Stephen King - The Green Mile

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Stephen King: The Green Mile

ELECTRONIC VERSION 1.1 (Mar 29 00). If you find and correct errors in the text, please

update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.

Foreword: A Letter

Dear Constant Reader,

Life is a capricious business. The story which begins in this little book exists in this form because of a

chance remark made by a realtor I have never met. This happened a year ago, on Long Island. Ralph

Vicinanza, a long-time friend and business associate of mine (what he does mostly is to sell foreign

publishing rights for books and stories), had just rented a house there. The realtor remarked that the

house "looked like something out of a story by Charles Dickens."

The remark was still on Ralph's mind when he welcomed his first houseguest, British publisher Malcolm

Edwards. He repeated it to Edwards, and they began chatting about Dickens. Edwards mentioned that

Dickens had published many of his novels in installments, either folded into magazines or by themselves

as chapbooks, (I don't know the origin of this word, meaning a smaller-than-average book, but have

always loved its air of intimacy and friendliness). Some of the novels, Edwards added, were actually

written and revised in the shadow of publication; Charles Dickens was one novelist apparently not afraid

of a deadline.

Dickens's serialized novels were immensely popular; so popular, in fact, that one of them precipitated a

tragedy in Baltimore. A large group of Dickens fans crowded onto a waterfront dock, anticipating the

arrival of an English ship with copies of the final installment of The Old Curiosity Shop on board.

According to the story, several would-be readers were jostled into the water and drowned.

I don't think either Malcolm. or Ralph wanted anyone drowned, but they were curious as to what would

happen if serial publication were tried again today. Neither was immediately aware that it has happened

(there really is nothing new under the sun) on at least two occasions. Tom Wolfe published the first draft

of his novel Bonfire of the Vanities serially in Rolling Stone magazine, and Michael McDowell (The

Amulet, Gilded Needles, The Elementals, and the screenplay Beetlejuice) published a novel called

Blackwater in paperback installments. That novel - a horror story about a Southern family with the

unpleasant familial trait of turning into alligators - was not McDowell's best, but enjoyed good success

for Avon Books, all the same.

The two men further speculated about what might happen if a writer of popular fiction were to try

issuing a novel in chapbook editions today - little paperbacks that might sell for a pound or two in

Britain, or perhaps three dollars in America (where most paperbacks now sell for $6.99 or $7.99).

Someone like Stephen King might make an interesting go of such an experiment, Malcolm said, and

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Stephen King: The Green Mile

from there the conversation moved on to other topics.

Ralph more or less forgot the idea, but it recurred to him in the fall of 1995, following his return from

the Frankfurt Book Fair, a kind of international trade show where every day is a showdown for foreign

agents like Ralph. He broached the serialization/ chapbook idea to me along with a number of other

matters, most of which were automatic turndowns.

The chapbook idea was not an automatic turndown, though; unlike the interview in the Japanese

Playboy or the all-expenses-paid tour of the Baltic Republics, it struck a bright spark in my imagination.

I don't think that I am a modern Dickens-if such a person exists, it is probably John Irving or Salman

Rushdie - but I have always loved stories told in episodes. It is a format I first encountered in The

Saturday Evening Post, and I liked it because the end of each episode made the reader an almost equal

participant with the writer-you had a whole week to try to figure out the next twist of the snake. Also,

one read and experienced these stories more intensely, it seemed to me, because they were rationed. You

couldn't gulp, even if you wanted to (and if the story was good, you did).

Best of all, in my house we often read them aloud-my brother, David, one night, myself the next, my

mother taking a turn on the third, then back to my brother again. It was a rare chance to enjoy a written

work as we enjoyed the movies we went to and the TV programs (Rawhide, Bonanza. Route 66) that we

watched together; they were a family event . It wasn't until years later that I discovered Dickens's novels

had been enjoyed by families of his day in much the same fashion. only their fireside agonizings over

the fate of Pip and Oliver and David Copperfield went on for years instead of a couple of months (even

the longest of the Post serials rarely ran much more than eight installments).

There was one other thing that I liked about the idea, an appeal that I suspect only the writer of suspense

tales and spooky stories can fully appreciate: in a story which is published m installments, the writer

gains an ascendancy over the reader which he or she cannot otherwise enjoy: simply put. Constant

Reader, you cannot flip ahead and see how matters turn out.

