[NOTE: THIS IS A HEAVILY EDITED VERSION OF A PIECE I WROTE ABOUT TWELVE YEARS AGO. ONCE UPON A TIME, I WAS A HUGE STEPHEN KING FAN. I STILL LIKE HIS WORK, BUT NOT NEARLY AS MUCH AS I USED TO. HE WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AUTHORS I’D EVER MET (BEFORE HIM, THERE HAD ONLY BEEN CLIVE BARKER AND JOHN SANDFORD), AND BACK THEN, I WAS STILL SUSCEPTIBLE TO GETTING STARSTRUCK WHEN MEETING FAMOUS PEOPLE. PLEASE FORGIVE THIS EARLY ATTEMPT, AS EDITING CANNOT SOLVE EVERYTHING. BUT IT IS AN INTERESTING LOOK AT THE PAST, AND IT IS ABOUT STEPHEN KING, AFTER ALL.]
From the Sept. 20, 1998 issue of the BOOKS section of the Chicago TRIBUNE:
“Tuesday, Sept. 29 at 5:00 p.m.
“Legendary best-selling author Stephen King will read from and sign his new book, Bag of Bones. Please note: Admission to this event is by ticket only. Tickets are free and will be available only on Tuesday, Sept. 29, starting at 9 a.m. at the Congress Pkwy. entrance of Harold Washington Library Center. Only books purchased at the event will be signed. No photos, please.”
Above this is a picture of Stephen King, clad in a leather jacket, a forefinger casually placed against the left side of his face, a child-like gleam in his eyes.
This was a once in a lifetime chance to meet the King. How could I pass it up? Well, I had to get classes and work out of the way, but as soon as that was done, I was free to head down to the city and get my ticket as early as possible.
I made it to Chicago at about eight-ish, an hour before the tickets would be released. I parked in a lot where I would be raped the least over price, and I rushed over to the Washington library, where a looooooooooong line of people were already waiting. There were tired people with sleeping bags and blankets, eating breakfasts consisting of beef sticks and Coca-Cola. But at least the line seemed to end at the corner . . . .
As soon as I reached the corner, I saw that the line continued for quite a ways. I found the end, whipped out a book (not Bag of Bones; by that time, I’d read it already), and started waiting. I guessed that there were about two hundred people ahead of me, which was fine considering how there were seven hundred tickets to go around. (As it turned out later, there were actually 640 tickets.)
A half-hour later, some library representatives came by looking for fan club members, who apparently got priority in line. I was tempted to lie and join their ranks, but I decided not to push my luck. After these folks were gone, more people came by, the press, and started taking pictures and shooting video.
Soon, the line started moving. I put my book away, eager to be in motion. There were a few pauses, but I finally made it in the door, where I was given a green ticket, a flyer, and a long strip of paper with a line of orange stars. This last was supposed to be a wrist band, and if I wasn’t wearing it, I wouldn’t get into the event. My ticket was 389, and I held onto it for dear life.
I then went back home and whiled away the hours, waiting until I could finally meet my favorite writer, my hero, Stephen King.
The last thing I did before I left was affix the wristband in place. It was a pain to get on because I have hairy arms; this thing was supposed to be taped on, which was not fun. But I got ready and rushed back downtown, only to get caught in a traffic jam. When the fun of wasting away on the Ike was done, I was raped again by the parking lot.
But at least I was ready to meet the King. I went to the library and saw a sign that said: SORRY—OUT OF TICKETS FOR STEPHEN KING.” I then went up about seven escalators before I reached the top floor, where I showed off my wristband to the guard and was granted entrance to the room where the King would give his performance.
I threaded my way through a legion of King fans to where I could buy the book. I already had it, but he wouldn’t sign anything that wasn’t purchased here. Book in hand, I tried to find the best possible seat, but this was too difficult. I got as close up as I could, and the waiting began.
Shortly after my arrival, a woman dressed as a corpse started walking around, calling out her love for Stephen King. “Stephen!” she shouted. “Stephen! Where are you? I love you!” This went on for about a half-hour. I don’t know if it was set up by Scribners, or the library, or if she was just a fan, but it was pretty cool, regardless.
After that, a representative from the library came up to the lectern and broke the bad news: due to the number of people, King would not be personalizing the books he signs. I felt a stab of disappointment, but then again, I simply felt lucky that I was actually going to meet the man I had idolized for more than half my life.
A few minutes later, some people from Sam’s Club gave a speech about the library, but I really didn’t pay much attention to that, to be honest. I clapped in all the right places, impatient to get to the King.
And finally, he was there. Stephen King was on stage. I stood, hands clapping wildly. The others clapped even harder, for not only was he before our very eyes, he was also wearing a Cubs jersey, and it had Sosa’s name on it to boot. But he’s a Red Sox fan, so I knew something was up. Sure enough, I was right: “I’m an official Cubs fan until October 17,” he said. He then unbuttoned the jersey to reveal a Red Sox shirt underneath. There were a few surprised looks in the room, but not many.
