from Addicted to Noise, February, 1996

The paperback writer and I

Hiding behind the couch with Stephen King

There's just me, Derek, the HUFF guy and the lunatic. The street is almost empty, which is wrong­­it should be mobbed. Everything is quiet... too quiet. Were there crickets who chirped in downtown Santa Cruz, they would have stopped their chirping.

"I don't care how many novels he's written," Derek, my photographer, whines. "I'm hungry, and he's late."

Stephen King is late. But he's had one hell of a commute. For the past few weeks, the famed horror writer has been riding his Harley-Davidson across the country to hawk his newest book about killing people and stuff: Insomnia.

But to plug the tome, King has only been appearing at small, independent book stores. The plight of the small bookseller is a personal crusade for King­­strange since his relationship with the big chains has given him a greater readership than even God could hope for. Granted, John Lennon once got in trouble for comparing his popularity to that perticular major deity, but in King's case the analogy is relevant. God's book is about killing people and stuff too.

And King's store trek ends here, at Bookshop Santa Cruz, where me, Derek, the HUFF guy and the lunatic are waiting all alone. There must be others who know about this. Tonight, King will be reading from Insomnia to a sold-out crowd at the Santa Cruz Civic Center for Santa Cruz was chosen as the last leg in King's travels with Harley. All these are very important journalist sort of things, so where are all the other reporters and photographers, Derek wonders aloud. The official Press information said King would arrive at the front entrance of Bookshop Santa Cruz at 2 p.m., and it's already 2:15.

The lunatic­­Stephan Lightfoot, is getting impatient. He's holding a sign that reads: "Stephen King is a Murderer." Lightfoot claims King killed John Lennon back in 1980, even though Mark David Chapman, was convicted of the murder.

The guy from HUFF is getting cranky too. Tonight, HUFF (Homeless United for Friendship and Freedom) is planning to protest the city's camping ban (which makes it illegal for the homeless to sleep outside) tonight in conjunction with Stephen King's reading. He asks me to give Stephen King one of HUFF's flyers. I agree, and then forget to when suddenly­­

Gasps of excitement burst from inside Bookshop Santa Cruz; gasps that could only mean Stephen King had just arrived­­

At the back entrance of the store­­

Where everyone else was.

"Damn," I say.

"Damn," Derek says.

* * *

Flanked by every reporter ever, clad in dusty leather, a tired King streams through the aisles of books to the back. The journalists shout at him, asking him very important journalism sort of questions. We don't know what the questions are though. We missed out, waiting at the wrong entrance.

Escaping the horde, King is led to the back of the store, where he preps for the press conference to come by writing another novel.

Stephen King is a goob. I hate to say it. He's a guy with a goofy "I just farted" grin and terrarium style glasses who looks like the kid who you picked on because he always pulled his tube socks up as high as they could go, and had a pet iguana that he brought to gym class. The guys who eventually, thanks to computers, now run the world. Well Stephen King is one of them, and just last year's King novels led to the destruction of over 6 gajillian acres of virgin rain forest. All this from a man who has no butt. It's true. He's shaped like a cylinder.

The goob's first novel, Carrie, was about a high schooler who had special powers of killing people and stuff (especially those who made fun of her for bringing her pet iguana to gym class). His next big novel was The Shining, which was about a hotel that had special powers of killing people and stuff. After these came a rapid succession of novels (one about every 15 minutes) including The Dead Zone (a man with special powers of predicting people are going to get killed), Christine (a car that kills people), Cujo (a dog that kills people) It , (a clown/giant spider who kills people), and Firestarter (Drew Barrymore kills people). All of these novels are noted for the amazing similarity in that they take place behind your couch!

What happened next was they made about a hundred movies for each of these books, and you paid lots of money to see these movies, and now Stephen King owns you, me, and the entire state of Maine.

The goob is wearing leather. Big boots too. Chains hang from his wallet. He's really trying hard not be a goob. He keeps talking about his Harley while grinning at the camera. I think he's grinning. He may have just farted.

One of my esteemed colleagues asked Stephen King about Stephan Lightfoot, the lunatic claiming King killed John Lennon.

"No comment," King commented. We all laughed. And then we all wrote it down to put it in our articles because it was funny.

He then explained why he supported independent bookstores, like Bookshop Santa Cruz, who are being driven out of business by the chain bookstores and price clubs, like Costco, who sell his books for a mere $200-300 each and offer leasing and lay-away plans for some of the weightier novels that small bookstores can't.

King's beliefs are sincere; he says he'd never be here were it not for the indie stores. To prove this he proceeded to write a thick novel on the subject right there during the press conference , which instantly went on sale very cheaply at a large book chain or price club near you.

This said, King ended the conference with the line, "Hey, we're all going to die," which despite having absolutely no relevance to anything, all us journalists quickly wrote it down to put in our articles because it was funny.

Invited to attend King's reading of Insomnia that night, all the journalists gave a collective"Yeah sure whatever" and went home to write their articles, except me, who had decided to go and make a very important interview.

