Stephen King - Survivor Type

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Survivor Type

Stephen King: Survivor Type

ELECTRONIC VERSION 1.0 (Apr 02 00). If you find and correct errors in the text, please

update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.

Sooner or later the question comes up in every medical student's career. How much shock-

trauma can the patient stand? Different instructors answer the question, in different ways,

but cut to its base level, the answer is always another question: How badly does the

patient want to survive?

January 26

Two days since the storm washed me up. I paced the island off just this morning. Some

island! It is 190 paces wide at its thickest point, and 267 paces long from tip to tip

So far as I can tell, there is nothing on it to eat.

My name is Richard Pine. This is my diary. If I'm found (when), I can destroy this easily

enough. There is no shortage of matches. Matches and heroin. Plenty of both. Neither of

them worth doodlysquat here, ha-ha. So I will write. It will pass the time, anyway.

If I'm to tell the whole truth--and why not? I sure have the time!--I'll have to start by

saying I was born Richard Pinzetti, in New York's Little Italy. My father was an Old

World guinea. I wanted to be a surgeon. My father would laugh, call me crazy, and tell me

to get him another glass of wine. He died of cancer when he was forty-six. I was glad.

I played football in high school. I was the best damn football player my school ever

produced. Quarterback. I made All-City my last two years. I hated football. But if you're a

poor wop from the projects and you want to go to college, sports are your only ticket. So I

played, and I got my athletic scholarship.

In college I only played ball until my grades were good enough to get a full academic

scholarship. Pre-med. My father died six weeks before graduation. Good deal. Do you

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Survivor Type

think I wanted to walk across that stage and get my diploma and look down and see that

fat greaseball sitting there? Does a hen want a flag? I got into a fraternity, too. It wasn't

one of the good ones, not with a name like Pinzetti, but a fraternity all the same.

Why am I writing this? It's almost funny. No, I take that back. It is funny. The great Dr.

Pine, sitting on a rock in his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, sitting on an island almost

small enough to spit across, writing his life story. Am I hungry! Never mind, I'I1 write my

goddam life story if I want to. At least it keeps my mind off my stomach. Sort of.

I changed my name to Pine before I started reed school. My mother said I was breaking

her heart. What heart? The day after my old man was in the ground, she was out hustling

that Jew grocer down at the end of the block. For someone who loved the name so much,

she was in one hell of a hurry to change her copy of it to Steinbrunner.

Surgery was all I ever wanted. Ever since high school. Even then I was wrapping my

hands before every game and soaking them afterward. If you want to be a surgeon, you

have to take care of your hands. Some of the kids used to rag me about it, call me

chickenshit. I never fought them. Playing football was risk enough. But there were ways.

The one that got on my case the most was Howie Plotsky, a big dumb bohunk with zits all

over his face. I had a paper route, and I was selling the numbers along with the papers. I

had a little coming in lots of ways. You get to know people, you listen, you make

connections. You have to, when you're hustling the street. Any asshole knows how to die.

The thing to learn is how to survive, you know what I mean? So I paid the biggest kid in

school, Ricky Brazzi, ten bucks to make Howie Plotsky's mouth disappear. Make it

disappear, I said. I will pay you a dollar for every tooth you bring me. Rico brought me

three teeth wrapped up in a paper towel. He dislocated two of his knuckles doing the job,

so you see the kind of trouble I could have got into.

In med school while the other suckers were running themselves ragged trying to bone up--

no pun intended, ha-ha--between waiting tables or selling neckties or buffing floors, I kept

the rackets going. Football pools, basketball pools, a little policy. I stayed on good terms

with the old neighborhood. And I got through school just fine.

I didn't get into pushing until I was doing my residency. 1 was working in one of the

biggest hospitals in New York City. At first it was just prescription blanks. I'd sell a tablet

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Survivor Type

of a hundred blanks to some guy from the neighborhood, and he'd forge the names of forty

or fifty different doctors on them, using writing samples I'd also sell him. The guy would

turn around and peddle the blanks on the street for ten or twenty dollars apiece. The speed

freaks and the nodders loved it.

And after a while I found out just how much of a balls-up the hospital drug room was in.

Nobody knew what was coming in or going out. There were people lugging the goodies

out by the double handfuls. Not me. I was always careful. I never got into trouble until I

got careless--and unlucky. But I'm going to land on my feet. I always do.

Can't write any more now. My wrist's tired and the pencil's dull. I don't know why I'm

bothering, anyway. Somebody'll probably pick me up soon.

January 27

The boat drifted away last night and sank in about ten feet of water off the north side of

the island. Who gives a rip? The bottom was like Swiss cheese after coming over the reef

anyway. I'd already taken off anything that was worth taking. Four gallons of water. A

sewing kit. A first-aid kit. This book I'm writing in, which is supposed to be a lifeboat

inspection log. That's a laugh. Whoever heard of a lifeboat with no FOOD on it? The last

report written in here is August 8, 1970. Oh, yes, two knives, one dull and one fairly

sharp, one combination fork and spoon. I'll use them when I eat my supper tonight. Roast

rock. Ha-ha. Well, I did get my pencil sharpened.

When I get off this pile of guano-splattered rock, I'm going to sue the bloody hell out of

Paradise Lines, Inc. That alone is worth living for. And I am going to live. I'm going to get

out of this. Make no mistake about it. I am going to get out of this.

(later)

When I was making my inventory, I forgot one thing: two kilos of pure heroin, worth

about $350,000, New York street value. Here it's worth el zilcho. Sort of funny, isn't it?

Ha-ha!

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Stephen King - Survivor Type

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