Nightmares and Dreamscapes

by Stephen King

  "My Pretty Pony" was originally published in an overpriced (and overdesigned, in my humble opinion) edition produced by the Whitney Museum. It was later issued in a slightly more accessible (but still overpriced and overdesigned, in my humble opinion) edition by Alfred A. Knopf. And here, I am pleased to see it, polished and slightly clarified, as it probably should have been in the first place--just another short story, a little better than some, not so good as others.

  "Sorry, Right Number"--Remember how I started off, about a billion pages ago, talking about Ripley's Believe It or Not? Well, "Sorry, Right Number" almost belongs in it. The idea occurred to me as a "teleplaylet" one night on my way home from buying a pair of shoes. It came as a "visual," I suppose, because the telecast of a film plays such a central part. I wrote it, pretty much as it is presented here, in two sittings. My West Coast agent--the one who does film deals--had it by the end of the week. Early the following week, Steven Spielberg read it for Amazing Stories, a TV series which he then had in production (but which had not yet begun to air).

  Spielberg rejected it--they were looking for Amazing Stories that were a little more upbeat, he said--and so I took it to my long-time collaborator and good friend, Richard Rubinstein, who then had a series called Tales from the Darkside running in syndication. I won't say Richard blows his nose on happy endings--he likes a happily-ever-after as well as anyone, I think--but he's never shied away from a downer; he was the guy who got Pet Sematary made, after all (Pet Sematary and Thelma and Louise are, I think, the only major Hollywood films to end with the death of a major character or characters since the late 1970s).

  Richard bought "Sorry" the day he read it, and had it in production a week or two later. A month after that, it was telecast . . . as a season premiere, if my recollection serves. It is still one of the fastest turns from in-the-head to on-the-screen that I've ever heard of. This version, by the way, is my first draft, which is a little longer and a little more textured than the final shooting script, which for budgetary reasons specified just two sets. It is included here as an example of another kind of story-telling . . . different, but as valid as any other.

  "The Ten O'Clock People"--During the summer of 1992, I was walking around downtown Boston, looking for an address that kept eluding me. I eventually found the place I was looking for, but before I did, I found this story. My address-hunt took place around ten in the morning, and as I walked I began to notice groups of people clustered in front of every expensive highrise building, groups that made no sociological sense. There were carpenters hobnobbing with businessmen, janitors shooting the breeze with elegantly coiffed women in power clothes, messengers passing the time of day with executive secretaries.

  After I'd puzzled over these groups--granfalloons Kurt Vonnegut never imagined--for half an hour or so, the penny dropped: for a certain class of American city dweller, addiction has turned the coffee-break into the cigarette-break. The expensive buildings are now all no-smoking zones as the American people go calmly about one of the most amazing turnabouts of the twentieth century; we are purging ourselves of our bad old habit, we are doing it with hardly any fanfare, and the result has been some very odd pockets of sociological behavior. Those who refuse to give up their bad old habit--the Ten O'Clock People of the title--constitute one of these. The story is intended as no more than a simple amusement, but I hope it says something interesting about a wave of change which has, temporarily, at least, re-created some aspects of the separate-but-equal facilities of the forties and fifties.

  "The House on Maple Street"--Remember Richard Rubinstein, my producer friend? He was the guy who sent me my first copy of Chris Van Allsburg's The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Richard attached a note in his spiky handwriting: "You'll like this" was all it said, and all it really needed to say. I did like it.

  The book purports to be a series of drawings, titles, and captions by the eponymous Mr. Burdick--the stories themselves are not in evidence. Each combination of picture, title, and caption serves as a kind of Rorschach inkblot, perhaps offering more of an index to the reader/viewer's mind than to Mr. Van Allsburg's intentions. One of my favorites shows a man with a chair in his hand--he is obviously prepared to use it as a bludgeon if he needs to--looking at a strange and somehow organic bulge under the living-room carpet. "Two weeks passed and it happened again," the caption reads.

