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Needful Things

By

Stephen King

ALSO BY STEPHEN KING N O V E L S Carrie 'Salem's Lot

The Shining The Stand The Dead Zone Firestarter Cujo The Dark Tower:

The Gunslinger Christine Pet Sematary Cycle of the Werewolf The

Talisman (with Peter Straub) It Eyes of the Dragon Misery The

Tommyknockers The Dark Tower fl: The Drawing of the Three The Dark Half

AS RICHARD Bachman Rage The Long Walk Roadwork The Running Man Thinner

COLLECTIONS Night Shift Different Seasons Skeleton Crew Four Past

Midnight NONFICTION Danse Macabre SCREENPLAYS Creepshow Cat's Eye

Silver Bullet Maximum Overdrive Pet Sematary Golden Years VIKING

Published by the Penguin Group Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin

Books USA Inc 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Weights Lane, Landon W8 5TZ, England Penguin

Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada

Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New

Zealand Penguin Books Ltd, Registered offices: Harmondsworth,

Middlesex, England First published in 1991 by Viking Penguin, a

division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright (C) Stephen King, 1991

Illustrations copyright (C) Bill Russell, 1991

to use the following copyrighted material.Excerpt from "Snake Oil" by

Steve Earle. C 1988 Goldline Music & Duke of Earle. All rights

reserved. Used by permission.

Excerpt from 'Jailhouse Rock" by Mike Stoner and Jerry Lieber. C

1957

(renewed) Jerry Lieber Music, Mike Stoner Music. All rights

reserved. Used by permission. C 1957 Gladys Music. All rights on

behalf of Gladys Music for the world excluding the U.S.A. administered

by Chappell & Co.

Excerpt from "Hound Dog" by Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller. C 1956

Gladys Music & MCA Music Publishing (renewed). All rights on

behalf of Gladys Music for the U.S.A.

permission.

Excerpt from "Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town," lyrics by Haven

Feist Catalog Inc. Rights for the extended renewal term in the U.S.

controlled by Haven Gillespie Music and EMI Feist Catalog Inc.

Used with permission of EPPI Betwin, Inc and WarnerIChappell

Music.

Adaptation of excerpt from "Hello, Goodbye," words and music by

Northern Songs. All rights controlled and administered by MCA Music

Publishing, a division of MCA Inc. under license from Northern Songs.

Used by permission, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION

DATA King, Stephen.

Needful things / Stephen King.

ISBN 0-670-83953-1

up all over town! I think Wanda Hemphill (her husband, Don, runs

Hemphill's Market) put most of em up all by herself. Pull it off the

post and hand it to me. Don't be shy-no one's got any business stickin

up fliers on the Town Common bandstand in the first place.

Hot damn! just look at this thing, will you? DICE AND THE DEVIL

printed right up at the top. In big red letters with smoke comin off

em, like these things was mailed special delivery from Tophet! Ha!

Someone who didn't know what a sleepy little place this town is

would think we're really goin to the dogs, I guess. But you know how

things sometimes get blown out of proportion in a town this size. And

the Reverend Willie's got a bee under his blanket for sure this time.

No question about it. Churches in small towns ... well, I guess I

don't have to tell you how that is. They get along with each

other-sort of-but they ain't never really happy with each other.

Everything will go along peaceful for awhile, and then a squabble will

break out.

Pretty big squabble this time, though, and a lot of hard feelings.

The Catholics, you see, are planning something they call Casino

Nite at the Knights of Columbus Hall on the other side of town.

Last Thursday of the month, I understand, with the profits to help

pay for repairs on the church roof. That's Our Lady of Serene

Waters-you must have passed it on your way into town, if you came by

way of Castle View. Pretty little church, ain't it?

Casino Nite was Father Brigham's idea, but the Daughters of

Isabella are the ones who really picked up the ball and ran with it.

Betsy Vigue in particular. I think she likes the idea of dollin

up in her slinkiest black dress and dealin blackjack or spinnin a

roulette wheel and sayin, "Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen,

please place your bets." Aw, but they all kind of like the idea, I

guess. It's only nickel-dime stuff, harmless, but it seems a wee bit

wicked to em just the same.

