Stephen King - Blind Willie
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| STEPHEN KING | |
| 1983: Gobless us every one. | 1983: |
| BLIND WILLIE | |
| 6:15 A.M. | 6.15 |
| 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 the creamy curve of one shoulder, a lacy nightgown strap, and a fluff of blond 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 gray 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 Aliens 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 seven-forty, and that is just what he wants. | , , , , - . . |
| 'What about Christmas?' she asks with a sleepy smile. | - , ? - . |
| 'Humbug, right?' | - ? |
| 'Right,' he agrees. | - , - . |
| ' 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. | - , - . |
| 'Mmmm?' | - ----? |
| ' 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. | , .., , , , , . |
| He had that when he was in the bush - most guys did -but the bush was a long time ago. | , , . |
| In country was what the new guys and the correspondents always said; if you'd been there awhile it was just the bush, or sometimes the green. | " ", - ; , - , - - . |
| In the green, yeah. | , -. |
| 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 close - is standing in the front hall, by the coat tree where his topcoat (from Tager's, on Madison) hangs. | - , , - ( ). |
| He snags the case on his way by and takes it into the kitchen. | . |
| The coffee is all made - God bless Mr Coffee - 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. | 8.15 |
| 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 - dead Atlantis, maybe, just heaved back to the surface to glare at the gray sky. | - , , . |
| The day's got 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 train-car reeks of morning coffee, morning deodorant, morning aftershave, morning perfume, and morning stomachs. | , , . |
| There is a tie in almost every seat - even some of the women wear them these days. | - , . |
| The faces have that puffy eight o'clock look, the eyes both introspective and defenseless, the conversations half-hearted. | , , , . |
| This is the hour at which even people who don't drink look hungover. | , , . |
| Most folks just stick to their newspapers. | . |
| Why not? | ? |
| Reagan is king of America, stocks and bonds have turned to gold, the death penalty is back in vogue. | - , , . |
| Life is good. | . |
| He himself has the Time's 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. |
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