  Given my feelings about motivation, my attraction to this sort of thing should be clear. What happened again after two weeks? I don't think it matters. In our worst nightmares, there are only pronouns for the things which chase us back to wakefulness, sweating and shuddering with horror and relief.

  My wife, Tabitha, was also taken with The Mysteries of Harris Burdick, and it was she who suggested that each member of our family write a short story based on one of the pictures. She wrote one; so did our youngest son, Owen (then twelve). Tabby chose the first picture in the book; Owen chose one in the middle; I chose the last one. I have included my effort here, with the kind permission of Chris Van Allsburg. There's no more to add, except that I've read a slightly bowdlerized version of the tale to fourth-and fifth-graders several times over the last three or four years, and they seem to like it a great deal. I have an idea that what they really get off on is the idea of sending the Wicked Stepfather off into the Great Beyond. I certainly got off on it. The story has never been published before, mostly because of its tangled antecedents, and I am delighted to offer it here. I only wish I could offer my wife's and son's stories as well.

  "The Fifth Quarter"--Bachman again. Or maybe George Stark.

  "Umney's Last Case"--A pastiche--obviously--and paired with "The Doctor's Case" for that reason, but this one is a little more ambitious. I have loved Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald passionately since I discovered them in college (although I find it both instructive and a little scary to note that, while Chandler continues to be read and discussed, Macdonald's highly praised Lew Archer novels are now little-known artifacts outside the small circle of livre noir fans), and I think again it was the language of these novels which so fired my imagination; it opened a whole new way of seeing, one that appealed fiercely to the heart and mind of the lonely young man I was at that time.

  It was also a style which was lethally easy to copy, as half a hundred novelists have discovered in the last twenty or thirty years. For a long time I steered clear of that Chandlerian voice, because I had nothing to use it for . . . nothing to say in the tones of Philip Marlowe that was mine.

  Then one day I did. "Write what you know," the Wise Old Dudes tell us poor cometary remnants of Sterne and Dickens and Defoe and Melville, and for me, that means teaching, writing, and playing the guitar. . . though not necessarily in that order. As far as my own career-within-a-career of writing about writing goes, I'm reminded of a line I heard Chet Atkins toss off on Austin City Limits one night. He looked up at the audience after a minute or two of fruitless guitar-tuning and said, "It took me about twenty-five years to find out I wasn't very good at this part of it, and by then I was too rich to quit."

  Same thing happened to me. I seem destined to keep going back to that peculiar little town--whether you call it Rock and Roll Heaven, Oregon; Gatlin, Nebraska; or Willow, Maine--and I also seem destined to keep going back to what I do. The question which haunts and nags and won't ever completely let go is this one: Who am I when I write? Who are you, for that matter? Exactly what is happening here, and why, and does it matter?

  So, with these questions in mind, I pulled on my Sam Spade fedora, lit up a Lucky (metaphorically speaking, these days) and started to write. "Umney's Last Case" was the result, and of all the stories in this volume, it's the one I like the best. This is its first publication.

  "Head Down"--My first writing for pay was sports writing (for awhile I was the entire sports department of the weekly Lisbon Enterprise), but that didn't make this any easier. My proximity to the Bangor West All-Star team when it mounted its unlikely charge on the State Championship was either pure luck
or pure fate, depending on where you stand in regard to the possible existence of a higher power. I tend toward the higher power thesis, but in either case, I was only there because my son was on the team. Nevertheless, I quickly realized--more quickly than Dave Mansfield, Ron St. Pierre, or Neil Waterman, I think--that something pretty extraordinary was either happening or trying to happen. I didn't want to write about it, particularly, but something kept telling me I was supposed to write about it.

  My method of working when I feel out of my depth is brutally simple: I lower my own head and run as fast as I can, as long as I can. That was what I did here, gathering documentation like a mad packrat and simply trying to keep up with the team. For a month or so it was like living inside one of those corny sports novels with which many of us guys have whiled away our duller afternoon study-halls: Go Up for Glory, Power Forward, and occasional bright standouts like John R. Tunis's The Kid from Tomkinsville.

