‘Yes, it is.’
‘Pardon me, I’ll be right back. I got a girl, but she only comes in Fridays and Saturdays in the winter.’
O’Donnell drew two schooners of beer and brought them over to the table. He said something to them and Clarice replied ‘Fuck – YOU!’ and cackled again. The beerjoint was filled with the ghosts of dead hamburgers. Tammy Wynette sang through the popcorn-crackle of an old record. The radiators thudded dull heat into the room and outside snow spatted dryly against the glass. Johnny rubbed his temples. He had been in this bar before, in a hundred other small towns. His head ached. When he had shaken O’Donnell’s hand he knew that the barkeep had a big old mongrel dog that he had trained to sic on command. His one great dream was that some night a burglar would break into
his house and he would legally be able to sic that big old dog onto him, and there would be one less goddam hippie pervo junkie in the world.
Oh, his head ached.
O’Donnell came back, wiping his hands on his apron. Tammy Wynette finished up and was replaced with Red Sovine, who had a CB call for the Teddy Bear.
‘Thanks again for the suds,’ O’Donnell said, drawing two.
‘My pleasure,’ Johnny said, still studying the dipping. ‘Coorter’s Notch last week, Jackson this coming weekend. I never heard of that one. Must be a pretty small town, huh?’
‘Just a burg,’ O’Donnell agreed. ‘They used to have a ski resort, but it went broke. Lotta unemployment up that way. They do some wood-pulping and a little shirttail farming.
But he goes up there, by the Jesus. Talks to em. Listens to their bitches. Where you from up in Maine, Johnny?’
‘Lewiston,’ Johnny lied. The dipping said that Greg Stillson would meet with interested persons at the town hall.
‘Guess you came down for the skiing, huh?’
‘No, I hurt my leg a while back. I don’t ski anymore.
Just passing through. Thanks for letting me look at this.’ Johnny handed the clipping back. ‘It’s quite interesting.’
O’Donnell put it carefully back with his other papers. He had an empty bar, a dog back home that would sic on command, and Greg Stillson. Greg had been in his bar.
Johnny found himself abruptly wishing himself dead. If this talent was a gift from God, then God was a dangerous lunatic who ought to be stopped. If God wanted Greg Stilison dead, why hadn’t he sent him down the birth canal with the umbilical cord wrapped around his throat? Or strangled him on a piece of meat? Or electrocuted him while he was changing the radio station? Drowned him in the ole swimming hole? Why did God have to have Johnny Smith to do his dirty work? It wasn’t his responsibility to save the world, that was for the psychos and only psychos would presume to try it. He suddenly decided he would let Greg Stillson live and spit in God’s eye.
‘You okay, Johnny?’ O’Donnell asked.
‘Huh? Yeah, sure.’
‘You looked sorta funny for just a second there.’
Chuck Chatsworth saying: if I didn’t, I’d be afraid all those people he killed would haunt me to my grave.
‘Out woolgathering, I guess,’ Johnny said. ‘I want you to know it’s been a pleasure drinking with you.’
‘Well, the same goes back to you,’ O’Donnell said, looking pleased. ‘I wish more people passing through felt that way. They go through here headed for the ski resorts, you know.
The big places. That’s where they take their money. If I thought they’d stop in, I’d fix this place up like they’d like. Posters, you know, of Switzerland and Colorado. A fireplace.
Load the juke up with rock ‘n’ roll records instead of that shitkicking music I’d… you know, I’d like that.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not a bad guy, hell.’
‘Of course not,’ Johnny said, getting off the stool and thinking about the dog trained to sic, and the hoped-for hippie junkie burglar.
‘Well, tell your friends I’m here,’ O’Donnell said
‘For sure,’ Johnny said.
‘Hey Dick!’ one of the bar-bags hollered. ‘Ever hear of service-with-a-smile in this place?’