The Waste Lands dt-3

by Stephen King

  I do not pretend to understand all the symbolism (e.g., “Lady of Shadows,” “gunslinger”) but it seems clear that you yourself are “The Prisoner” (of school, society, etc.) and that the educational system is “The Speaking Demon.” Is it possible that both “Roland” and “the gunslinger” are the same authority figure-your father, perhaps? I became so intrigued by this possibility that 1 looked up his name in your records. I note it is Elmer, but I further note that his middle initial is R.

  I find this extremely provocative. Or is this name a double symbol, drawn both from your father and from Robert Browning’s poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"? This is not a question I would ask most students, but of course I know how omnivorously you read!

  At any rate, I am extremely impressed. Younger students are often attracted to so-called “stream-of-consciousness” writing, but are rarely able to control it. You have done an outstanding job of merging s-of-c with symbolic language.

  Bravo!

  Drop by as soon as you’re “back at it”-I want to discuss possible publication of this piece in the first issue of next year’s student literary magazine.

  B. Avery

  P. S. If you left school today because you had sudden doubts about my ability to understand a Final Essay of such unexpected richness, I hope I have assuaged them.Jake pulled the sheet off the clip, revealing the title page of his stunningly original and richly symbolic Final Essay. Written and circled there in the red ink of Ms. Avery’s marking pen was the notation A +. Below this she had written EXCELLENT JOB!!!

  Jake began to laugh.

  The whole day-the long, scary, confusing, exhilarating, terrifying, mysterious day-was condensed in great, roaring sobs of laughter. He slumped in his chair, head thrown hack, hands clutching his belly, tears streaming down his face. He laughed himself hoarse. He would almost stop and then some line from Ms. Avery’s well-meaning critique would catch his eye and he would be off to the races again. He didn’t see his father come to the door, look in at him with puzzled, wary eyes, and then leave again, shaking his head.

  At last he did become aware that Mrs. Shaw was still sitting on his bed, looking at him with an expression of friendly detachment tinctured with faint curiosity. He tried to speak, but the laughter pealed out again before he could.

  I gotta stop, he thought. I gotta stop or it’s gonna kill me. I’ll have a stroke or a heart attack, or something.

  Then he thought, 7 wonder what she made of “choo-choo, choo-choo?,” and he began to laugh wildly again.

  At last the spasms began to taper off to giggles. He wiped his arm across his streaming eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shaw-it’s just that… well… I got an A-plus on my Final Essay. It was all very… very rich… and very sym… sym…”

  But he couldn’t finish. He doubled up with laughter again, holding his throbbing belly.

  Mrs. Shaw got up, smiling. “That’s very nice, John. I’m happy it’s all turned out so well, and I’m sure your folks will be, too. I’m awfully late-I think I’ll ask the doorman to call me a cab. Goodnight, and sleep well.”

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Shaw,” Jake said, controlling himself with an effort. “And thanks.”

  As soon as she was gone, he began to laugh again.

  21

  DURING THE NEXT HALF hour he had separate visits from both parents. They had indeed calmed down, and the A + grade on Jake’s Final Essay seemed to calm them further. Jake received them with his French text open on the desk before him, but he hadn’t really looked at it, nor did he have any intention of looking at it. He was only waiting for them to be gone so he could study the two books he had bought earlier that day. He had an idea that the real Final Exams were still waiting just over the horizon, and he wanted desperately to pass.

  His father poked his head into Jake’s room around quarter of ten, about twenty minutes after Jake’s mother had concluded her own short, vague visit. Elmer Chambers was holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other. He seemed not only calmer but almost zonked. Jake wondered briefly and indifferently if he had been hitting his mother’s Valium supply.

  “Are you okay, kid?”

  “Yes.” He was once again the small, neat boy who was always completely in control of himself. The eyes he turned to his father were not blazing but opaque.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry about before.” His father was not a man who made many apologies, and he did it badly. Jake found himself feeling a little sorry for him.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Hard day,” his father said. He gestured with the empty glass. “Why don’t we just forget it happened?” He spoke as if this great and logical idea had just come to him.

  “I already have.”

  “Good.” His father sounded relieved. “Time for you to get some sleep, isn’t it? You’ll have some explaining to do and some tests to take tomorrow.”

