Everything's Eventual

by Stephen King

  “Of course,” he said. “Happy to listen, Steve.”

  “I’ve got two things for you. First, you mean ‘preparatory to ending your marriage,’ not ‘prefatory to dissolving your domestic corporation’ … and if Diane thinks I’m going to try and cheat her out of what’s hers, she’s wrong.”

  “Yes,” Humboldt said, not indicating agreement but that he understood my point.

  “Second, you’re her lawyer, not mine. I find you calling me by my first name patronizing and insensitive. Do it again on the phone and I’ll hang up on you. Do it to my face and I’ll probably try to punch your lights out.”

  “Steve … Mr. Davis … I hardly think—”

  I hung up on him. It was the first thing I’d done that gave me any pleasure since finding that note on the dining room table, with her three apartment keys on top of it to hold it down.

  That afternoon I talked to a friend in the legal department, and he recommended a friend of his who did divorce work. The divorce lawyer was John Ring, and I made an appointment with him for the following day. I went home from the office as late as I could, walked back and forth through the apartment for awhile, decided to go out to a movie, couldn’t find anything I wanted to see, tried the television, couldn’t find anything there to look at, either, and did some more walking. And at some point I found myself in the bedroom, standing in front of an open window fourteen floors above the street, and chucking out all my cigarettes, even the stale old pack of Viceroys from the very back of my top desk drawer, a pack that had probably been there for ten years or more—since before I had any idea there was such a creature as Diane Coslaw in the world, in other words.

  Although I’d been smoking between twenty and forty cigarettes a day for twenty years, I don’t remember any sudden decision to quit, nor any dissenting interior opinions—not even a mental suggestion that maybe two days after your wife walks out is not the optimum time to quit smoking. I just stuffed the full carton, the half carton, and the two or three half-used packs I found lying around out the window and into the dark. Then I shut the window (it never once occurred to me that it might have been more efficient to throw the user out instead of the product; it was never that kind of situation), lay down on my bed, and closed my eyes. As I drifted off, it occurred to me that tomorrow was probably going to be one of the worst days of my life. It further occurred to me that I would probably be smoking again by noon. I was right about the first thing, wrong about the second.

  The next ten days—the time during which I was going through the worst of the physical withdrawal from nicotine—were difficult and often unpleasant, but perhaps not as bad as I had thought they would be. And although I was on the verge of smoking dozens—no, hundreds—of times, I never did. There were moments when I thought I would go insane if I didn’t have a cigarette, and when I passed people on the street who were smoking I felt like screaming Give that to me, motherfucker, that’s mine! at them, but I didn’t.

  For me, the worst times were late at night. I think (but I’m not sure; all my thought processes from around the time Diane left are very blurry in my mind) I had an idea that I would sleep better if I quit, but I didn’t. I lay awake some mornings until three, hands laced together under my pillow, looking up at the ceiling, listening to sirens and to the rumble of trucks headed downtown. At those times I would think about the twenty-four-hour Korean market almost directly across the street from my building. I would think about the white fluorescent light inside, so bright it was almost like a KüblerRoss near-death experience, and how it spilled out onto the sidewalk between the displays which, in another hour, two young Korean men in white paper hats would begin to fill with fruit. I would think about the older man behind the counter, also Korean, also in a paper hat, and the formidable racks of cigarettes behind him, as big as the stone tablets Charlton Heston brought down from Mount Sinai in The Ten Commandments. I would think about getting up, dressing, going over there, getting a pack of cigarettes (or maybe nine or ten of them), and sitting by the window, smoking one Marlboro after another as the sky lightened to the east and the sun came up. I never did, but on many early mornings I went to sleep counting cigarette brands instead of sheep: Winston … Winston 100s … Virginia Slims … Doral … Merit … Merit 100s … Camels … Camel Filters … Camel Lights.