I still remember walking into our living room once when I was twelve or so and seeing my mother in her

favorite rocker, peeking at the end of an Agatha Christie paperback while her finger held her actual

place around page 50. I was appalled, and told her so Q was twelve. remember. an age at which boys

first dimly begin to realize that they know everything), suggesting that reading the end of a mystery

novel before you actually get there was on a par with eating the white stuff out of the middle of Oreo

cookies and then throwing the cookies themselves away. She laughed her wonderful unembarrassed

laugh and said perhaps that was so, but sometimes she just couldn't resist the temptation. Giving in to

temptation was a concept I could understand; I had plenty of my own, even at twelve. But here, at last, is

an amusing cure for that temptation. Until the final episode arrives in bookstores, no one is going to

know how The Green Mile turns out ... and that may include me.

Although there was no way he could have known it, Ralph Vicinanza, mentioned the idea of a novel in

installments at what was, for me, the perfect psychological moment. I had been playing with a story idea

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Stephen King: The Green Mile

on a subject I had always suspected I would get around to sooner or later: the electric chair. "Old

Sparky" has fascinated me ever since my first James Cagney movie, and the first Death Row tales I ever

read (in a book called Twenty Thousand Years in Sing Sing, written by Warden Lewis E. Lawes) fired

the darker side of my imagination. What, I wondered, would it be like to walk those last forty yards to

the electric chair, knowing you were going to die there? Mat, for that matter, would it be like to be the

man who had to strap the condemned in ... or pull the switch? What would such a job take out of you?

Even creepier, what might it add?

I had tried these basic ideas, always tentatively, on a number of different frameworks over the last

twenty or thirty years. I had written one successful novella set in prison (Rita Hayworth and Shawshank

Redemption), and had sort of come to the conclusion that that was probably it for me, when this take on

the idea came along. There were lots of things I liked about it, but nothing more than the narrator's

essentially decent voice; low-key, honest, perhaps a little wide-eyed, he is a Stephen King narrator if

ever there was one. So I got to work, but in a tentative, stopand-start way. Most of the second chapter

was written during a rain delay at Fenway Park!

When Ralph called, I had filled a notebook with scribbled pages of The Green Mile, and realized I was

building a novel when I should have been spending my time clearing my desk for revisions on a book

already written (Desperation-you'll see it soon, Constant Reader). At the point I had come to on Mile,

there are usually just two choices: put it away (probably never to be picked up again) or cast everything

else aside and chase.

Ralph suggested a possible third alternative, a story that could be written the same way it would be read-

in installments. And I liked the high-wire aspect of it, too: fall down on the job, fail to carry through, and

all at once about a million readers are howling for your blood. No one knows this any better than me,

unless it's my secretary, Juliann Eugley; we get dozens of angry letters each week, demanding the next

book in the Dark Tower cycle (patience, followers of Roland; another year or so and your wait will end,

I promise). One of these contained a Polaroid of a teddy-bear in chains, with a message cut out of

newspaper headlines and magazine covers: RELEASE THE NEXT DARK TOWER BOOK AT ONCE

OR THE BEAR DIES, it said. I put it up in my office to remind myself both of my responsibility and of

how wonderful it is to have people actually care - a little-about the creatures of one's imagination.

In any case, I've decided to publish The Green Mile in a series of small paperbacks, in the

nineteenthcentury manner, and I hope you'll write and tell me (a) if you liked the story, and (b) if you

liked the seldom used but rather amusing delivery system. It has certainly energized the writing of the

story, although at this moment (a rainy evening in October of 1995) it is still far from done, even in

rough draft, and the outcome remains in some doubt. That is part of the excitement of the whole thing,

though-at this point I'm driving through thick fog with the pedal all the way to the metal.

Most of all, I want to say that if you have even half as much fun reading this as I did writing it, we'll

both be well off. Enjoy ... and why not read this aloud, with a friend? If nothing else, it will shorten the

time until the next installment appears on your newsstand or in your local bookstore.

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Stephen King: The Green Mile

In the meantime, take care, and be good to one another.

Stephen King

The Green Mile

Part One:

The Two Dead Girls

This happened in 1932, when the state penitentiary was still at Cold Mountain. And the electric chair

was there, too, of course.

The inmates made jokes about the chair, the way people always make jokes about things that frighten

them but can't be gotten away from. They called it Old Sparky, or the Big Juicy. They made cracks

about the power bill, and how Warden Moores would cook his Thanksgiving dinner that fall, with his

wife, Melinda, too sick to cook.