Except it don't seem harmless to Reverend Willie, and it seems a

lot more than a wee bit wicked to him and his congregation. He's

actually the Reverend William Rose, and he ain't never liked Father

Brigham much, nor does the Father have much use for him. (In fact, it

was Father Brigham who started calling Reverend Rose "Steamboat

Willie," and the Reverend Willie knows it.) Sparks has flown between

those two particular witch-doctors before, but this Casino Nite

business is a little more than sparks; I guess you could call it a

brushfire. When Willie heard that the Catholics meant to spend a night

gamblin at the K of C Hall, he just about hit the roof with the top of

his pointy little head. He paid for those DICE-AND-THE-DEVIL fliers

out of his own pocket, and Wanda Hemphill and her sewing circle buddies

put em up everywhere. Since then, the only place the Catholics and the

Baptists talk to each other is in the Letters column of our little

weekly paper, where they rave and rant and tell each other they're goin

to hell.

Looka down there, you'll see what I mean. That's Nan Roberts who

just came out of the bank. She owns Nan's Luncheonette, and I guess

she's just about the richest person in town now that old Pop Merrill's

gone to that big flea-market in the sky. Also, she's been a Baptist

since Hector was a pup. And comin the other way is big Al GendronHe's

so Catholic he makes the Pope look kosher and his best friend is Irish

Johnny Brigham. Now, watch close! See their noses go up? Ha!

Ain't that a sketch? I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that the

temperature dropped twenty degrees where they passed each other by.

It's like my mother used to say-people have more fun than anybody,

-except for horses, and they can't.

Now lookit over there. See that Sheriff's cruiser parked by the

curb near the video shop? That's John LaPointe inside. He's supposed

to be keepin an eye out for speeders-downtown's a go-slow zone, you

know, especially when school lets out-but if you shade your eyes and

look close, you'll see that what he's really doin is starin at a

picture he took out of his wallet. I can't see it from here, but I

know what it is just as well as I know my mother's maiden name. That's

the snapshot Andy Clutterbuck took of John and Sally Ratcliffe at the

Fryeburg State Fair, just about a year ago. John's got his arm around

her in that picture, and she's holdin the stuffed bear he won her in

the shootin gallery, and they both look so happy they could just about

split. But that was then and this is now, as they say; these days

Sally is engaged to Lester Pratt, the high school Phys Ed coach. He's

a true-blue Baptist, Just like herself. John hasn't got over the shock

of losing her yet. See him fetch that sigh? He's worked himself into

a pretty good case of the blues. Only a man who's still in love (or

thinks he is) can fetch a sigh that deep.

Trouble and aggravation's mostly made up of ordinary things, did

you ever notice that? Undramatic things. Let me give you a

forinstance. Do you see the fellow just going up the courthouse steps?

No, not the man in the suit; that's Dan Keeton, our Head

Selectman.

I mean the other one the black guy in the work fatigues. That's

Eddie Warburton, the night-shift janitor in the Municipal Building.

Keep your eye on him for a few seconds, and watch what he does.

There! See him pause on the top step and look upstreet? I'd bet

you more dollars to more doughnuts that he's looking at the Sunoco

station. The Sunoco's owned and operated by Sonny jackett, and there's

been bad blood between the two of em ever since Eddie took his car

there two years ago to get the drive-train looked at.

I remember that car quite well. It was a Honda Civic, nothing

special about it, except it was special to Eddie, because it was the

first and only brand-new car he'd ever owned in his life. And Sonny

not only did a bad job, he overcharged for it in the bargain. That's

Eddie's side of the story. Warburton's just usin his color to see if

he can beat me out of the repair-bill-that's Sonny's side of the story.

You know how it goes, don't you?

Well, so Sonny jackett took Eddie Warburton to small claims court,

and there was some shouting first in the courtroom and then in the hall

outside. Eddie said Sonny called him a stupid nigger and Sonny said

Well, I didn't call him a nigger but the rest is true enough.

In the end, neither of them was satisfied. judge made Eddie cough

up fifty bucks, which Eddie said was fifty bucks too much and Sonny

said wasn't anywhere near enough. Then, the next thing you know, there

was an electrical fire in Eddie's new car and the way it ended was that

Eddie's Civic went off to the junkyard out on Town Road #5, and now

Eddie's driving an '89 Oldsmobile which blows oil.

Eddie has never quite gotten over the idea that Sonny jackett

knows a lot more about that electrical fire than he's ever told.

Boy, people have more fun than anybody, except horses, and they

can't. Ain't it all just about more than you can take on a hot day?

It's just small-town life, though@all it Peyton Place or Grover's

Corners or Castle Rock, it's just folks eatin pie and drinkin coffee

and talkin about each other behind their hands. There's Slopey Dodd,

all by his lonesome because the other kids make fun of his stutter.