  Later—around the time I was starting to see the last three or four months of our marriage in a clearer light, as a matter of fact—I began to understand that my decision to quit smoking when I did was perhaps not so unconsidered as it at first seemed, and a very long way from ill-considered. I’m not a brilliant man, not a brave one, either, but that decision might have been both. It’s certainly possible; sometimes we rise above ourselves. In any case, it gave my mind something concrete to pitch upon in the days after Diane left; it gave my misery a vocabulary it would not otherwise have had.

  Of course I have speculated that quitting when I did may have played a part in what happened at the Gotham Café that day, and I’m sure there’s some truth to that. But who can foresee such things? None of us can predict the final outcomes of our actions, and few of us even try; most of us just do what we do to prolong a moment’s pleasure or to stop the pain. And even when we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone’s blood.

  Humboldt called me again two weeks after the evening when I’d bombed West Eighty-third Street with my cigarettes, and this time he stuck with Mr. Davis as a form of address. He thanked me for the copies of various documents forwarded him through Mr. Ring and said that the time had come for “all four of us” to sit down to lunch. All four of us meant Diane. I hadn’t seen her since the morning of the day she’d left, and even then I hadn’t really seen her; she’d been sleeping with her face buried in her pillow. I hadn’t even talked to her. My heart speeded up in my chest, and I could feel a pulse tapping away in the wrist of the hand holding the telephone.

  “There are a number of details to be worked out, and a number of pertinent arrangements to be discussed, and this seems to be the time to put that process in work,” Humboldt said. He chuckled fatly in my ear, like a repulsive adult giving a child some minor treat. “It’s always best to let some time pass before bringing the principals together, a little cooling-off period, but in my judgement a face-toface meeting at this time would facilitate—”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re talking about—”

  “Lunch,” he said. “The day after tomorrow? Can you clear that on your schedule?” Of course you can, his voice said. Just to see her again … to experience the slightest touch of her hand. Eh, Steve?

  “I don’t have anything on for lunch Thursday anyhow, so that’s not a problem. And I should bring my lawyer?”

  The fat chuckle came again, shivering in my ear like something just turned out of a Jell-O mold. “I imagine Mr. Ring would like to be included, yes.”

  “Did you have a place in mind?” I wondered for a moment who would be paying for this lunch, and then had to smile at my own naiveté. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette and poked the tip of a toothpick under my thumbnail instead. I winced, brought the pick out, checked the tip for blood, saw none, and stuck it in my mouth.

  Humboldt had said something, but I had missed it. The sight of the toothpick had reminded me all over again that I was floating smokeless on the waves of the world.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I asked if you know the Gotham Café on Fifty-third Street,” he said, sounding a touch impatient now. “Between Madison and Park.”

  “No, but I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Noon?”

  “Noon’s fine,” I said, and thought of telling him to tell Diane to wear the green dress with the little black speckles and the slit up the side. “I’ll just check with my lawyer.” It occurred to me that that was a pompous, hateful little phrase, one I couldn’t wait to stop using.

  “Do that, and call me back if there’s a problem.”

&
nbsp; I called John Ring, who hemmed and hawed enough to justify his retainer (not outrageous, but considerable) and then said he supposed a meeting was in order “at this time.”

  I hung up, settled back in front of my computer terminal, and wondered how I was possibly going to be able to meet Diane again without at least one cigarette beforehand.

  On the morning of our scheduled lunch, John Ring called and told me he couldn’t make it, and that I would have to cancel. “It’s my mother,” he said, sounding harried. “She fell down the damned stairs and broke her hip. Out in Babylon. I’m leaving now for Penn Station. I’ll have to take the train.” He spoke in the tone of a man saying he’ll have to go by camel across the Gobi.

  I thought for a second, jiggling a fresh toothpick between my fingers. Two used ones lay beside my computer terminal, the ends frayed. I was going to have to watch that; it was all too easy to imagine my stomach filling up with sharp little splinterettes. The replacement of one bad habit with another seems almost inevitable, I’ve noticed.

  “Steven? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry about your mother, but I’m going to keep the lunch-date.”

