Stephen King - The Tommyknockers

If he had put it more delicately, Gard might have been okay. Instead, he found himself in the bar with Ron Cummings, raising a jolly Jack Daniel's to his lips and telling himself the old one about how he could choke it off when he really wanted to.

Ron Cummings was a good, serious poet who just happened to have money practically falling out of his asshole… or so he often told people. “I am my own de Medici,” he would say; “I have money practically falling out of my asshole.” His family had been in textiles for roughly nine hundred years and owned most of southern New Hampshire. They thought Ron was crazy, but because he was the second son, and because the first one was not crazy (i. e., interested in textiles), they let Ron do what he wanted to do, which was write poems, read poems, and drink almost constantly. He was a narrow young man with a TB face. Gardener had never seen him eat anything but beer-nuts and goldfish crackers. To his dubious credit, he had no idea of Gardener's own problem with booze… or the fact that he had come very close to killing his wife while drunk.

“Okay,” Gardener said. “I'm up for it. Let's get “faced”.”

After a few drinks in the hotel bar, Ron suggested that a couple of smart fellers like them could find a place with entertainment a tad more exciting than the piped-in Muzak drifting down from the overhead speakers. “I think my heart can take it,” Ron said. “I mean, I'm not sure, but-”

God hates a coward,” Gardener finished.

Ron cackled, clapped him on the back, and called for THE TAB. He signed it with a flourish and then added a generous tip from his money clip. “Let's boogie, m'man.” And off they went.

The late-afternoon sun lanced Gardener's eyes like glass spears and it suddenly occurred to him that this might be a bad idea.

“Listen, Ron,” he said, “I think maybe I'll just-”

Cummings clapped him on the shoulder, his formerly pale cheeks flushed, his formerly watery blue eyes blazing (to Gard, Cummings now looked rather like Toad of Toad Hall after the acquisition of his motor-car), and cajoled: “Don't crap out on me now, Jim! Boston lies before us, so various and new, glistening like the fresh ejaculate of a young boy's first wetdream

Gardener burst into helpless gales of laughter.

“That's more like the Gardener we've all come to know and love,” Ron said, cackling himself.

“God hates a coward,” Gardener said. “Hail us a cab, Ronnie.”

He saw it then: the funnel in the sky. Big and black and getting closer. Soon it was going to touch down and carry him away.

Not to Oz, though.

A cab pulled over to the curb. They got in. The driver asked them where they wanted to go.

“Oz,” Gardener muttered.

Ron cackled. “What he means is someplace where they drink fast and dance faster. Think you can manage that?”

“Oh, I think so,” the driver said, and pulled out.

Gardener draped an arm around Ron's shoulders and cried: “Let the wild rumpus start!”

“I'll drink to that,” Ron said.

Gardener awoke the next morning fully dressed in a tubful of cold water. His best set of clothes-which he'd had the misfortune to be wearing when he and Ron Cummings set sail the day before-were bonding themselves slowly to his skin. He looked at his fingers and saw they were very white and very pruney. Fishfingers. He'd been here for a while, apparently. The water might even have been hot when he climbed in. He didn't remember.

He opened the tub's drain. Saw a bottle of bourbon standing on the toilet seat. It was half-full, its surface bleary with some sort of grease. He picked it up. The grease smelled vaguely of fried chicken. Gardener was more interested in the aroma coming from inside the bottle. Don't do this, he thought, but the neck of the bottle was rapping against his teeth before the thought was even half-finished. He had a drink. Blacked out again.

When he came to, he was standing naked in his bedroom with the phone to his ear and the vague idea that he had just finished dialing a number. Whose? He had no idea until Cummings answered. Cummings sounded even worse than Gardener felt. Gardener would have sworn this was impossible.

“How bad was it?” Gardener heard himself ask. It was always this way when he was in the grip of the cyclone; even when he was conscious, everything seemed to have the gray grainy texture of a tabloid photograph, and he never seemed to exactly be inside of himself. A lot of the time he seemed to be floating above his own head, like a kid's silvery Puffer balloon. “How much trouble did we get into?”

“Trouble?” Cummings repeated, and then fell silent. At least Gardener thought he was thinking. Hoped he was thinking. Or maybe dreaded the idea. He waited, his hands very cold. “No trouble,” Cummings said at last, and Gard relaxed a little. “Except for my head, that is. I got my head in plenty of trouble. Jee-zus!”

“You sure? Nothing? Nothing at all?”

He was thinking of Nora.

Shot your wife, uh? a voice spoke up suddenly in his mind-the voice of the deputy with the comic book. Good fucking deal.

“We-ell…” Cummings said reflectively, and then stopped.

Gardener's hand clenched tight on the phone again.

“Well what?” Suddenly the lights in the room were too bright. Like the sun when they had stepped out of the hotel late yesterday afternoon.

You did something. You had another fucking blackout and did another stupid thing. Or crazy thing. Or horrible thing. When are you going to learn to leave it alone? Or can you learn?

An exchange from an old movie clanged stupidly into his mind.

Evil El Comandante: Tomorrow before daybreak, senor, you will be dead! You have seen the sun for the last time!

Brave Americano: Yeah, but you'll be bald for the rest of your life.

“What was it?” he asked Ron. “What did I do?”

“You got into an argument with some guys at a place called The Stone Country Bar and Grille,” Cummings said. He laughed a little. “Ow! Christ, when it hurts to laugh, you know you abused yourself. You remember The Stone Country Bar and Grille and them thar good ole boys, James, my dear?”

He said he didn't. By really straining, he could remember a place called Smith Brothers. The sun had just been going down in a kettle of blood, and this being late June, that meant it had been… what? eight-thirty? quarter of nine? about five hours after he and Ron had gotten started, give or take. He could remember the sign outside bore the likeness of the famous cough-drop siblings. He could remember arguing furiously about Wallace Stevens with Cummings, shouting to be heard over the juke, which had been thundering out something by John Fogarty. It was where the last jagged edges of memory came to a halt.

“It was the place with the WAYLON JENNINGS FOR PRESIDENT bumper-sticker over the bar,” Cummings said. “That refresh the old noggin?”

“No,” Gardener said miserably.

“Well, you got into an argument with a couple of the good ole boys. Words were passed. These words grew first warm and then hot. A punch was thrown.”

“By me?” Gardener's voice was now only dull.

“By you,” Cummings agreed cheerfully. “At which point we flew through the air with the greatest of ease, landing on the sidewalk. I thought we got off pretty cheap, to tell you the truth. You had them frothing, Jim.”

“Was it about Seabrook or Chernobyl?”

“Shit, you do remember!”

“If I remembered, I wouldn't be asking you which one it was.”

“As a matter of fact, it was both.” Cummings hesitated. “Are you all right, Gard? You sound real low.”

Yeah? Well, actually, Ron, I'm way up. Up in the cyclone. Going around and around and up and down, and where it ends nobody knows.