There's Myrtle Keeton, and if she looks a little lonely and bewildered,

as if she's not really sure where she is or what's goin on, it's

because her husband (fella you just saw comin up the courthouse steps

behind Eddie) hasn't seemed himself for the last six months or so. See

how puffy her eyes are? I think she's been cryin, or not sleepin well,

or both, don't you?

And there goes Lenore Potter, lookin like she just stepped out of

a bandbox. Going to the Western Auto, no doubt, to see if her special

organic fertilizer came in yet. That woman has got more kinds of

flowers growin around her house than Carter has liver pills.

Awful proud of em, she is. She ain't a great favorite with the

ladies of this town-they think she's snooty, with her flowers and her

mood-beads and her seventy-dollar Boston perms. They think she's

snooty, and I'll tell you a secret, since we're just sittin here side

by side on this splintery bandstand step. I think they're right.

All ordinary enough, I guess you'd say, but not all our troubles

in Castle Rock are ordinary; I got to set you straight on that. No one

has forgotten Frank Dodd, the crossing guard who went crazy here twelve

years ago and killed those women, and they haven't forgotten the dog,

either, the one that came down with rabies and killed Joe Camber and

the old rummy down the road from him.

The dog killed good old Sheriff George Bannerman, too. Alan

Pangborn is doing that job these days, and he's a good man, but he

won't never stack up to Big George in the eyes of the town.

Wasn't nothing ordinary about what happened to Reginald "Pop"

Merrill, either-Pop was the old miser who used to run the town junk

shop. The Emporium Galorium, it was called. Stood right where that

vacant lot is across the street. The place burned down awhile ago, but

there are people in town who saw it (or claim they did, anyway) who'll

tell you after a few beers down at The Mellow Tiger that it was a lot

more than a simple fire that destroyed the Emporium Galorium and took

Pop Merrill's life.

His nephew Ace says something spooky happened to his uncle before

that fire-something like on The Twilight Zone. Of course, Ace wasn't

even around when his uncle bit the dust; he was finishing a four-year

stretch in Shawshank Prison for breaking and entering in the nighttime.

(People always knew Ace Merrill would come to a bad end; when he

was in school he was one of the worst bullies this town has ever seen,

and there must have been a hundred kids who crossed to the far side of

the street when they saw Ace comin toward em with the buckles and

zippers on his motorcycle jacket jingling and the cleats on his

engineer boots clockin along the sidewalk.) Yet people believe him, you

know; maybe there really was something strange about what happened to

Pop that day, or maybe it's just more talk in Nan's over those cups of

coffee and slabs of apple pie.

It's the same here as where you grew up, most likely. People

getting bet up over religion, people carryin torches, people carryin

secrets, people carryin grudges ... and even a spooky story every now

and then, like what might or might not have happened on the day Pop

died in his junk shop, to liven up the occasional dull day.

Castle Rock is still a pretty nice place to live and grow, as the

sign you see when you come into town says. The sun shines pretty on

the lake and on the leaves of the trees, and on a clear day you can see

all the way into Vermont from the top of Castle View. The summer

people argue over the Sunday newspapers, and there is the occasional

fight in the parkin lot of The Mellow Tiger on Friday or Saturday night

(sometimes both), but the summer people always go home and the fights

always end. The Rock has always been one of the good places, and when

people get scratchy, you know what we say? We say He'll get over i't

or She'll get over it.

Henry Beaufort, for instance, is sick of Hugh Priest kickin the

Rock-Ola when he's drunk ... but Henry will get over it. Wilma jerzyck

and Nettle Cobb are mad at each other ... but Nettle will get over it

(probably) and being mad's just a way of life for Wilma.

Sheriff Pangborn's still mourning his wife and younger child, who

died untimely, and it was a sure-enough tragedy, but he'll get over it

in time. Polly Chalmers's arthritis isn't getting any better-in fact,

it's getting worse, a little at a time-and she may not get over it, but

she'll learn to live with it. Millions have.

We bump up against each other every now and then, but mostly

things go along all right. Or always have, until now. But I have to

tell you a real secret, my friend; it's mostly why I called you over

once I saw you were back in town. I think trouble-real trouble is on

its way. I smell it, just over the horizon, like an out-of-season

storm full of lightning. The argument between the Baptists and the

Catholics over Casino Nite, the kids who tease poor Slopey about his

stutter, John LaPointe's torch, Sheriff Pangborn's grief . .