  Hard or not, "Head Down" was the opportunity of a lifetime, and before I was done, Chip McGrath of The New Yorker had coaxed the best nonfiction writing of my life out of me. I thank him for that, but I owe the most thanks to Owen and his teammates, who first made the story happen and then gave me permission to publish my version of it.

  "Brooklyn August"--It pairs with "Head Down," of course, but there's a better reason for putting it here, at what is almost the end of this long book: it has escaped the wearisome cage of its creator's questionable reputation and lived its own placid life quite apart from him. It has been reprinted several times in various anthologies of baseball curiosa, and appears to have been selected upon each occasion by editors who seem not to have the slightest idea of who I'm supposed to be or what it is I'm supposed to do. And I really like that.

  Okay; stick it on the shelf and take care of yourself until we meet again. Read a few good books, and if one of your brothers or sisters falls down and you see it happen, pick him or her up. After all, next time you might be the one who needs a hand . . . or a little help getting that pesky finger out of the drain, for that matter.

  Bangor, Maine September 16, 1992

  The Beggar and the Diamond

  AUTHOR'S NOTE: This little story--a Hindu parable in its original form--was first told to me by Mr. Surendra Patel, of Scarsdale, New York. I have adapted it freely and apologize to those who know it in its true form, where Lord Shiva and his wife, Parvati, are the major characters.

  One day the archangel Uriel came to God with a downcast face. "What troubles you?" God asked.

  "I have seen something very sad," Uriel replied, and then pointed between his feet. "Down there."

  "On earth?" God asked with a smile. "Oh! No shortage of sadness there! Well, let us see."

  They bent over together. Far below they saw a ragged figure trudging slowly along a country road on the outskirts of Chandrapur. He was very thin, this figure, and his legs and arms were covered with sores. Dogs frequently chased after him, barking, but the figure never turned to strike at them with his staff even when they nipped at his heels; he simply trudged onward, favoring his right leg as he walked. At one point a number of handsome, well-fed children with wicked smiling faces boiled out of a large house and threw stones at the ragged man when he held his empty begging bowl out to them.

  "Go away, you nasty thing!" one of them cried. "Go away into the fields and die!"

  At this, the archangel Uriel burst into tears.

  "Now, now," God said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff."

  "Yes, no doubt," Uriel said, drying his eyes. "It's just that the fellow down there seems to sum up everything which has ever gone wrong for all the sons and daughters of the earth."

  "Of course he does," God replied. "That is Ramu, and that is his job. When he dies, another will hold it. It is an honorable job."

  "Perhaps," Uriel said, covering his eyes with a shudder, "but I cannot bear to watch him do it. His sorrow fills my heart with darkness."

  "Darkness is not allowed here," said God, "and therefore I must take steps to change what has brought it to you. Look here, my good archangel."

  Uriel looked and saw that God was holding a diamond as big as a peacock's egg.

  "A diamond of this size and quality will feed Ramu for the rest of his life, and keep his descendants unto the seventh generation," God remarked. "It is, in fact, the finest on the earth. Now. . . let us see . . ." He leaned forward on His hands and knees, held the diamond out between two gauzy clouds, and let it drop. He and Uriel marked its fall closely, watching as it struck the center of the road upon which Ramu walked.

  The diamond was so large and so heavy that Ramu would no doubt have heard it strike the earth had he been a younger man, but his hearing had failed quite severely in the last few years, along with his lungs and his back and his kidneys. Only his eyesight remained as keen as it had been when he was one-and-twenty.

  As he struggled up a rise in the road, unaware of the huge diamond which lay gleaming and flashing on the far side in the hazy sunshine, Ramu sighed deeply . . . then stopped, bent over his staff, as his sigh turned into a fit of coughing. He held onto his staff with both hands, trying to weather the fit, and just as it was easing, the staff--old and dry and almost as worn-out as Ramu himself--snapped with a dry crack, pitching Ramu into the dust.

