BlindWillie

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S t e p h e n

KING

BLIND WILLE

(As published in the Anteaus:

The Final Issue 1994)

6:15 A.M.

He wakes to music, always to music; the shrill beep-beep-beep of the clock-radio's alarm is too

much for his mind to cope with during those first blurry moments of the day. It sounds like a dump

truck backing up. The radio is bad enough at this time of year, though; the easy-listening station he

keeps the clock-radio tuned to is wall-to-wall Christmas carols, and this morning he wakes up to

one of the two or three on his Most Hated List, something full of breathy voices and phony wonder.

The Hare Krishna Chorale or the Andy Williams Singers or some such. Do you hear what I hear,

the breathy voices sing as he sits up in bed, blinking groggily, hair sticking out in every direction.

Do you see what I see, they sing as he swings his legs out, grimaces his way across the cold floor to

the radio, and bangs the button that turns it off. When he turns around, Sharon has assumed her

customary defensive posture — pillow folded over her head, nothing showing but he creamy curve

of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blonde hair.

He goes into the bathroom, closes the door, slips off the pajama bottoms he sleeps in, drops them

into the hamper, clicks on his electric razor. As he runs it over his face he thinks, Why not run

through the rest of the sensory catalogue while you're at it, boys? Do you smell what I smell, do

you taste what I taste, do you feel what I feel. I mean, hey, go for it.

'Humbug,' he says as he turns on the shower. 'All humbug.'

Twenty minutes later, while he's dressing (the dark grey suit from Paul Stuart this morning, plus his

favorite Sulka tie), Sharon wakes up a little. Not enough for him to fully understand what she's

telling him, though.

'Come again?' he asks. 'I got eggnog, but the rest was just ugga-wugga.'

'I asked if you'd pick up two quarts of eggnog on your way home,' she says. 'We've got the

Allens and the Dubrays coming over tonight, remember?

'Christmas,' he says, checking his hair carefully in the mirror. He no longer looks like the glaring,

bewildered man who sits up in bed to the sound of music five mornings a week — sometimes six.

Now he looks like all the other people who will ride into New York with him on the 7:40, and that

is just what he wants.

'What about Christmas?' she asks with a sleepy smile. 'Humbug, right?

'Right,' he agrees. 'All humbug.'

'If you remember, get some cinnamon too — '

'Okay.'

' — but if you forget the eggnog, I'll slaughter you, Bill.'

'I'll remember.'

'I know. You're very dependable. Look nice too.'

'Thanks.'

She flops back down, then props herself up on one elbow as he makes a final minute adjustment

to the tie, which is a dark blue. He has never worn a red tie in his life, and hopes he can go to his

grave untouched by that particular virus. 'I got the tinsel you wanted,' she says.

'Mmmmm?'

'the tinsel,' she says. 'It's on the kitchen table.'

'Oh.' Now he remembers. 'Thanks.'

'Sure.' She's back down and already starting to drift off again. He doesn't envy the fact that she

can stay in bed until nine — hell, until eleven, if she wants — but he envies that ability of hers to

wake up, talk, then drift off again. She says something else, but now she's back to ugga-wugga. He

knows what it is just the same, though: have a good day hon.

'Thanks,' he says, kissing her cheek. 'I will.'

'Look very nice,' she mumbles again, although her eyes are closed. 'Love you, Bill.'

'Love you too,' he says and goes out.

His briefcase — Mark Cross, not quite top of the line but almost — is standing in the front hall, by

the coat tree where his topcoat (from Barney's on Madison) hangs. He grabs the case on his way by

and takes it into the kitchen. The coffee is all made — God bless solid state electronics and

microchips — and he pours himself a cup. He opens the briefcase, which is entirely empty, and

picks up the ball of tinsel on the kitchen table. He holds it up for a moment, watching the way it

sparkles under the light of the kitchen fluorescents, then puts it in his briefcase.

'Do you hear what I hear,' he says to no one at all and snaps the briefcase shut.

8:15 A.M.

Outside the dirty window to his left, he can see the city drawing closer. The grime on the glass

makes it look like some filthy, gargantuan ruin — Atlantis, maybe, just heaved back to the surface.