.

think those things are going to look like pretty small potatoes

next to what is coming.

See that building across Main Street? The one three doors up from

the vacant lot where the Emporium Galorium used to stand?

Got a green canopy in front of it? Yup, that's the one. The

windows are all soaped over because it's not quite open yet. NEEDFUL

THINGS, the sign says-now just what the dog does that mean? I dunno,

either, but that's where the bad feeling seems to come from.

Right there.

Look up the street one more time. You see that boy, don't you?

The one who's walking his bike and looks like he's havin the

sweetest daydream any boy ever had? Keep your eye on him, friend.

I think he's the one who's gonna get it started.

No, I told you, I dunno what . . . not exactly. But watch that

kid. And stick around town for a little while, would you? Things just

feel wrong, and if something happens, it might be just as well if there

was a witness.

I know that kid-the one who's pushin his bike. Maybe you do, too.

His name's Brian-something. His dad installs siding and doors

over in Oxford or South Paris, I think.

Keep an eye on him, I tell you. Keep an eye on everything.

You've been here before, but things are about to change.

I know it.

I feel it.

There's a storm on the way.

CHAPTER ONE

In a small town, the opening of a new store is big news.

it wasn't as big a deal to Brian Rusk as it was to some; his

mother, for instance. He had heard her discussing it (he wasn't

supposed to call it gossiping, she had told him, because gossiping was

a dirty habit and she didn't do it) at some length on the telephone

with her best friend, Myra Evans, over the last month or so.

The first workmen had arrived at the old building which had last

housed Western Maine Realty and Insurance right around the time school

let in again, and they had been busily at work ever since.

Not that anyone had much idea what they were up to in there; their

first act had been to put in a large display window, and their second

had been to soap it opaque.

Two weeks ago a sign had appeared in the doorway, hung on a string

over a plastic see-through suction-cup.

OPENING SOON!

the sign read.

NEEDFUL THINGS A NEW KIND OF STORE "You won't believe your eyes!"

"It'll be just another antique shop," Brian's mother said to Myra.

Cora Rusk had been reclining on the sofa at the time, holding the

telephone with one hand and eating chocolate-covered cherries with the

other while she watched Santa Barbara on the TV. "Just another antique

shop with a lot of phony early American furniture and moldy old crank

telephones. You wait and see."

That had been shortly after the new display window had been first

installed and then soaped over, and his mother spoke with such

assurance that Brian should have felt sure the subject was closed.

Only with his mother, no subject ever seemed to be completely

closed. Her speculations and suppositions seemed as endless as the

problems of the characters on Santa Barbara and General Hospital, Last

week the first line of the sign hanging in the door was changed to

read:

GRAND OPENING OCTOBER 9TH-BRING YOUR FRIENDS!

Brian was not as interested in the new store as his mother (and

some of the teachers; he had heard them talking about it in the

teachers' room at Castle Rock Middle School when it was his turn to be

Office Mailman), but he was eleven, and a healthy eleven-year-old boy is

interested in anything new. Besides, the name of the place fascinated

him. Needful Things: what, exactly, did that mean?

He had read the changed first line last Tuesday, on his way home

from school. Tuesday afternoons were his late days. Brian had been

born with a harelip, and although it had been surgically corrected when

he was seven, he still had to go to speech therapy.

He maintained stoutly to everyone who asked that he hated this,

but he did not. He was deeply and hopelessly in love with Miss

Ratcliffe, and he waited all week for his special ed class to come

around. The Tuesday schoolday seemed to last a thousand years, and he

always spent the last two hours of it with pleasant butterflies in his

stomach.

There were only four other kids in the class, and none of them

came from Brian's end of town. He was glad. After an hour in the same

room with Miss Ratcliffe, he felt too exalted for company.

He liked to make his way home slowly in the late afternoon,

usually pushing his bike instead of riding it, dreaming of her as

yellow and gold leaves fell around him in the slanting bars of October

sunlight.

His way took him along the three-block section of Main Street

across from the Town Common, and on the day he saw the sign announcing

the grand opening, he had pushed his nose up to the glass of the door,

hoping to see what had replaced the stodgy desks and industrial yellow

walls of the departed Western Maine Realtors and Insurance Agents. His

curiosity was defeated. A shade had been installed and was pulled all

the way down. Brian saw nothing but his own reflected face and cupped

hands.