But for the ones who actually had to sit down in that chair, the humor went out of the situation in a

hurry. I presided over seventy-eight executions during my time at Cold Mountain (that's one figure I've

never been confused about; I'll remember it on my deathbed), and I think that, for most of those men, the

truth of what was happening to them finally hit all the way home when their ankles were being clamped

to the stout oak of "Old Sparky's" legs. The realization came then (you would see it rising in their eyes, a

kind of cold dismay) that their own legs had finished their careers. The blood still ran in them, the

muscles were still strong, but they were finished, all the same; they were never going to walk another

country mile or dance with a girl at a barn-raising. Old Sparky's clients came to a knowledge of their

deaths from the ankles up. There was a black silk bag that went over their heads after they had finished

their rambling and mostly disjointed last remarks. It was supposed to be for them, but I always thought:

it was really for us, to keep us from seeing the awful tide of dismay in their eyes as they realized they

were going to die with their knees bent.

There was no death row at Cold Mountain, only E Block, set apart from the other four and about a

quarter their size, brick instead of wood, with a horrible bare metal roof that glared in the summer sun

like a delirious eyeball. Six cells inside, three on each side of a wide center aisle, each almost twice as

big as the cells in the other four blocks. Singles, too. Great accommodations for a prison (especially in

the thirties), but the inmates would have traded for cells in any of the other four. Believe me, they would

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Stephen King: The Green Mile

have traded.

There was never a time during my years as block superintendent when all six cells were occupied at one

time-thank God for small favors. Four was the most, mixed black and white (at Cold Mountain, there

was no segregation among the walking dead), and that was a little piece of hell. One was a woman,

Beverly McCall. She was black as the ace of spades and as beautiful as the sin you never had nerve

enough to commit. She put up with six years of her husband beating her, but wouldn't put up with his

creeping around for a single day. On the evening after she found out he was cheating, she stood waiting

for the unfortunate Lester McCall, known to his pals (and, presumably, to his extremely short-term

mistress) as Cutter, at the top of the stairs leading to the apartment over his barber shop. She waited until

he got his overcoat half off, then dropped his cheating guts onto his two-tone shoes. Used one of Cutter's

own razors to do it. Two nights before she was due to sit in Old Sparky, she called me to her cell and

said she had been visited by her African spirit-father in a dream. He told her to discard her slave-name

and to die under her free name, Matuomi. That was her request, that her death warrant should be read

under the name of Beverly Matuomi. I guess her spirit-father didn't give her any first name, or one she

could make out, anyhow. I said yes, okay, fine. One thing those years serving as the bull-goose screw

taught me was never to refuse the condemned unless I absolutely had to. In the case of Beverly

Matuomi, it made no difference anyway. The governor called the next day around three in the afternoon,

commuting her sentence to life in the Grassy Valley Penal Facility for Women-all penal and no penis,

we used to say back then. I was glad to see Bev's round ass going left instead of right when she got to

the duty desk, let me tell you.

Thirty-five years or so later - had to be at least thirty-five - I saw that name on the obituary page of the

paper, under a picture of a skinny-faced black lady with a cloud of white hair and glasses with

rhinestones at the corners. It was Beverly. She'd spent the last ten years of her life a free woman, the

obituary said, and had rescued the small-town library of Raines Falls pretty much single-handed. She

had also taught Sunday school and had been much loved in that little backwater. LIBRARIAN DIES OF

HEART FAILURE, the headline said, and below that, in smaller type, almost as an afterthought: Served

Over Two Decades in Prison for Murder. Only the eyes, wide and blazing behind the glasses with the

rhinestones at the corners, were the same. They were the eyes of a woman who even at seventy-whatever

would not hesitate to pluck a safety razor from its blue jar of disinfectant, if the urge seemed pressing.

You know murderers, even if they finish up as old lady librarians in dozey little towns. At least you do if

you've spent as much time minding murderers as I did. There was only one time I ever had a question

about the nature of my job. That, I reckon, is why I'm writing this.

The wide corridor up the center of E Block was floored with linoleum the color of tired old limes, and so

what was called the Last Mile at other prisons was called the Green Mile at Cold Mountain. It ran, I

guess, sixty long paces from south to north, bottom to top. At the bottom was the restraint room. At the

top end was a T-junction. A left turn meant life-if you called what went on in the sunbaked exercise yard

life, and many did; many lived it for years, with no apparent ill effects. Thieves and arsonists and sex

criminals, all talking their talk and walking their walk and making their little deals.

A right turn, though - that was different. First you went into my office (where the carpet was also green,

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StephenKing:TheGreenMileStephenKing:TheGreenMileELECTRONICVERSION1.1(Mar2900).Ifyoufindandcorrecterrorsin hetext,pleaseupdatetheversionnumberby0.1andredistribute.Foreword:ALetterDearConstantReader,Lifeisacapriciousbusiness.Thestorywhichbeginsinthislittlebookexistsinthisformbecauseofachanceremarkma...

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Stephen King - The Green Mile

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