Stephen King - Grey Matter

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GREY MATTER

They had been predicting a norther all week and along about Thursday we got it, a real screamer that piled up

eight inches by four in the afternoon and showed no signs of slowing down. The usual five or six were gathered

around the Reliable in Henry's Nite-Owl, which is the only little store on this side of Bangor that stays open right

around the clock.

Henry don't do a huge business - mostly, it amounts to selling the college kids their beer and wine - but he gets

by and it's a place for us old duffers on Social Security to get together and talk about who's died lately and how

the world's going to hell.

This afternoon Henry was at the counter; Bill Pelham, Bertie Connors, Carl Littlefield, and me was tipped up by

the stove. Outside, not a car was moving on Ohio Street, and the ploughs was having hard going. The wind was

socking drifts across that looked like the backbone on a dinosaur.

Henry'd only had three customers all afternoon - that is, if you want to count in blind Eddie. Eddie's about

seventy, and he ain't completely blind. Runs into things, mostly. He comes in once or twice a week and sticks a

loaf of bread under his coat and walks out with an expression on his face like: there, you stupid sonsabitches,

fooled you again.

Bertie once asked Henry why he never put a stop to it.

'I'll tell you,' Henry said. 'A few years back the Air Force wanted twenty million dollars to rig up a flyin' model of

an airplane they had planned out. Well, it cost them seventy-five million and then the damn thing wouldn't fly.

That happened ten years ago, when blind Eddie and myself were considerable younger, and I voted for the

woman who sponsored that bill. Blind Eddie voted against her. And -since then I've been buyin' his bread.'

Bertie didn't look like he quite followed all of that, but he sat back to muse over it.

Now the door opened again, letting in a blast of the cold grey air outside, and a young kid came in, stamping

snow off his boots. I placed him after a second. He was Richie Grenadine's kid, and he looked like he'd just

kissed the wrong end of the baby. His Adam's apple was going up and down and his face was the colour of old

oilcloth.

'Mr Parmalee,' he says to Henry, his eyeballs rolling -around in his head like ball bearings, 'you got to come. You

got to take him his beer and come. I can't stand to go back there. I'm scared.'

'Now slow down,' Henry says, taking off his white butcher's apron and coming around the counter. 'What's the

matter? Your dad been on a drunk?'

I realized when he said that that Richie hadn't been in for quite some time. Usually he'd be by once a day to pick

up a -case of whatever beer was going cheapest at that time, a big --fat man with jowls like pork butts and ham-

hock arms. Richie always was a pig about his beer, but he handled it okay when he was working at the sawmill

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Stephen King - Grey Matter

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