On Friday the 4th, there had been an ad for the new store in

Castle Rock's weekly newspaper, the Call. It was surrounded by a

ruffled border, and below the printed matter was a drawing of angels

standing back to back and blowing long trumpets. The ad really said

nothing that could not be read on the sign dangling from the suction

cup: the name of the store was Needful Things, it would open for

business at ten o'clock in the morning on October 9th, and, of course,

"You won't believe your eyes." There was not the slightest hint of

what goods the proprietor or proprietors of Needful Things intended to

dispense.

This seemed to irritate Cora Rusk a great deal-enough, anyway, for

her to put in a rare Saturday-morning call to Myra.

"I'll believe my eyes, all right," she said. "When I see those

spool beds that are supposed to be two hundred years old but have

Rochester, New York, stamped on the frames for anybody who cares to

bend down their heads and look under the bedspread flounces to see,

I'll believe my eyes just fine."

Myra said something. Cora listened, fishing Planter's Peanuts out

of the can by ones and twos and munching them rapidly. Brian and his

little brother, Sean, sat on the living-room floor watching cartoons on

TV. Sean was completely immersed in the world of the Smurfs, and Brian

was not totally uninvolved with that community of small blue people,

but he kept one ear cocked toward the conversation.

"Ri-night!" Cora Rusk had exclaimed with even more assurance and

emphasis than usual as Myra made some particularly trenchant point.

"High prices and moldy antique telephones!"

Yesterday, Monday, Brian had ridden through downtown right after

school with two or three friends. They were across the street from the

new shop, and he saw that during the day someone had put up a

dark-green awning. Written across the front in white letters were the

words NEEDFUL THINGS. Polly Charmers, the lady who ran the sewing

shop, was standing out on the sidewalk, hands on her admirably slim

hips, looking at the awning with an expression that seemed to be

equally puzzled and admiring.

Brian, who knew a bit about awnings, admired it himself. It was

the only real awning on Main Street, and it gave the new store its own

special look. The word "sophisticated" was not a part of his working

vocabulary, but he knew at once there was no other shop in Castle Rock

which looked like this. The awning made it look like a store you might

see in a television show. The Western Auto across the street looked

dowdy and countrified by comparison.

When he got home, his mother was on the sofa, watching Santa

Barbara, eating a Little Debbie Creme Pie, and drinking Diet Coke.

His mother always drank diet soda while she watched the afternoon

shows. Brian was not sure why, considering what she was using it to

wash down, but thought it would probably be dangerous to ask.

It might even get her shouting at him, and when his mother started

shouting, it was wise to seek shelter.

"Hey, Ma!" he said, throwing his books on the counter and getting

the milk out of the refrigerator. "Guess what? There's an awnin on

the new store."

"Who's yawning?" Her voice drifted out of the living room.

He poured his milk and came into the doorway. "Awning," he said.

"On the new store downstreet."

She sat up, found the remote control, and pushed the mute button.

On the screen, Al and Corinne went on talking over their Santa

Barbara problems in their favorite Santa Barbara restaurant, but now

only a lip-reader could have told exactly what those problems were.

"What?"

she said. "That Needful Things place?"

"Uh-huh," he said, and drank some milk.

"Don't slurp," she said, tucking the rest of her snack into her

mouth. "It sounds gruesome. How many times have I told you that?"

About-. s many times as you've told me not to talk with my mouth

full, Brian thought, but said nothing. He had learned verbal restraint

at an early age.

"Sorry, Mom."

"What kind of awning?"

"Green one."

"Pressed or aluminum?"

Brian, whose father was a siding salesman for the Dick Perry

Siding and Door Company in South Paris, knew exactly what she was

talking about, but if it had been that kind of awning, he hardly would

have noticed it. Aluminum and pressed-metal awnings were a dime a

dozen. Half the homes in The Rock had them sticking out over their

windows.

"Neither one," he said. "It's cloth. Canvas, I think. It sticks

out, so there's shade right underneath. And it's round, like this."

He curved his hands (carefully, so as not to spill his milk) in a

semicircle. "The name is printed on the end. It's most sincerely

awesome."

"Well, I'll be butched!"

This was the phrase with which Cora most commonly expressed

excitement or exasperation. Brian took a cautious step backward, in

case it should be the latter.

"What do you think it is, Ma? A restaurant, maybe?"

"I don't know," she said, and reached for the Princess phone on

the endtable. She had to move Squeebles the cat, the TV Guide, and a

quart of Diet Coke to get it. "But it sounds sneaky."