* * *

A very important interview with Stephan Lightfoot:

FRL: So, you think King murdered Lennon?

Lightfoot: I don't think it, I know it.

FRL: Are you any relation to Gordon Lightfoot?

Lightfoot: Who?

FRL: You know, the folky singer from the 1970s. He sang "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

Lightfoot: Who?

FRL: It was a big hit.

Lightfoot: What are you talking about?

FRL: Never mind. Now how exactly did Stephen King kill John Lennon?

Lightfoot responded by showing me, I'm not making this up, xeroxes of bold-faced headlines from the Newsweek magazine printed around the time of Lennon's murder.

By themselves the headlines say absolutely nothing whatsoever. But when pasted together just so, in a special order, they say absolutely nothing whatsoever.

But in these headlines there are gun references, Lennon references, and Ronald Reagan references, and if you really think hard, and really open up your mind to what Lightfoot is saying, and really give the guy a chance, then they still say absolutely nothing whatsoever.

How Stephen King relates to this conspiracy scenario is that someone named Roger Chapman wrote a letter to the editor of some magazine in 1980, and someone named David King wrote a letter to the editor in the same magazine.

As if this wasn't enough, one of them used the word "mark" in their letter, and thus proved that Mark David King Roger Chapman is actually Mark David Chapman, and the "King" that got caught up in all that must have meant Stephen King, because Mark David Chapman and Stephen King both look a little alike, seeing as they both are goobs, and seeing that Stephen Lightfoot is a lunatic. Got it?

Lightfoot: Got it?

 

FRL: Wasn't Gordon Lightfoot in competition with John Lennon? Wouldn't he have had motives to kill Lennon too?

 

Lightfoot: What?

 

FRL: Aha!

 

Lightfoot: (says nothing, is eventually arrested).

* * *

The line waiting to see Stephen King read at the Civic Auditorium is long. I hate lines, and I didn't really want to come tonight. But the HUFF people promised they'd be protesting during the King reading, which seemed newsworthy enough for me to put up with a line.

The camping ban they are up against is very twisted; it is illegal for homeless people to sleep anywhere other than in their homes, which they don't have since they are homeless. According to Santa Cruz City Council, the homeless need to find an alternative to sleeping outside, such as breaking and entering into houses and turning into clowns/giant spiders and hiding behind your couch!

But never mind that. The reason they picked this event to protest was a) Neal Coonerty sits on the city council, and b) The name of the book Stephen King was reading from is Insomnia. Got it?

But the protesters haven't shown up yet, and I'm worried. What if they are protesting at the back entrance? Hopefully Derek, who's late, will be later, and he'll get the scoop.

Eventually we get inside the civic auditorium. Eventually me and 2,000 others take our seats. Eventually I get really bored sitting and talk to Daniel Randall, age 12, who is sitting behind me. "Stephen King is better than even Guns-n-Roses!" he says, and damn it, he's right.

Eventually Coonerty takes the stage, and gives the proceeds of the evening, a check for $10,000 to Pat Sandige, president of Friends of the Santa Cruz Public Libraries. Sandige immediately puts the check into a fund for purchasing Stephen King's next novel, due to be released sometime within the next three minutes. They leave, the crowd quiets, the lights dim, the chainsaws flare up, someone screams.

It's Stephen King! He's still a goob!

He saunters up to the podium. He grabs the mike. He's witty. He's fascinating. He makes us laugh. Granted, he's making us laugh using jokes about killing little children. This isn't bad per se, just weird. Especially the electrocuting kids jokes. Especially the way everyone is laughing extra hard at the electrocuting kids jokes.

I wonder where Derek is.

* * *

"I hope I'm not late," a slightly tardy Derek pants to himself, running up the empty stairs to the packed Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium­­where he encounters a slightly tardy HUFF protest.

"Where's the media?" the ten of them chant loudly.

"There was a press conference earlier," Derek tries to explain.

"Where's the media?" They continue.

"I can take your pictures if you'd like," Derek proffers. "I'm with a campus paper ..."

"Where's the media?"

"Well forget it then."

"Where's the..."

"Screw this job..." Derek grumbles, and enters the building.

* * *

The show is over, and we're leaving, finally. After reading from his novel, taking questions from the audience, and leading the crowd in a rousing chorus of "Imagine," the King has left the building. The local libraries are richer, the kids will need counsiling seven years down the line, and the ten or so protesters are still outside.

"Blah blah blah!" they shout out. I can't be bothered to listen, and hell, I even agree with them. I just can't concentrate. What does it mean that in the age of television, 2,000 people showed up to watch a writer without a butt read about dead children, and have a rollicking good time.

I wonder what kind of reception Hemmingway would have had, or Steinbeck, were they to give a reading today. Would 2,000 people have come out to see them? I know I certainly would have, what since they're dead and all.

Looking back on the days events, I wonder if it was worth the waiting. Were there crickets in Downtown Santa Cruz, they'd be chirping again. Stephen King is gone.

I guess King himself put it best when he said: "We're all going to die someday." It doesn't mean anything, but, like him, I don't know how to end this either.