Stephen King - The Plant

Five minutes went by, then seven. I'd made up my mind that he wasn't coming, and then the door squeaked open and a very cautious, very un-Porterly voice whispered, “Sandra?”

“Trot down here to the end,” said I, “and make it quick.”

He came down and opened the stall door. To say he looked excited would be an understatement. And he no longer looked as if he had a socket-wrench stuffed down the front of his pants. By then it looked more like a good-sized Craftsman hammer.

“Gee,” said I, reaching out to touch him, “I guess maybe the effect of that bicycle seat finally wore off.”

He started fumbling at his belt. It kept sliding through his fingers. It was sort of funny, but also very sweet. I pushed his hands away and did it myself.

“Quick,” he panted. “Oh, quick. Before it goes away.”

“This guy isn't going anywhere,” said I, although I did actually have a certain short-term storage site in mind. “Relax.”

“It was the plant,” he said. “The smell... oh my God, the smell... musky and dark, somehow... the way I'd always imagined the fields would smell in that county Faulkner wrote about, the one with the name no one can pronounce... oh Sandra, good Christ, I feel like I could pole-vault on this thing!”

“Shut up and change places with me,” I said. “You sit down and then I'll”

“To the devil with that,” he said, and lifted me up. He's strong—a lot stronger than I ever would have guessed—and almost before I knew what was happening, we were off to the races.

As races of this sort go, it was neither the longest nor the fastest in which I have ever run, but it wasn't bad, especially considering that Herb Porter was last laid around the time Nixon resigned, if he was telling me the truth. When he finally set me down, there were tears on his cheeks. Plus there's this: before leaving he a. thanked me and b. kissed me. I don't subscribe to many of the romantic ideals, I'm more of a Dorothy Parker type (“good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere”), but sweet is nice. The man who left ahead of me (pausing at the door and checking both ways before going out) seemed a lot different from the man who came stalking into my office with a load in his balls and a chip on his shoulder. That's the kind of judgement only time can confirm, and I know very well that men after sex usually turn into exactly the same men they were before sex, but I have hopes for Herb. And I never wanted to change his life; all I wanted was to clear away as much of the crap between us as I could, so we can work as a team. I never knew how much I wanted this job until this week. How much I wanted to make a success of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I'd run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of knee-pads.

Spent the rest of the day working on the joke book. How foul in concept, how scabrous in execution... and what a success it is going to be in an America that still longs for the death penalty and secretly believes (not everyone, but a goodly number of citizens, I'd bet) that Hitler had the right idea about eugenics. There is no shortage of these nasty, mean-spirited boogers, but the weird thing is how many I'm making up on my own.

What's red and white and has trouble turning corners? A baby with a javelin through its head.

What's small, brown, and spits? A baby in a frypan.

Little girl wakes up in the hospital and says, “Doctor! I can't feel my legs!” Doctor replies, “That's normal in cases where we have to amputate the arms.”

I am grossed out by my own inventiveness. Question is, is it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on sexual life?

Never mind. Weekend's almost here. Supposed to be warm, and if so I'm going to Cony Island with my favorite niece, our yearly rite of spring. A couple of days away from this place may help to put all questions in perspective. And Riddley's due back next week. I'll be hoping to comfort him in his time of sorrow as much as possible.

Keeping a journal reminds me of what old Doc Henries used to say after he gave me a tetanus shot when I was ten: “There, Sandra, that wasn't so bad, was it?”

Not at all. Not at all.

MESSAGE: I've made two calls since reading your Ms. Report. The first was to that astute business lad and all around prince of a guy, Harlow Enders. I lofted a trial balloon concerning a Zenith House hardcover, and despite dredging up a phrase which I thought would appeal to his presumed imagination (if you're wondering, it was “Event Publishing”), he shot it down at once. His stated reason is there is no h'cover infrastructure either at Zenith or in the larger world of Apex Corporation, but we both know better. The real issue is lack of confidence. All right, okay, fine.

Second call was to Alan Williams, a senior editor at Viking Press. Williams is one of the best in the business, and save your nasty (“Then how do you know him?”) question. The answer is, from The New York Health Club racquetball tournament, where the gods of chance paired us three years ago. We have played off and on ever since. Alan says that if the Saltworthy is as good as you say it is, that we can probably swing a soft-to-hard deal, with Viking doing the h'cover and Zenith the pb. I know it isn't precisely what we wanted, John, but think of it this way: did you ever in your life believe there might come a day when we would be doing the pb edition of a Viking Press book? Little Zenith? And as for the cynical Mr. Saltworthy, I think you could say his luck has changed with a vengeance. We might have been able to swing $20,000, and that much only if we'd been able to get Enders enthusiastically on board. With Viking as a partner, we may be able to score this guy a $100,000 advance. That's my salary for almost four years.

Williams wants to see the ms. ASAP. You should take a copy over to their offices on Madison Avenue yourself. Put on a title page that says something like LAST SEASON, by John Oceanby. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but Williams thinks it's necessary, and so do I.

Roger

PS: Make me a copy that I can take home and read over the weekend, would you?

Are you saying you set all this in motion without reading the book? That takes my breath away.

John

MESSAGE: You're my guy, John. We may have had our differences from time to time, but I've never doubted your editorial judgement for a single moment. If you say this is the one, this is the one. On that score, the ivy makes no difference. You're my guy. And while I probably don't need to tell you this, I will: no contact with James Saltworthy until we hear from Alan Williams. Okay?

Roger

To say I'm touched by your confidence in me doesn't go far enough, boss. Especially after the Detweiller fuck-up. Fact is, I'm sitting here at my desk and damned near blubbering on my blotter. All will be as you say. My lips are sealed.

John

PS: You do know, don't you, that Saltworthy must have already sent the book to Viking?

MESSAGE: First, no blubbering on the blotter—blotters cost money, and as you know, all expenses must now be forwarded to the parent company on a week by week basis (if we needed another sign that The End Is Near, surely that's it). Blubber in your wastebasket... or go on down to Riddley's former quarters and water the plant with your grateful tears.