He then went on to offer his theory as to what would happen if the Cubs and the Red Sox made it to the World Series (which was looking possible, at the time): it would be tied after six games, and on the day of the last game, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, tied game, World War III would begin.
King continued talking, but now it was about why he’d chosen the Harold Washington Library as a point on his book tour. He chose a library because he owed them so much, considering his poor upbringing. Again, no surprise to me or anyone else in the room.
Then came the shocker: rather than read from Bag of Bones, as we were all expecting, he read a full short story from Six Stories (an extremely rare collection of his shorter fiction), “L.T.’s Theory of Pets.” [NOTE: SINCE THEN, THIS STORY HAS SEEN A WIDER PUBLICATION IN EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL] It was a very funny story, but, well, you know Stephen King. He said about it, “I started writing this piece as a humorous story, and as you know, when I start out to write something fun, it goes someplace else.”
I not only listened to the story, I watched him tell it. It was one of the most magical experiences of my life, watching my idol walk around the stage with the mic in one hand and the book in the other, giving us a tale I’d never read before without making so much as a mistake. No stutters or um’s, nothing. There were some points in the story where I wondered if I was really dreaming up this whole scenario. [NOTE: SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT STARSTRUCK? SORRY, FOLKS. IF IT’S ANY CONSOLATION TO YOU, I DON’T GET THIS WAY ANYMORE. I HAVEN’T SINCE . . . WELL, SINCE I MET STEPHEN KING AND REALIZED HE WAS JUST A GUY. A GUY WHO WRITES EXCELLENT STORIES, OF COURSE, BUT JUST A GUY.]
When the story was over and the clapping was done, the book signing started. They lined people up by the numbers on their tickets. They went in increments of 50. I knew it would be a long time, considering I was 389, but I relaxed and waited. I was in a perfect position to watch him sign books, so I did, still not believing the reality of this ordeal.
After an hour, the number bracket I fell into was called, and I got in line. As I drew closer to the King, I felt butterflies colliding in my belly. This was my hero! How many people got to meet their hero? What would I say? What COULD I say?
Well, a friend of mine, Rob Tannahill [NOTE: KNOWN AS R.M. TANNAHILL TO THOSE OF YOU WHO READ TABARD INN], had written and drawn three Stephen King parodies (for fun, not publication) starring Beavis and Butt-Head. I'd convinced him to let me send copies to the King, and we got a letter back saying that both King and his wife, Tabitha, enjoyed "The Dork Half," "The Stupid Death of Beavis Verrill," and "The Scam" immensely. So now I had an ice breaker. And at some point, I knew I had to ask him a question for the paper I was writing for one of my classes.
Finally, I reached the place where they put the ticket into the book where King would sign it, so everything would go quicker. I was one person away from him! I switched the book from one hand to the other so my right wouldn't be sweaty. My legs were still sturdy, even though I knew they'd turn to jelly soon.
Then, it was my turn. To my surprise, I was still in control of my legs, my right hand was dry, and I was entirely calm. He took my book and shook my hand.
"Good to see you here," he said amiably, although I could hear about 388 signings worth of tiredness in his voice.
"Great to meet you," I said. Then, as he signed my book, I said, "I wasn't the guy who wrote them, but I sent you the Stephen King--" (OHMYGOD, DID I JUST SAY THAT? I WAS TALKING TO THE KING AS IF HE WEREN'T THERE!) "--slash Beavis and Butt-Head parodies."
"Those were great," he said. "I love those two." He then went on to do his impression of Beavis saying, "Fire! Fire! Heh-heh." You have not truly lived until you've heard Stephen King imitate Beavis.
"Can I ask a question?" I asked.
"Sure," he said, blue eyes piercing into mine. I could tell I had his full attention.
"Why do you think Nathaniel Hawthorne's works are done to death in the classroom, but your work is ignored?"
He gave a very simple answer (even if he's wrong--Toni Morrison and Amy Tan are both taught in class--I've had to study both at least twice), but I loved it. "Because he's dead," he told me, a smile on his face. We laughed, and I still wondered if this was a dream. I had to move on, though, so I took the book and shook his hand once again. It was as I walked away that my nervousness returned. My legs went rubbery, and I could barely control them, even as someone took my ticket and replaced it with a limited edition collectors magazine for BAG OF BONES. I waited there, looking back at Stephen King as he signed another book, and I still wondered if I was dreaming.
But I wasn't. I looked at the King's signature, written in blue, and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It was proof that this was all real.
The next day (Sept. 30, 1998), both the TRIBUNE and the SUN-TIMES had a story on the King's visit to Chicago. In the TRIB, I learned that people had been lined up in front of the library since two in the morning, and they had come from "as far away as Texas and Arizona."
The SUN-TIMES, on the other hand, actually had a picture of Stephen King in the Cubs jersey. On page 45, I found a longer article, where I learned that the tickets disappeared within 42 minutes, and there were about 2000 people hoping to get in. And there, in a picture of the audience from that night, further proof that I was there: my picture. Granted, you need a magnifying glass to tell who I am, but I'm near the back, wearing a black denim jacket.
I was lucky to get in, but I was, indeed, there, and I got to spend a night with the King.
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