  He lay there, looking up at the sky and wondering why God was so cruel. "I have outlived all those I loved the most," he thought, "but not those I hate. I have grown so old and ugly that the dogs bark at me and the children throw stones at me. I have had nothing but scraps to eat these last three months, and no decent meal with family and friends for ten years or more. I am a wanderer on the face of the earth with no home to call my own; tonight I will sleep under a tree or a hedge with no roof to keep the rain off. I am covered with sores, my back aches, and when I pass water I see blood where no blood should be. My heart is as empty as my begging bowl."

  Ramu slowly got to his feet, unaware that less than sixty feet and a dry bulge of land hid his still-keen glance from the world's largest diamond, and looked up at the hazy blue sky. "God, I am unlucky," he said. "I do not hate You, but I fear You are not my friend, nor any man's friend."

  Having said this, he felt a little better and resumed his trudge, pausing only to pick up the longer piece of his broken staff. As he walked, he began to reproach himself for his self-pity and for his ungrateful prayer.

  "For I do have a few things to be grateful for," he reasoned. "The day is extraordinarily beautiful, for one thing, and although I have failed in many respects, my vision remains keen. Think how terrible it would be if I were blind!"

  To prove this to himself, Ramu closed his eyes tightly and shuffled along with his broken staff stretched out in front of him, as a blind man uses his cane. The darkness was terrible, stifling, and disorienting. He soon had no idea if he was moving on as he had been, or if he was wandering off to one side of the road or the other, and might soon go tumbling into the ditch. The thought of what could happen to his old, brittle bones in such a fall frightened him, but he kept his eyes firmly shut and continued to forge ahead.

  "This is just the thing to cure you of your ingratitude, old fellow!" he told himself. "You will spend the rest of the day remembering that you may be a beggar, but at least you are not a blind beggar, and you will be happy!"

  Ramu did not walk into the ditch on either side, but he did begin to drift off to the right of the road as he topped the rise and started down the far side, and this was how he walked past the huge diamond which lay glowing in the dust; his left foot missed it by less than two inches.

  Thirty yards or so farther on, Ramu opened his eyes. Bright summer sunshine flooded them, and seemed to flood his mind, as well. He looked with gladness at the dusty blue sky, the dusty yellow fields, the beaten-silver track of the road upon which he walked. He marked the passage of a bird from one tree to the next with laughter, and although he never turned once to see the huge diamond which lay close behind him, hi
s sores and his aching back were forgotten.

  "Thank God for sight!" he cried. "Thank God for that, at least! Perhaps I shall see something of value on the road--an old bottle worth money in the bazaar, or even a coin--but even if I do not, I shall look my fill. Thank God for sight! Thank God for God!"

  And, well satisfied, he set off again, leaving the diamond behind. God then reached down and scooped it up, replacing it beneath the mountain in Africa from which He had taken it. Almost as an afterthought (if God can be said to have afterthoughts), He plucked up an ironwood branch from the veldt and dropped it onto the Chandrapur Road, as He had dropped the diamond.

  "The difference is," God told Uriel, "our friend Ramu will find the branch, and it will serve him as a staff for the rest of his days."

  Uriel looked at God (as nearly as anyone--even an archangel--can look at that burning face, at least) uncertainly. "Have You given me a lesson, Lord?"

  "I don't know," God responded blandly. "Have I?"

  STEPHEN KING is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. Among his most recent are Just After Sunset, Duma Key, Lisey's Story, the Dark Tower novels, Cell, From a Buick 8, Everything's Eventual, Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, and Bag of Bones. In Stephen King Goes to the Movies, he reflects on the filming of five of his most popular short stories, including the making of The Shawshank Redemption and 1408. His acclaimed nonfiction book, On Writing, was also a bestseller. He was the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters and the 2007 Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.