It's a grey day with a load of snow caught in its throat, but that doesn't worry him much; it is just

eight days until Christmas, and business will be good.

The car reeks of morning coffee, morning deodorant, morning aftershave, morning perfume, and

morning stomachs. There is a tie in almost every seat — even the women wear them these days it

seems. The faces have that puffy eight o'clock look, the eyes both introspective and defenseless, the

conversations halfhearted. This is the hour at which even people who don't drink look hung over.

Most people just stick to their newspapers. He himself has the Times crossword open in front of

him, and although he's filled in a few squares, it's mostly a defensive measure. He doesn't like to

talk to people on the train, doesn't like loose conversation of any sort, and the last thing in the world

he wants is a commuter buddy. When he starts seeing the same faces in any given car, when people

start to nod to him or say 'How you doin today?' as they go to their seats, he changes cars. It's not

that hard to remain unknown, just another commuter, one who is conspicuous only in his adamant

refusal to wear a red tie. Not that hard at all.

'All ready for Christmas?' the man in the aisle seat asks him.

He looks up, almost frowning, then decides it's not a substantive remark, but only the sort of

empty time-passer some people seem to feel compelled to make. The man beside him is fat and will

undoubtedly stink by noon no matter how much Speed Stik he used this morning . . . but he's hardly

even looking at his seatmate, so that's all right.

'Yes, well, you know,' he says, looking down at the briefcase between his shoes — the briefcase

that contains a ball of tinsel and nothing else. 'I'm getting in the spirit, little by little.'

8:40 A.M.

He comes out of Penn Station with a thousand other topcoated commuters and commuterettes, mid-

level executives for the most part, sleek gerbils who will be running full tilt on their exercise

wheels by noon. He stands still for a moment, breathing deep of the cold grey air. Madison Square

Garden has been tricked out with greenery and Christmas lights, and a little distance away a Santa

Claus who looks Puerto Rican is ringing a bell. He's got a pot for contributions with an easel set up

beside it. HELP THE HOMELESS THIS CHRISTMAS, the sign on the easel says, and the man in

the blue tie thinks, How about a little truth in advertising, Santa? How about a sign that says, HELP

ME SUPPORT MY CRACK HABIT THIS CHRISTMAS? Nevertheless, he drops a couple of

dollar bills into the pot as he walks past. He has a good feeling about today. He's glad Sharon

remembered the tinsel — he would have forgotten, himself; he always forgets stuff like that, the

grace notes.

He walks five short blocks and then comes to his building. Standing outside the door is a young

black man — a youth, actually, surely no more than seventeen — wearing black jeans and a dirty

red sweater with a hood. He jives from foot to foot, blowing puffs of steam out of his mouth,

smiling frequently, showing a gold tooth. In one hand he holds a partly crushed Styrofoam coffee

cup. There's some change in it, which he rattles constantly.

'Spare a little?' he asks the passersby as they stream toward the revolving doors. 'Spare a little,

sir? Spare a little, ma'am? Just trying to get lil spot of breffus. Than you, gobless you, merry

Christmas. Spare a little, sir? Quarter, maybe? Than you. Spare a little, ma'am?'

As he passes, Bill drops a nickel and two dimes into the young black man's cup.

'Thank you, sir, gobless, merry Christmas.'

'You, too,' he says.

The woman next to him frowns. 'You shouldn't encourage them,' she says.

He gives her a shrug and a small, shamefaced smile. 'It's hard for me to say no to anyone at

Christmas,' he tells her.

He enters the lobby with a stream of others, stares briefly after the opinionated bitch as she heads

for the newsstand, then goes to the elevators with their old-fashioned floor dials and their art deco

numbers. Here several people nod to him, and he exchanges a few words with a couple of them as

they wait — it's not like the train, after all, where you can change cars. Plus, the building is an old

one, only fifteen stories high, and the elevators are cranky.

'How's the wife, Bill?' a scrawny, constantly grinning man from the fifth floor asks.

'Andi? She's fine.'

'Kids?'

'Both good.' He has no kids, of course — he wants kids about as much as he wants a hiatal hernia

— and his wife's name isn't Andi, but those are things the scrawny, constantly grinning man will

never know.