  “I guess so,” Jake said. “Is Mom okay?”

  “Fine. Fine. I’m going in the study. Got a lot of paperwork tonight.”

  “Dad?”

  His father looked back at him warily.

  “What’s your middle name?”

  Something in his father’s face told Jake that he had looked at the Final Essay grade but hadn’t bothered to read either the paper itself or Ms. Avery’s critique.

  “I don’t have one,” he said. “Just an initial, like Harry S Truman. Except mine’s an R. What brought that on?”

  “Just curious,” Jake said.

  He managed to hold onto his composure until his father was gone… but as soon as the door was closed, he ran to his bed and stuffed his face into his pillow to muffle another bout of wild laughter.

  22

  WHEN HE WAS SURE he was over the current fit (although an occasional snicker still rumbled up his throat like an aftershock) and his father would be safely locked away in his study with his cigarettes, his Scotch, his papers, and his little bottle of white powder, Jake went back to his desk, turned on the study lamp, and opened Charlie the Choo-Choo. He glanced briefly at the copyright page and saw it had originally been published in 1942; his copy was from the fourth printing. He looked at the back, but there was no information at all about Beryl Evans, the book’s author.

  Jake turned back to the beginning, looked at the picture of a grinning, blonde-haired man sitting in the cab of a steam locomotive, considered the proud grin on the man’s face, and then began to read.

  Bob Brooks was an engineer for the Mid-World Railway Company, on the St. Louis to Topeka run. Engineer Bob was the best trainman The Mid-World Railway Company ever had, and Charlie was the best train!

  Charlie was a 402 Big Boy Steam Locomotive, and Engineer Bob was the only man who had ever been allowed to sit in his peak-seat and pull the whistle. Everyone knew the WHOOO-OOOO of Charlie’s whistle, and whenever they heard it echoing across the flat Kansas countryside, they said, “There goes Charlie and Engineer Bob, the fastest team between St. Louis and Topeka!”

  Boys and girls ran into their yards to watch Charlie and Engineer Bob go by. Engineer Bob would smile and wave. The children would smile and wave back.

  Engineer Bob had a special secret. He was the only one who knew. Charlie the Choo-Choo was really, really alive. One day while they were making the run between Topeka and St. Louis, Engineer Bob heard singing, very soft and low.

  “Who is in the cab with me?” Engineer Bob said sternly.

  “You need to see a shrink, Engineer Bob,” Jake murmured, and turned the page. Here was a picture of Bob bending over to look beneath, Charlie the Choo-Choo’s automatic firebox. Jake wondered who was driving the train and watching out for cows (not to mention boys and girls) on the tracks while Bob was checking for stowaways, and guessed that Beryl Evans hadn’t known a lot about trains.

  “Don’t worry,” said a small, gruff voice. “It is only I.”

  “Who’s I?” Engineer Bob asked. He spoke in his biggest, sternest voice, because he still thoug
ht someone was playing a joke on him.

  “Charlie,” said the small, gruff voice.

  “Hardy har-har!” said Engineer Bob. “Trains can’t talk! I may not know much, but I know that! If you’re Charlie, I suppose you can blow your own whistle!”

  “Of course,” said the small, gruff voice, and just then the whistle made its big noise, rolling out across the Missouri plains: WHOOO-OOOO!

  “Goodness!” said Engineer Bob. “It really is you!”

  “I told you,” said Charlie the Choo-Choo.

  “How come I never knew you were alive before?” asked Engineer Bob. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me before?”

  Then Charlie sang this song to Engineer Bob in his small, gruff voice.

  Don’t ask me silly questions,

  I won’t play silly games.

  I’m just a simple choo-choo train

  And I’ll always be the same.

  I only want to race along

  Beneath the bright blue sky,

  And be a happy choo-choo train

  Until the day I die.

  “Will you talk to me some more when we’re making our run?” asked Engineer Bob. “I’d like that.”

  “I would, too,” said Charlie. “I love you, Engineer Bob.”

  “I love you too, Charlie,” said Engineer Bob, and then he blew the whistle himself, just to show how happy he was.