  He sighed, and when he spoke he sounded sympathetic as well as harried. “I understand that you want to see her, and that’s the reason why you have to be very careful, and make no mistakes. You’re not Donald Trump and she’s not Ivana, but this isn’t a no-faulter we got here, either, where you get your decree by registered mail. You’ve done very well for yourself, Steven, especially in the last five years.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And for thuhree of those years,” Ring overrode me, now putting on his courtroom voice like an overcoat, “Diane Davis was not your wife, not your live-in companion, and not by any stretch of the imagination your helpmate. She was just Diane Coslaw from Pound Ridge, and she did not go before you tossing flower-petals or blowing a cornet.”

  “No, but I want to see her.” And what I was thinking would have driven him mad: I wanted to see if she was wearing the green dress with the black speckles, because she knew damned well it was my favorite.

  He sighed again. “I can’t have this discussion, or I’m going to miss my train. There isn’t another one until one-oh-one.”

  “Go and catch your train.”

  “I will, but first I’m going to make one more effort to get through to you. A meeting like this is like a joust. The lawyers are the knights; the clients are reduced, for the time being, to no more than squires with Sir Barrister’s lance in one hand and the reins of his horse in the other.” His tone suggested that this was an old image, and well-loved. “What you’re telling me is that, since I can’t be there, you’re going to hop on my nag and go galloping at the other guy with no lance, no armor, no faceplate, probably not even a jockstrap.”

  “I want to see her,” I said. “I want to see how she is. How she looks. Hey, without you there, maybe Humboldt won’t even want to talk.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice,” he said, and came out with a small, cynical laugh. “I’m not going to talk you out of it, am I?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then I want you to follow certain instructions. If I find out you haven’t, and that you’ve gummed up the works, I may decide it would be simpler to just resign the case. Are you hearing me?”

  “I’m hearing you.”

  “Good. Don’t yell at her, Steven. That’s big number one. Are you hearing that?”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t going to yell at her. If I could quit smoking two days after she had walked out—and stick to it—I thought I could get through a hundred minutes and three courses without calling her a bitch.

  “Don’t yell at him, that’s number two.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t just say okay. I know you don’t like him, and he doesn’t like you much, either.”

  “He’s never even met me. How can he have an opinion about me one way or another?”

  “Don’t be dense,” he said. “He’s being paid to have an opinion, that’s how. So say okay like you mean it.”

  “Okay like I mean it.”

  “Better.” But he didn’t say it like he really meant it; he said it like a man who is checking his watch.

  “Don’t get into substantive matters,” he said. “Don’t discuss financial-settlement issues, not even on a ‘What would you think if I suggested this’ basis. If he gets pissed off and asks why you kept the lunch-date if you weren’t going to discuss nuts and bolts, tell him just what you told me, that you wanted to see your wife again.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if they leave at that point, can you live with it?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know if I could or not, but I thought I could, and I knew that Ring wanted to catch his train.

  “As a lawyer—your lawyer—I’m telling you that this is a bullshit move, and that if it backfires in court, I’ll call a recess just so I can pull you out into the hall and say I told you so. Now have you got that?”

  “Yes. Say hello to your mother.”

  “Maybe tonight,” Ring said, and now he sounded as if he were rolling his eyes. “I won’t get a word in until then. I have to run, Steven.”

  “Okay.”

  “I hope she stands you up.”

  “I know you do.”

  He hung up and went to see his mother, out in Babylon. When I saw him next, a few days later, there was something between us that didn’t quite bear discussion, although I think we would have talked about it if we had known each other even a little bit better. I saw it in his eyes and I suppose he saw it in mine, as well—the knowledge that if his mother hadn’t fallen down the stairs and broken her hip, he might have wound up as dead as William Humboldt.

