were starting to think about what he wrote.
“That’s crazy,” I said, right out loud, and a woman looking into the window of Columbia City-Oh So Pretty turned around and gave me the old fish-eye.
I ended up at the public library around two o’clock, with my legs aching and my head throbbing. I kept seeing that guy in the bathtub, with his wrinkled old man’s tits and white chest-hair, his nice smile gone, replaced by this vague Planet X look. I kept seeing him putting a Baggie over his head, humming a Sinatra tune (“My Way,” maybe) as he snugged it down tight, then peered through it the way you’d peer through a cloudy window, so he could see to slit the veins in his wrists. I didn’t want to see that stuff, but I couldn’t stop. My bombsight had turned into a telescope.
They had a computer room in the library, and you could get on the Internet at a very reasonable cost. I had to get a library card, too, but that was okay. A library card is good to have, you can never have too much ID.
It took me only three bucks’ worth of time to find Ann Tevitch and call up the report of her death. The story started, I saw with a sinking sensation, in the bottom righthand corner of page one, The Official Dead Folks’ Nook, and then jumped to the obituary page. Professor Tevitch had been a pretty lady, blond, thirty-seven. In the photo she was holding her glasses in her hand, as if she wanted people to know she wore them … but as if she’d wanted people to see what pretty eyes she had, too. That made me feel sad and guilty.
Her death was startlingly like Skipper’s—coming home from her office at UNM just after dark, maybe hurrying a little because it was her turn to make supper, but what the hell, good driving conditions and great visibility. Her car—vanity license plate DNA FAN, I happened to know—had veered off the road, overturned, and landed in a drywash. She was still alive when someone spotted the headlights and found her, but there had never been any real hope; her injuries were too grave.
There was no alcohol in her system and her marriage was in good shape (no kids, at least, thank God for small favors), so the idea of suicide was farfetched. She had been looking forward to the future, had even talked about getting a computer to celebrate a new research grant. She’d refused to own a PC since 1988 or so; had lost some valuable data in one when it locked up, and had distrusted them ever since. She would use her department’s equipment when she absolutely had to, but that was all.
The coroner’s verdict had been accidental death.
Professor Ann Tevitch, a clinical biologist, had been in the forefront of West Coast AIDS research. Another scientist, this one in California, said that her death might set back the search for a cure five years. “She was a key player,” he said. “Smart, yes, but more—I once heard someone refer to her as ‘a natural-born facilitator,’ and that’s as good a description as any. Ann was the kind of person who holds other people together. Her death is a great loss to the dozens of people who knew and loved her, but it’s an even greater loss to this cause.”
Billy Unger was also easy enough to find. His picture topped page one of the Stovington Weekly Courant instead of getting stuck down there in The Dead Folks’ Nook, but that might have been because there weren’t many famous people in Stovington. Unger had been General William “Roll Em” Unger, winner of the Silver Star and Bronze Star in Korea. During the Kennedy administration he was an Undersecretary of Defense (Acquisition Reform), and one of the really big war-hawks of that time. Kill the Russkies, drink their blood, keep America safe for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, that sort of thing.
Then, around the time Lyndon Johnson was escalating the war in Vietnam, Billy Unger had a change of mind and heart. He began writing letters to newspapers. He started his op-ed page career by saying that we were handling the war wrong. He progressed to the idea that we were wrong to be in Vietnam at all. Then, around 1975 or so, he got to the point of saying all wars were wrong. That was okay with most Vermonters.
He served seven terms in the state legislature, starting in 1978. When a group of Progressive Democrats asked him to run for the U.S. Senate in 1996, he said he wanted to “do some reading and consider his options.” The implication was that he would be ready for a national career in politics by 2000, 2002 at the latest. He was getting old, but Vermonters like old guys, I guess. 1996 went past without Unger declaring himself a candidate for anything (possibly because his wife died of cancer), and before 2002 came around, he bought himself a big old dirt sandwich and ate every bite.
There was a small but loyal contingent in Stovington which claimed Roll Em’s death was an accident, that Silver Star winners don’t jump off their roofs even if they have lost a wife to cancer in the last year or so, but the rest pointed out that the guy probably hadn’t been repairing the shingles—not in his nightshirt, not at two o’clock in the morning.
Suicide was the verdict.
Yeah. Right. Kiss my ass and go to Heaven.
XVIII
I left the library and thought I’d head home. Instead, I went back to the same park bench again. I sat there until the sun was low and the place had pretty much emptied out of kids and Frisbee-catching dogs. And although I’d been in Columbia City for three months by then, it was the latest I’d ever been out. That’s sad, I guess. I thought I was living a life here, finally getting away from Ma and living a life, but all I’ve been doing is throwing a shadow.
If people, certain people, were checking up on me, they might wonder why the change in routine. So I got up, went on home, boiled up a bag of that shit-on-a-shingle stuff, and turned on my TV. I’ve got cable, the full package including premium movie channels, and I’ve never seen a single bill. How’s that for an eventual deal? I turned on Cinemax. Rutger Hauer was playing a blind karate-fighter. I sat down on the couch beneath my fake Rembrandt and watched the show. I didn’t see it, but I ate my chow and looked at it.
I thought about stuff. About a newspaper columnist who had liberal ideas and a conservative readership. About an AIDS researcher who served an important linking function with other AIDS researchers. About an old general who changed his mind. I thought about the fact that I only knew these three by name because they didn’t have modems and e-mail capability.
There was other stuff to think about, too. Like how you could hypnotize a talented guy, or drug him, or maybe even expose him to other talented guys in order to keep him f
rom asking any of the wrong questions or doing any of the wrong things. Like how you could make sure such a talented guy couldn’t run away even if he happened to wake up to the truth. You’d do that by setting him up in what was, essentially, a cashless existence … a life where rule number one was no ratholing any extra dough, not even pocket-change. What sort of talented guy would fall for something like that? A naive one, with few friends and next to no self-image. A guy who would sell you his talented soul for a few groceries and seventy bucks a week, because he believes that’s about what it’s worth.
I didn’t want to think about any of that. I tried to concentrate on Rutger Hauer, doing all that amusing blind karate shit (Pug would have laughed his ass off if he’d been there, believe me), so I wouldn’t have to think about any of that.
Two hundred, for instance. There was a number I didn’t want to think about. 200. 10 x 20, 40 x 5. CC, to the old Romans. At least two hundred times I’d pushed the button that brought the message DINKYMAIL SENT up on my screen.
It occurred to me—for the first time, as if I was finally waking up—that I was a murderer. A mass murderer.
Yes indeed. That’s what it comes down to.
Good of mankind? Bad of mankind? Indifferent of mankind? Who makes those judgements? Mr. Sharpton? His bosses? Their bosses? And does it matter?
I decided it didn’t matter a fuck in a rabbit-hutch. I further decided I really couldn’t spend too much time moaning (even to myself) how I had been drugged, hypnotized, or exposed to some kind of mind-control. The truth was, I’d been doing what I was doing because I loved the feeling I got when I was composing the special letters, the feeling that there was a river of fire running through the center of my head.
Mostly, I’d been doing it because I could.
“That’s not true,” I said … but not real loud. I whispered it under my breath. They probably don’t have any bugs planted here, I’m sure they don’t, but it’s best to be safe.