Stephen King - The Plant

The only one of us to have problems getting with the program was Herb Porter, and his distraction had nothing to do with Zenith the common ivy. At least not directly. He kept shooting reproachful, bewildered glances at Sandra, and thanks to the mind-meld, I knew why. Bill and Roger did, too. It seems that over the last half-year or so, Mr. Riddley Walker of Bug's Anus, Alabama has been waxing more than the floors here at Zenith House.

“Herb?” Roger asked. “Are you with us or agin us?”

Herb kind of snapped around, like a man who's just been awakened from a doze. “Huh? Yeah! Of course!”

“I don't think you are, not entirely. And I want you with us. The good bark Zenith has sprung one hell of a nasty leak, in case you haven't noticed. If we're going to keep her from sinking, we need all hands at the pumps. No frigging in the rigging. Do you take my point?”

“I take it,” Herb said sullenly.

Sandra, meanwhile, gave him a look which contained nothing but perplexity. I think she knows what Herb knows (and that we all know). She just can't understand why in God's name Herb would care. Men don't understand women, I know that's true... but women deeply don't understand men. And if they did, they probably wouldn't have much to do with us.

“All right,” Roger said, “suppose you tell us what, if anything, is being done with the General Hecksler book.”

To Roger's delight and amazement, a great deal has been done on the Iron-Guts bio, and in a very short time. While Roger and I were in Central Falls, Herb Porter was one busy little bee. Not only has he engaged Olive Barker as the ghost on The Devil's General, he's gotten her solemn promise to deliver a sixty thousand-word first draft in just three weeks.

To say that I was surprised by this quick action would be drawing it mild. In my previous experience, Herb Porter only moves fast when Riddley comes down the hall yelling, “Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine! Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine!”

“Three weeks, man, I don't know,” Bill said dubiously. “Stroke aside, Olive's got this little problem.” He mimed swallowing a handful of pills.

“That's the best part,” Herb said. “Mademoiselle Barker is clean, at least for the time being. She's going to those meetings and everything. You know she was always the fastest on-demand writer we had when she was straight.”

“Clean copy, too,” I said. “At least it used to be.”

“Can she stay clean for three weeks, do you think?”

“She'll stay clean,” Herb said grimly. “For the next three weeks, I'm Olive Barker's personal sponsor. She gets calls three times a day. If I hear so much as a single slurred s, and I'm over there with a stomach-pump. And an enema bag.”

“Please,” Sandra said, grimacing.

Herb ignored her. “But that's not all. Wait.”

He darted out, crossed the hall to the glorified closet that's his office (on the wall is a poster-sized photo of General Anthony Hecksler which Herb throws darts at when he's bored), and came back with a sheaf of paper. He looked uncharacteristically shy as he put them in Roger's hands.

Instead of looking at the manuscript—because of course that was what it was—Roger looked at Herb, eyebrows raised.

For a moment I thought Herb was having an allergic reaction, perhaps as a result of some skin sensitivity to ivy leaves. Then I realized he was blushing. I saw this, but the idea still seems foreign to me, like the idea of Clint Eastwood blubbering into his mommy's lap.

“It's my account of the Twenty Psychic Garden Flowers business,” Herb said. “I think it's pretty good, actually. Only about thirty per cent of it is actually true—I never tackled Iron-Guts and brought him to his knees when he showed up here waving a knife, for instance...”

True enough, I thought, since Hecksler never showed up here at all, to the best of our knowledge.

“...but it makes good reading. I... I was inspired.” Herb lowered his face for a moment, as if the idea of inspiration struck him as somehow shameful. Then he raised his head again and looked around at us defiantly. “Besides, the goddam loony's dead, and I don't expect any trouble from his sister, especially if we bring her into the tent to help with the book and slip her a couple of hundred for her... well, call it creative assistance.”

Roger was looking through the pages Herb had handed him, pretty much ignoring this flood of verbiage. “Herb,” he said. “There's... my goodness gracious, there's thirty-eight pages here. That's close to ten thousand words. When did you do it?”

“Last night,” he said, looking down at the floor again. His cheeks were brighter than ever. “I told you, I was inspired.”

Sandra and Bill looked impressed, but not as impressed as I felt. To the best of my knowledge, only Thomas Wolfe was a ten-thousand-a-day man. Certainly it overshadows my pitiful clackings on this Olivetti. And as Roger leafed through the pages again, I saw less than a dozen strikeovers and interlinings. God, he must have been inspired.

“This is terrific, Herb,” Roger said, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. “If the writing's okay—based on your memos and summaries I have every reason to think it will be—it's going to be the heart of the book.” Herb flushed again, this time I think with pleasure.

Sandra was looking at his manuscript. “Herb, do you think writing that so fast... do you think it had anything to do with... you know...”

“Sure it did,” Bill said. “Must have. Don't you think so, Herb?”

I could see Herb struggling, wanting to take credit for the ten thousand words that were going to form the dramatic heart of The Devil's General, and then (I swear this is true) I could sense his thoughts turning to the plant, to the spectacular richness of it when Bill Gelb yanked open the door and it came sprawling out of its closet.

“Of course it was the plant,” he said. “I mean, it had to have been. I've never written anything that good in my life.”

And I could guess who the hero of the piece would turn out to be, but I kept my mouth shut. On that subject, at least. On another one, I thought it prudent to open it.

“In Tina Barfield's letter to me,” I said, “she told me that when we read about Carlos's death, not to believe it. Then she said, 'Like the General. ' I repeat: 'Like the General. ' “

“That is utter and complete bullshit,” Herb said, but he sounded uneasy, and a lot of the color faded out of his cheeks. “The guy crawled into a goddamned gas oven and gave himself a Viking funeral. The cops found his gold teeth, each engraved with the number 7, for 7th Army. And if that's not enough, they also found the lighter Douglas MacArthur gave him. He never would have given that up. Never.”

“So maybe he's dead,” Bill said. “According to Roger and John, this guy Keen was dead, too, but he was still lively enough to read the used-car ads in the newspaper.”

“Mr. Keen just had his heart torn out, though,” Herb said. He spoke almost nonchalantly, as if getting your heart torn out was roughly the same as ripping a hangnail off on the trunk-latch of your car. “There wasn't anything left of Iron-Guts but ashes, teeth, and a few lumps of bone.”

“There is, however, that tulpa business,” Roger reminded him. All of us sitting around and discussing this stuff with perfect calmness, as though it were the plot of Anthony LaScorbia's newest big-bug book.

“What exactly is a tulpa?” Bill asked.

“I don't know,” Roger said, “but I will tomorrow.”

“You will?”

“Yes. Because you're going to research the subject at the New York Public Library before you go home tonight.”

Bill groaned. “Roger, that's not fair! If there's a military-type tulpa out there, it's Herb's tulpa.”