  WHOOO-OOO! It was the biggest and best Charlie had ever whistled, and everyone who heard it came out to see.The picture which illustrated this last was similar to the one on the cover of the book. In the previous pictures (they were rough drawings which reminded Jake of the pictures in his favorite kindergarten book, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel), the locomotive had been just a locomotive-cheery, undoubtedly interesting to the ’40s-era boys who had been this book’s intended audience, but still only a piece of machinery. In this picture, however, it had clearly human features, and this gave Jake a deep chill despite Charlie’s smile and the rather heavy-handed cuteness of the story.

  He didn’t trust that smile.

  He turned to his Final Essay and scanned down the lines. I’m pretty sure Blame is dangerous, he read, and that is the truth.

  He closed the folder, tapped his fingers on it thoughtfully for a few moments, then returned to Charlie the Choo-Choo.Engineer Bob and Charlie spent many happy days together and talked of many things. Engineer Bob lived alone, and Charlie was the first real friend he’d had since his wife died, long ago, in New York.

  Then one day, when Charlie and Engineer Bob returned to the roundhouse in St. Louis, they found a new diesel locomotive in Charlie’s berth. And what a diesel locomotive it was! 5,000 horsepower! Stainless steel couplers! Traction motors from the Utica Engine Works in Utica, New York! And sitting on top, behind the generator, were three bright yellow radiator cooling fans.

  “What is this?” Engineer Bob asked in a worried voice, but Charlie only sang his song in his smallest, gruffest voice:Don’t ask me silly questions, I won’t play silly games. I’m just a simple choo-choo train And I’ll always be the same.I only want to race along Beneath the bright blue sky, And be a happy choo-choo train Until the day I die.Mr. Briggs, the Roundhouse Manager, came over.

  “That is a beautiful diesel locomotive,” said Engineer Bob, “but you will have to move it out of Charlie’s berth, Mr. Briggs. Charlie needs a lube job this very afternoon.”

  “Charlie won’t be needing any more lube jobs, Engineer Bob,” said Mr. Briggs sadly. “This is his replacement-a brand-new Burlington Zephyr diesel loco. Once, Charlie was the best locomotive in the world, but now he is old and his boiler leaks. I am afraid the time has come for Charlie to retire.”

  “Nonsense!” Engineer Bob was mad! “Charlie is still full of zip and zowie! I will telegraph the head office of The Mid-World Railway Company! I will telegraph the President, Mr. Raymond Martin, myself! I know him, because he once gave me a Good Service Award, and afterwards Charlie and I took his little daughter for a ride. I let her pull the lanyard, and Charlie whistled his loudest for her!”

  “I am sorry, Bob,” said Mr. Briggs, ’Taut it was Mr. Martin himself who ordered the new diesel loco.”

  It was true. And so Charlie the Choo-Choo was shunted off to a siding in the furthest corner of Mid-World’s St. Louis yard to rust in the weeds. Now the HONNNK! HONNNK! of the Burlington Zephyr was heard on the St. Louis to Topeka run, and Charlie’s blew no more. A family of mice nested in the seat where Engineer Bob once sat so proudly, watching the countryside speed past; a family of swallows nested in his smokestack. Charlie was lonely and very sad. He missed the steel tracks and bright blue skies and wide open spaces. Sometimes, late at night, he thought of these things and cried dark, oily tears. This rusted his fine Stratham headlight, but he didn’t care, because now the Stratham headlight was old, and it was always dark.

  Mr. Martin, the President of The Mid-World Railway Company, wrote and offered to put Engineer Bob in the peak-seat of the new Burlington Zephyr. “It is a fine loco, Engineer Bob,” said Mr. Martin, “chock-full of zip and zowie, and you should be the one to pilot it! Of all the Engineers who work for Mid-World, you are the best. And my daughter Susannah has never forgotten that you let her pull old Charlie’s whistle.”

  But Engineer Bob said that if he couldn’t pilot Charlie, his days as a trainman were done. “I wouldn’t understand such a fine new diesel loco,” said Engineer Bob, “and it wouldn’t understand me.”

  He was given a job cleaning the engines in the St. Louis yards, and Engineer Bob became Wiper Bob. Sometimes the other engineers who drove the fine new diesels would laugh at him. “Look at that old fool!” they said. “He cannot understand that the world has moved on!”