'Bet they can't wait for the big day,' the scrawny man says, his grin widening and becoming

unspeakable. Now he looks like an editorial cartoonist's conception of Famine, all big eyes and

huge teeth and shiny skin.

'That's right,' he says, 'but I think Sarah's getting kind of suspicious about the guy in the red suit.'

Hurry up, elevator he thinks, Jesus, hurry up and save me from these stupidities.

'Yeah, yeah, it happens,' the scrawny man says. His grin fades for a moment, as if they are

discussing cancer instead of Santa. 'How old's she now?'

'Eight.'

'Boy, the time sure flies when you're having fun, doesn't it? Seems like she was just born a year

or two ago.'

'You can say that again,'he says, fervently hoping the scrawny man won't say it again. At that

moment one of the four elevators finally gasps open its doors and they herd themselves inside.

Bill and the scrawny man walk a little way down the fifth floor hall together, and then the scrawny

man stops in front of a set of old-fashioned double doors with the words CONSOLIDATED

INSURANCE written on one frosted-glass panel and ADJUSTORS OF AMERICA on the other.

From behind these doors comes the muted clickety-click of computer keyboards and the slightly

louder sound of ringing phones.

'Have a good day, Bill.'

'You too.'

The scrawny man lets himself into his office, and for a moment Bill sees a big wreath hung on

the far side of the room. Also, the windows have been decorated with the kind of snow that comes

in a spray can. He shudders and thinks, God save us, every one.

9:05 A.M

His office — one of two he keeps in this building — is at the far end of the hall. The two offices up

from it are dark and vacant, a situation that has held for the last six months and one he likes just

fine. Printed on the frosted glass of his own office door are the words WESTERN STATES LAND

ANALYSTS. There are three locks on the door: the one that was on it when he moved into the

building nine years ago, plus two he has put on himself. He lets himself in, closes the door, turns

the bolt, then engages the police lock.

A desk stands in the center of the room, and it is cluttered with papers, but none of them mean

anything; they are simply window dressing for the cleaning service. Every so often he throws them

all out and redistributes a fresh batch. In the center of the desk is a telephone on which he makes

occasional random calls so that the phone company won't register the line as totally inactive. Last

year he purchased a fax, and it looks very businesslike over in its corner by the door to the office's

little second room, but it has never been used.

'Do you hear what I hear, do you smell what I smell, do you taste what I taste,' he murmurs, and

crosses to the door leading to the second room. Inside are shelves stacked high with more

meaningless paper, two large file cabinets (there is a Walkman on top of one, his excuse on the few

occasions when someone knocks on the locked door and gets no answer), a chair, and a stepladder.

Bill takes the stepladder back to the main room and unfolds it to the left of the desk. He puts his

briefcase on top of it. Then he mounts the first three steps of the ladder, reaches up (the bottom half

of his coat bells out around his legs as he does), and carefully moves aside one of the suspended

ceiling panels.

Above is a dark area which cannot quite be called a utility space, although a few pipes and wires

do run through it. There's no dust up here, at least not in this immediate area, and no rodent

droppings, either — he uses D-Con Mouseprufe once a month. He wants to keep his clothes nice as

he goes back and forth, of course, but that's not really the important part. the important part is to

respect your work and your field. This he learned in the Marines, and he sometimes thinks it is the

most important thing he did learn there. He stayed alive, of course, but he thinks now that was

probably more luck than learning. Still, a person who respects his work and his field — the place

where the work is done, the tools with which it is done — has a leg up in life. No doubt about that.

Above this narrow space (a ghostly, gentle wind hoots endlessly through it, bringing a smell of

dust and the groan of the elevators) is the bottom of the sixth floor, and here is a square trap door

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StephenKINGBLINDWILLE(AspublishedintheAnteaus:TheFinalIssue1994)6:15A.M.Hewakestomusic,alwaystomusic;theshrillbeep-beep-beepoftheclock-radio'salarmistoomuchforhismindtocopewithduringthosefirstblurrymomentsoftheday.Itsoundslikeadumptruckbackingup.Theradioisbadenoughatthistimeofyear,though;theeasy-lis...

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