  I walked from my office to the Gotham Café, leaving at eleven-fifteen and arriving across from the restaurant at eleven-forty-five. I got there early for my own peace of mind—to make sure the place was where Humboldt had said it was, in other words. That’s the way I am, and pretty much the way I’ve always been. Diane used to call it my “obsessive streak” when we were first married, but I think that by the end she knew better. I don’t trust the competence of others very easily, that’s all. I realize it’s a pain-in-the-ass characteristic, and I know it drove her crazy, but what she never seemed to realize was that I didn’t exactly love it in myself, either. Some things take longer to change than others, though. And some things you can never change, no matter how hard you try.

  The restaurant was right where Humboldt had said it would be, the location marked by a green awning with the words GOTHAM CAFÉ on it. A white city skyline was traced across the plate-glass windows. It looked New York–trendy. It also looked pretty unamazing, just one of the eight hundred or so pricey restaurants crammed together in midtown.

  With the meeting-place located and my mind temporarily set at rest (about that, anyway; I was tense as hell about seeing Diane again and craving a cigarette like mad), I walked up to Madison and browsed in a luggage store for fifteen minutes. Mere windowshopping was no good; if Diane and Humboldt came from uptown, they might see me. Diane was liable to recognize me by the set of my shoulders and the hang of my topcoat even from behind, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want them to know I’d arrived early. I thought it might look needy. So I went inside.

  I bought an umbrella I didn’t need and left the shop at straight up noon by my watch, knowing I could step through the door of the Gotham Café at twelve-oh-five. My father’s dictum: If you need to be there, show up five minutes early. If they need you to be there, show up five minutes late. I had reached a point where I didn’t know who needed what or why or for how long, but my father’s dictum seemed like the safest course. If it had been just Diane alone, I think I would have arrived dead on time.

  No, that’s probably a lie. I suppose if it had just been Diane, I would have gone in at eleven-forty-five, when I first arrived, and waited for her.

  I stood under the awning for a moment,
looking in. The place was bright, and I marked that down in its favor. I have an intense dislike for dark restaurants where you can’t see what you’re eating or drinking. The walls were white and hung with vibrant Impressionist drawings. You couldn’t tell what they were, but that didn’t matter; with their primary colors and broad, exuberant strokes, they hit your eyes like visual caffeine. I looked for Diane and saw a woman that might be her, seated about halfway down the long room and by the wall. It was hard to say, because her back was turned and I don’t have her knack of recognition under difficult circumstances. But the heavyset, balding man she was sitting with certainly looked like a Humboldt. I took a deep breath, opened the restaurant door, and went in.

  There are two phases of withdrawal from tobacco, and I’m convinced that it’s the second that causes most cases of recidivism. The physical withdrawal lasts ten days to two weeks, and then most of the symptoms—sweats, headaches, muscle twitches, pounding eyes, insomnia, irritability—disappear. What follows is a much longer period of mental withdrawal. These symptoms may include mild to moderate depression, mourning, some degree of anhedonia (emotional flat-line, in other words), forgetfulness, even a species of transient dyslexia. I know all this stuff because I read up on it. Following what happened at the Gotham Café, it seemed very important that I do that. I suppose you’d have to say that my interest in the subject fell somewhere between the Land of Hobbies and the Kingdom of Obsession.

  The most common symptom of phase-two withdrawal is a feeling of mild unreality. Nicotine improves synaptic transferral and improves concentration—widens the brain’s information highway, in other words. It’s not a big boost, and not really necessary to successful thinking (although most confirmed cigarette junkies believe differently), but when you take it away, you’re left with a feeling—a pervasive feeling, in my case—that the world has taken on a decidedly dreamy cast. There were many times when it seemed to me that people and cars and the little sidewalk vignettes I observed were actually passing by me on a moving screen, a thing controlled by hidden stagehands turning enormous cranks and revolving enormous drums. It was also a little like being mildly stoned all the time, because the feeling was accompanied by a sense of helplessness and moral exhaustion, a feeling that things had to simply go on the way they were going, for good or for ill, because you (except of course it’s me I’m talking about) were just too damned busy not-smoking to do much of anything else.