  Sometimes, late at night, Engineer Bob would go to the far side of the rail yard, where Charlie the Choo-Choo stood on the rusty rails of the lonely siding which had become his home. Weeds had twined in his wheels; his headlight was rusty and dark. Engineer Bob always talked to Charlie, but Charlie replied less and less. Many nights he would not talk at all.

  One night, a terrible idea came into Engineer Bob’s head. “Charlie, are you dying?” he asked, and in his smallest, gruffest voice, Charlie replied:Don’t ask me silly questions, I won’t play silly games, I’m just a simple choo-choo train And I’ll always be the same.Now that I can’t race along Beneath the bright blue sky I guess that I’ll just sit right here Until I finally die.Jake looked at the picture accompanying this not-exactly-unexpected turn of events for a long time. Rough drawing it might be, but it was still definitely a three-handkerchief job. Charlie looked old, beaten, and forgotten. Engineer Bob looked like he had lost his last friend… which, according to the story, he had. Jake could imagine children all over America blatting their heads off at this point, and it occurred to him that there were a lot of stories for lads with stuff like this in them, stuff that threw acid all over your emotions. Hansel and Gretel being turned out into the forest, Bambi’s mother getting scragged by a hunter, the death of Old Yeller. It was easy to hurt little kids, easy to make them cry, and this seemed to bring out a strangely sadistic streak in many story-tellers… including, it seemed, Beryl Evans.

  But, Jake found, he was not saddened by Charlie’s relegation to the weedy wastelands at the outer edge of the Mid-World trainyards in St. Louis. Quite the opposite. Good, he thought. That’s the place for him. That’s the place, because he’s dangerous. Let him rot there, and don’t trust that tear in his eye-they say crocodiles cry, too.

  He read the rest rapidly. It had a happy ending, of course, although it was undoubtedly that moment of despair on the edge of the trainyards which children remembered long after the happy ending had slipped their minds.

  Mr. Martin, the President of The Mid-World Railway Company, came to St. Louis to check on the operation. His plan was to ride the Burlington Zephyr to Topeka, where his daughter was giving her first piano recital, that very afternoon. Only the Zephyr wouldn’t start. There was water in the d
iesel fuel, it seemed.

  (Were you the one who watered the diesel, Engineer Bob? Jake wondered. I bet it was, you sly dog, you!)

  All the other trains were out on their runs! What to do?

  Someone tugged Mr. Martin’s arm. It was Wiper Bob, only he no longer looked like an engine-wiper. He had taken off his oil-stained dungarees and put on a clean pair of overalls. On his head was his old pillowtick engineer’s cap.

  “Charlie’s is right over there, on that siding,” he said. “Charlie will make the run to Topeka, Mr. Martin. Charlie will get you there in time for your daughter’s piano recital.”

  “That old steamer?” scoffed Mr. Briggs. “Charlie would still be fifty miles out of Topeka at sundown!”

  “Charlie can do it,” Engineer Bob insisted. “Without a train to pull, I know he can! I have been cleaning his engine and his boiler in my spare time, you see.”

  “We’ll give it a try,” said Mr. Martin. “I would be sorry to miss Susannah’s first recital!”

  Charlie was all ready to go; Engineer Bob had filled his tender with fresh coal, and the firebox was so hot its sides were red. He helped Mr. Martin up into the cab and backed Charlie off the rusty, forgotten siding and onto the main track for the first time in years. Then, as he engaged Forward First, he pulled on the lanyard and Charlie gave his old brave cry: WHOOO-OOOOO!

  All over St. Louis the children heard that cry, and ran out into their yards to watch the rusty old steam loco pass. “Look!” they cried. “It’s Charlie! Charlie the Choo-Choo is back! Hurrah!” They all waved, and as Charlie steamed out of town, gathering speed, he blew his own whistle, just as he had in the old days: WHOOOO-OOOOOOO!

  Clickety-clack went Charlie’s wheels!

  Chuffa-chuffa went the smoke from Charlie’s stack!

  Brump-brump went the conveyor as it fed coal into the firebox!

  Talk about zip! Talk about zowie! Golly gee, gosh, and wowie! Charlie had never gone so fast before! The countryside went whizzing by in a blur! They passed the cars on Route 41 as if they were standing still!