Stephen King - The Road Virus Heads North

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The Road Virus Heads North

Stephen King

THE ROAD VIRUS

HEADS NORTH

Richard Kinnell wasn't frightened when he first saw the picture at the yard sale in Rosewood.

He was fascinated by it, and he felt he'd had the good luck to find something which might be very special, but

fright? No. It didn't occur to him until later ("not until it was too late," as he might have written in one of his own

numbingly successful novels) that he had felt much the same way about certain illegal drugs as a young man.

He had gone down to Boston to participate in a PEN/New England conference tided "The Threat of Popularity."

You could count on PEN to come up with such subjects, Kinnell had found; it was actually sort of comforting.

He drove the two hundred and sixty miles from Derry rather than flying because he'd come to a plot impasse on

his latest book and wanted some quiet time to try to work it out.

At the conference, he sat on a panel where people who should have known better asked him where he got his

ideas and if he ever scared himself. He left the city by way of the Tobin Bridge, then got on Route 1. He never

took the turnpike when he was trying to work out problems; the turnpike lulled him into a state that was like

dreamless, waking sleep. It was restful, but not very creative. The stop-and-go traffic on the coast road, however,

acted like grit inside an oyster-it created a fair amount of mental activity ... and sometimes even a pearl.

Not, he supposed, that his critics would use that word. In an issue of Esquire last year, Bradley Simons had begun

his review of Nightmare City this way: "Richard Kinnell, who writes like Jeffery Dahmer cooks, has suffered a

fresh bout of projectile vomiting. He has tided this most recent mass of ejecta Nightmare City."

Route 1 took him through Revere, Malden, Everett, and up the coast to Newburyport. Beyond Newburyport and

just south of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border was the tidy little town of Rosewood. A mile or so

beyond the town center, he saw an array of cheap-looking goods spread out on the lawn of a two-story Cape.

Propped against an avocado-colored electric stove was a sign reading YARD SALE. Cars were parked on both

sides of the road, creating one of those bottlenecks which travelers unaffected by the yard sale mystique curse

their way through. Kinnell liked yard sales, particularly the boxes of old books you sometimes found at them. He

drove through the bottleneck, parked his Audi at the head of the line of cars pointed toward Maine and New

Hampshire, then walked back.

A dozen or so people were circulating on the littered front lawn of the blue-and-gray Cape Cod. A large

television stood to the left of the cement walk, its feet planted on four paper ashtrays that were doing absolutely

nothing to protect the lawn. On top was a sign reading MAKE AN OFFER-YOU MIGHT BE SURPRISED. An

electrical cord, augmented by an extension, mailed back from the TV and through the open front door. A fat

woman sat in a lawn chair before it, shaded by an umbrella with CINZANO printed on the colorful scalloped

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The Road Virus Heads North

flaps. There was a card table beside her with a cigar box, a pad of paper, and another handlettered sign on it. This

sign read ALL SALES CASH, ALL SALES FINAL. The TV was on, turned to an afternoon soap opera where

two beautiful young people looked on the verge of having deeply unsafe sex. The fat

woman glanced at Kinnell, then back at the TV. She looked at it for a moment, then looked back at him again.

This time her mouth was slightly sprung.

Ah, Kinnell thought, looking around for the liquor box fined with paperbacks that was sure to be here someplace,

a fan.

He didn't see any paperbacks, but he saw the picture, leaning against an ironing board and held in place by a

couple of plastic laundry baskets, and his breath stopped in his throat. He wanted it at once.

He walked over with a casualness that felt exaggerated and dropped to one knee in front of it. The painting was a

watercolor, and technically very good. Kinnell didn't care about that; technique didn't interest him (a fact the

critics of his own work had duly noted). What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the

better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt between the two laundry baskets, which had been

filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing of the picture. He glanced

around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo Peeps,

praying hands, and gambling dogs.

He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of

the Audi so he could slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.

It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-

top, anyway - crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed

convertible. The young man's left arm. was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the

wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The

young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and his parted lips revealed

teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.

Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.

He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what

most of the audience at the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he

probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but

most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work went, and what was more, they treasured their

ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those stupid, mean-spirited little

dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this painting

because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His

fans sent him stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but

because they were tiresome and predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a

screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was

unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that lit UP his dials. This painting had

some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.

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