"Mom, what does Needful Things mean? Is it like " "Don't bother

me now, Brian, Mummy's busy. There are Devil Dogs in the breadbox if

you want one. just one, though, or you'll spoil your supper." She was

already dialling Myra, and they were soon discussing the green awning

with great enthusiasm.

Brian, who didn't want a Devil Dog (he loved his Ma a great deal,

but sometimes watching her eat took away his appetite), sat down at the

kitchen table, opened his math book, and started to do the assigned

problems-he was a bright, conscientious boy, and his math was the only

homework he hadn't finished at school. As he methodically moved

decimal points and then divided, he listened to his mother's end of the

conversation. She was again telling Myra that soon they would have

another store selling stinky old perfume bottles and pictures of

someone's dead relatives, and it was really a shame the way these

things came and went. There were just too many people out there, Cora

said, whose motto in life was take the money and run. When she spoke

of the awning, she sounded as if someone had deliberately set out to

offend her, and had succeeded splendidly at the task.

I think she thinks someone was supposed to tell her, Brian had

thought as his pencil moved sturdily along, carrying down and rounding

off. Yeah, that was it. She was curious, that was number one. And

she was pissed off, that was number two. The combination was just

about killing her. Well, she would find out soon enough.

When she did, maybe she would let him in on the big secret. And

if she was too busy, he could get it just by listening in on one of her

afternoon conversations with Myra.

But as it turned out, Brian found out quite a lot about Needful

Things before his mother or Myra or anyone else in Castle Rock.

2

He hardly rode his bike at all on his way home from school on the

afternoon before Needful Things was scheduled to open; he was lost in a

warm daydream (which would not have passed his lips had he been coaxed

with hot coals or bristly tarantula spiders) where he asked Miss

Ratcliffe to go with him to the Castle County Fair and she agreed.

"Thank you, Brian," Miss Ratcliffe says, and Brian sees little

tears of gratitude in the corners of her blue eyes-eyes so dark in

color that they look almost stormy. "I've been ... well, very sad

lately. You see, I've lost my love."

"I'll help you forget him," Brian says, his voice tough and tender

at the same time, "if you'll call me ... Bri. " "Thank you," she

whispers, and then, leaning close enough so he can smell her perfume-a

dreamy scent of wildflowers-she says, "Thank you ... Bri. And since,

for tonight at least, we will he girl and boy instead of teacher and

student, you may call me ... Sally. " He takes her hands. Looks into

her eyes. "I'm not just a kid," he says. "I can help you forget him

... Sally. " She seems almost hypnotized by this unexpected

understanding, this unexpected manliness; he may only he eleven, she

thinks, but he is more of a man than Lester ever was! Her hands

tighten on his. Their faces draw closer ... closer .

"No," she murmurs, and now her eyes are so wide and so close that

he seems almost to drown in them, "you mustn't, Bri ... it's wrong. .

.

"It's right, baby," he says, and presses his lips to hers.

She draws away after a few moments and whispers tenderly "Hey,

kid, watch out where the fuck you're goin!"

jerked out of his daydream, Brian saw that he had just walked in

front of Hugh Priest's pick-up truck.

"Sorry, Mr. Priest," he said, blushing madly. Hugh Priest was

nobody to get mad at you. He worked for the Public Works Department

and was reputed to have the worst temper in Castle Rock.

Brian watched him narrowly. If he started to get out of his

truck, Brian planned to jump on his bike and be gone down Main Street

at roughly the speed of light. He had no interest in spending the next

month or so in the hospital just because he'd been daydreaming about

going to the County Fair with Miss Ratcliffe.

But Hugh Priest had a bottle of beer in the fork of his legs, Hank

Williams, jr was on the radio singing "High and Pressurized," and it

was all just a little too comfy for anything so radical as beating the

shit out of a little kid on Tuesday afternoon.

"You want to keep your eyes open," he said, taking a pull from the

neck of his bottle and looking at Brian balefully, "because next time I

won't bother to stop. I'll just run you down in the road.

Make you squeak, little buddy."

He put the truck in gear and drove off. Brian felt an insane (and

mercifully brief) urge to scream Well I'll be butched! after him. He

waited until the orange road-crew truck had turned off onto Linden

Street and then went on his way. The daydream about Miss Ratcliffe,

alas, was spoiled for the day. Hugh Priest had let in reality again.

Needful_Things

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