One of my favorite parts of the full body of work by Uncle Stevie is his ability to intertwine his stories together. If you read Apt Pupil, the Nazi’s accountant is a fancy banker named Andy Dufrense before he ended up in Shawshank. There are the many stories that take place in Castle Rock. A fictional town that has had its share of bad luck. To me it’s fun because I’m in on the joke, so to speak. I get the cross-references and it usually makes me recall another character, event, or emotional response to his writing from the past that makes me smile, or grimace as the case may be. And as I’ve written before (I think), Uncle Stevie’s books help me to sleep. I feel comforted knowing my lot in life is not as bad as the characters. It soothes me. Gives me perspective.
I got 11/22/63 for Christmas. Big bulking book from dear Stephen King. I opted not to put this one into the reserves. My reserves are select titles by Uncle Stevie that are unread for the day when the man finally does stop putting pen to paper. I want to still have a “new” King book to read. But for whatever reason 11/22/63 made it into the reading pile. It’s not a very deep pile as I am realistic about how much time I have for reading.
The past few Sundays I have taken the book with me and read while the boys were having their swim lessons. I’ll be honest-it took a few tries to get hooked. What I wonder at this exact moment is did I take a while to get hooked because I was keeping an eye on my sons in the pool or because I felt the fear the book would create?
For me, there was something uneasy about the book from the get-go. Obviously from the cover it involved changing the events of that historic day in Dallas. I don’t know how that turns out by the way. Because tonight I got to page 129 and was stopped dead in my tracks. Or was it eyeballs? Stopped dead in my eyeballs? Even now as I checked the book to see the page number I touched it as if I would be burned.
Uncle Stevie wrote about Georgie Denbrough on page 129. He wrote about Pennywise. I have a picture of Tim Curry as Pennywise on my desk that one of my students gave me. It’s of Pennywise photoshopped into the movie for Bring It On. You see the humor, I’m sure. Made me laugh my ass off when I first saw it. I enjoyed the movie version of It. Not stellar but it doesn’t hurt to watch on a Saturday afternoon. I love the cast, but the problem with trying to put It on film is the terror is too deep (in my humble opinion) to capture. So while I like the movie, the book is what scared the crap out of me and continues to in so many ways.
I connected to this book instantly. I could have joined the Losers club easily. Probably could have been a charter member. I held onto my faith in the belief system of childhood for a very long time. Truth be told, I still have more of a childlike belief system than an adult one. I love this book and hate this book. The magic of childhood and the horror of childhood vividly live in the characters with such ease. I see myself reflected in each of the characters. I see myself reflected in the words typed on the many, many pages. I have read this book several times but the most recent time I read it happened over a decade ago. I don’t know when I will reread it. I know I will, but I don’t know when. Once I gave birth to my second son I knew it would be quite a long time till I could read It again. When their childhoods are over and safely tucked away in baby books and scrapbooks, I’ll be able to read It again. That was the plan. I wouldn’t have to interact too closely with the horrors of It for another decade.
Then Uncle Stevie wrote about Georgie in 11/22/63. I couldn’t even finish the sentence I was reading. The story of It came flooding back into my mind, heart, and soul so quickly, it was, if you’ll pardon the expression, a watershed moment. I started shaking as all the events in that book flooded my mind at one time. I saw it coming with the first mention of the town of Derry, but thought there’s no way he could really intertwine it with any detail. I tried to recall details, like names or places, but all I could picture were the Barrens and the standpipe. I thought no biggie, a few passing mentions of Derry. But I was wrong. I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
I was sitting there on my couch, shaking, crying, trying to catch my breath because Uncle Stevie knocked the wind out of me. After a few minutes, I walked down the hall, turned on the light with the pretty frosted glass dome, and with a sense of fear and doom went in to check on my sons. Both sleeping soundly in the shark bedroom, both audibly breathing that deep and constant breathing of a sleep not filled with worry or fear. I still put my hand on each boy’s chest to feel the steady rise and fall of his lungs filling with and emptying of air.
How does this man do it? How does he summon up fear so readily in so many people? I don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight. I’m not being facetious. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fall asleep. Each time I close my eyes, I see It. In all of its forms. I see Georgie, Bill, and Bev. The pharmacist-ooh, maybe that’s why I don’t care for pharmacists. Oh, gentle reader, if I could convey how frightened this man made me this evening I too would make my living putting pen to paper.
I want to know how the book ends-please don’t be an ass and write it in a comment. I will finish 11/22/63. But it will have to wait until it’s not dark. And when I can hear my boys playing the whole time. I don’t even want to touch the book to put it back in the Stephen King bookshelves. Yes, he has his own private bookshelves in my house.
Georgie and his paper boat. The rain. The sewer. We all float down here. I didn’t know until this evening how deeply It had worked it’s way into my being. I love that about books, a story’s ability to infiltrate your memory and linger with you the rest of your life. The stories pop up into your daily existence usually when you least expect it, as those types of things are wont to do. As I probably wrote before, to paraphrase Uncle Stevie from an old interview (or foreword or afterword), everyone has a filter in their brain that sorts through each day’s events. Certain things fall through and others are too big to fit through the holes of the sieve. The scary stuff stays in his brain so that’s what he writes about in his stories. And I love to read the scary stuff so it’s been a long relationship for the two of us. I just couldn’t have guessed how large It was to allow it to linger so closely to my retrievable memory. To be able to be pulled forth in a violent manner after reading only a few sentences describing some key events in the history of Derry.
I need to know what happens next. But during the day. With the sun shining. Happily I have some vacation time this week into next. Maybe one of the days will be sunny. I can hole up in my room, with the covers wrapped around me, and read where the storyteller wants to take me.
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