Plant4

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The Plant
by Stephen King
part four of a novel in progress
philtrum press
Bangor, Maine 2000
Copyright ©1985,2000,byStephenKing.Allrightsreserved.
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From the journals of Riddley Walker
3/25/81
After what seems like ten weeks of unadulterated excitement—all of it the
unhealthiest variety—things at Zenith House seem to have finally settled
back into their accustomed drone. Porter sneaks into Jackson’s office and
sniffs the seat of her office chair during the five-minute period which
comes every morning between ten and ten-thirty when the seat is vacant
(it is during this half-hour each morning that Ms. Jackson removes herself
and a copy of either Vogue or Better Homes and Gardens to the ladies’
bog, where she has her daily dump); Gelb has resumed his surreptitious
visits to the Riddley Walker Casino and after a rash double-or-nothing
proposal earlier this week now owes me $192.50; Herb Porter, after his
brief fugue, has once again mounted into the seat of the great political
locomotive which he imagines only himself, of all the earth’s billions, real-
ly capable of driving; and I have resumed these pages after a three-week
hiatus in which I have peacefully swept dirt by day and spread narrative
by night—and if that is not pomposity masquerading as eloquence, then
nothing is.
But the accustomed drone is not quite the same as before, is it?
There are two principal reasons for this. One is down the hall and one is
right here in my little janitorial cubby...or perhaps it’s only in my head. I
would give a great deal to know which, and please believe me that my
tongue is nowhere near my cheek when I say so. The change down the
hall is, of course, John Kenton. The change in here (or in my head) is
Zenith the Common Ivy.
81
Herb Porter doesn’t realize that anything at all is wrong with Kenton.
Bill Gelb has noticed but doesn’t care. It was Sandra Jackson who asked
me yesterday if I had any idea why John had suddenly decided to go
through every old manuscript in that corner of the mailroom I think of as
The Isle of Forgotten Novels.
“No ma’am!” I said. “I sho don’t!”
“Well, I wish he’d stop, she said. She popped open her compact,
peered into it, and began to poke at her hair with an afro comb. “I can’t
even go in there anymore without sneezing until I’m just about blue.
Everything’s covered with dust and all that dry creepy stuff that comes out
when those cheap padded mailers tear open. You must hate it in there.
“It sho is pow’ful dusty, Miz Jackson, and that’s a fack!”
“Is he mailing them back?”
“I doan’ know if he is nor not.
“Well, you take care of the mail, don’t you?” she asked, putting away
her compact and producing a tube of lipstick. A twist of her fingers pro-
duced something the size an shape of a child’s penis and the color of a
hunter’s cap. She began to apply this in great shiny plates. I caught a whiff
and immediately understood why Porter sniffs her seat instead of her face.
“Yes ma’am, I sho do!”
“So if you haven’t seen any of them going out, they aren’t going out.
Just as well. If he was sending them out I would have to complain to Roger
and perhaps even send a memo on the subject to Mr. Enders. She gave
her lipstick a twist, recapped it, dropped it into the maw of the huge
shapeless trunk she calls her purse, and preened for a moment. “None of
them were accompanied by return postage. That’s why they’re there. It’s
not our business to send them back—most of them or all of them—but he
is doing it at his own expense, and it is thus none of La Jackson’s busi-
ness.
“I wish he’d stop it, even if he’s dumping them down the incinera-
tor, she said, now producing a plastic canister which, when opened, dis-
82
closed dusting powder and a rather discolored puff. Sandra Jackson then
proceeded to disappear into a choking pink cloud that had much the
same effect on me as the one she claimed Kenton’s office produced on
her. “He’s making the rest of us look bad and there’s no goddamned need
of it, she finished from inside the cloud.
“No ma’am, I said, and sneezed.
Are you growing marijuana in here, Riddley?” she asked. “It smells
funny in here.
“No ma’am, I sho ain’t!”
“Uh, she said, and put away the puff. She began to unbutton her
blouse just as I’d begun to hope I was going to escape. She doffed it,
revealing two small decorous white-lady breasts like uncooked muffins
with a cherry poked into each one. She began to unzip her skirt and then
paused in the act, giving me another moment of fleeting hope. “What else
is wrong with him, Riddley?”
Ah sho don’t know, Miz Jackson, I said, but I know, all right, and
Roger Wade knows as well—I think it’s almost incredible that Wade
somehow persuaded such a total romantic to stay on, but somehow he
did. Porter doesn’t know, Gelb doesn’t care, and Jackson’s too self-cen-
tered to see what’s right in front of her slightly saggy little white-lady tits:
his girl told him that he just dropped off the Top Forty of her life. And
Kenton has responded (with a little help from Roger Wade, one must
assume) in a way that seems both honorable and courageous to me—a way
I like to think I myself would respond: he’s working his fucking ass off.
Her skirt puddled around her feet and she stepped out of it.
“Want to play truckdriver and hitchhiker today, Riddley?” she asked.
“I sho do, Miz Jackson!” I said as her hands went to my belt-buckle
and tugged it undone. At moments like this I have about four fantasies to
fall back on that never fail. One, I regret to say, is of having my sister
Deidre first diaper me and then accommodate me after I have made wee-
wee in my didy. Ah, sex is the great comedy, all right. No doubt about that.
83
摘要:

ThePlantbyStephenKingpartfourofanovelinprogressphiltrumpressBangor,Maine2000Copyright©1985,2000,byStephenKing.Allrightsreserved.FromthejournalsofRiddleyWalker3/25/81Afterwhatseemsliketenweeksofunadulteratedexcitement—al...

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