The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,56
lad. On several occasions others were there when I arrived, and just before quitting time we all turned up at once, standing side by side and breathing deep, storing up those good aromas - and good ideas, maybe - for the weekend. I suppose we would have looked hilarious to an outsider, like a New Yorker cartoon without a caption (would we even need one to be amusing? I think not), but believe me, there was nothing hilarious about it. Nothing scary, either. It was nice, that's all. Plain old nice.
Is breathing Zenith addictive? I suppose it must be, but it doesn't feel like a harsh, governing addiction ("governing" may be the wrong word, but it's the only one I can think of). Not like the cigarette habit, in other words, or the pot habit. People say pot isn't addictive, but after my junior year at Bates, I know better - that shit almost got me flunked out. But I repeat, this is not like that. I don't seem to miss it when I'm away from it, as I am now (at least not yet). And at work there is the indescribable feeling of being at one with your mates. I don't know if I'd call it telepathy, exactly (Herb and Sandra do, John and Roger seem a little less sure). It's more like singing in harmony, or walking together in a parade, matching strides. (Not marching, though, it doesn't feel that structured.) And although John, Roger, Sandra, and Herb have all gone their separate ways for the weekend and we're all far from the plant, I still feel in touch with them, as if I could reach out and connect if I really wanted to. Or needed to.
The mailroom is now almost completely empty of manuscripts, which is a damned good thing, because it's now almost completely full of Zenith. Z has also overgrown the walls of the corridor, although much more densely in the southerly direction - i. e. toward the rear of the building and the airshaft. Going the other way it has curled its friendly (we assume they're friendly) tendrils around Sandra's door and John's facing hers, but that's as far as it had progressed as of four o'clock this afternoon, when I split. It seems reasonable to assume that the Barfield woman was right about the garlic and the smell - which we mere humans can no longer detect - is slowing it down, at least in that direction. South of the janitor's closet and the mailroom, however, the corridor is well on the way to becoming a jungle path. There's Z all over the walls (it's buried the framed book jacket blow-ups down that way, which is a great relief), and large hanging bunches of green Z-leaves. It has also produced several dark blue Z-flowers, which have their own pleasant smell. Sort of like burnt wax (a smell I associate with candles in the Halloween jack-o-lanterns of my youth). Never seen flowers growing on an ivy, but what do I know about plants? The answer is not much.
There's a window reinforced with wire mesh overlooking the airshaft, and Z has begun to overgrow this as well, all leaves (and flowers) turned out toward the sun. Herb Porter says he saw one of those leaves snatch up a fly that was crawling over a pane of that window. Madness? Undoubtedly! But: true madness or false? True, I think, which suggests some unpleasant possibilities to go with all those pleasant smells. But I don't want to deal with that this weekend.
Where I want to go this weekend is Paramus.
Maybe with a stop at my local OTB for good measure.
I probably shouldn't say it, but God! This is more fun than Studio 54!
From the journals of Riddley Walker
4/4/81 12:35 A. M. Aboard the Silver Meteor Question: Has Riddley Pearson Walker ever in his life been so confused, so disheartened, so shaken, so downright sad?
I don't think so.
Has Riddley Pearson Walker ever had a worse week in the twenty-six years of his life?
Absolutely not.
I am aboard Amtrak's Train 36, headed back to Manhattan at least three days early. No one knows I'm coming, but then, who would care? Roger Wade? Kenton, perhaps? My landlord?
I tried for a plane out of B'ham, but no seats available until Sunday. I could not bring myself to stay in Blackwater - or anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line - that long. Hence the train. And so, to the sound of snores all