good. Kinnell didn't care about that; technique didn't interest him (a fact the critics of his own work had duly noted).
What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt
between the two laundry baskets, which had been filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing
of the picture. He glanced around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo
Peeps, praying hands, and gambling dogs.
He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of the Audi so he could
file://C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\DOUGIE\Stephen King\Stephen King - ... 7/22/2006
The Road Virus Heads North
Page 2 of 12
slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.
It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-top, anyway -
crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed convertible. The young man's left arm.
was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows
and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and
his parted lips revealed teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.
Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.
He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what most of the audience at
the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to
tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work
went, and what was more, they treasured their ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those
stupid, mean-spirited little dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this
painting because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His fans sent him
stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but because they were tiresome and
predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a
refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that
lit UP his dials. This painting had some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.
As he was reaching for it, wanting to pick it up right now, this second, wanting to tuck it under his arm and proclaim his intentions, a
voice spoke up behind him: "Aren't you Richard Kinnell?"
He jumped, then turned. The fat woman was standing directly behind him, blotting out most of the immediate landscape. She had put
on fresh lipstick before approaching, and now her mouth had been transformed into a bleeding grin.
"Yes, I am," he said, smiling back.
Her eyes dropped to the picture. "I should have known you'd go right to that," she said, simpering. "It's so You."
"It is, isn't it?" he said, and smiled his best celebrity smile. "How much would you need for it?"
"Forty-five dollars," she said. "I'll be honest with you, I started it at seventy, but nobody likes it, so now it's marked down. If you come
back tomorrow, you can probably have it for thirty." The simper had grown to frightening proportions. Kinnell could see little gray
spit-buds in the dimples at the comers of her stretched mouth.
"I don't think I want to take that chance," he said. "I'll write you a check right
What he liked in works of art was content, and the more unsettling the better. This picture scored high in that department. He knelt
between the two laundry baskets, which had been filled with a jumble of small appliances, and let his fingers slip over the glass facing
of the picture. He glanced around briefly, looking for others like it, and saw none - only the usual yard sale art collection of Little Bo
Peeps, praying hands, and gambling dogs.
He looked back at the framed watercolor, and in his mind he was already moving his suitcase into the backseat of the Audi so he could
file://C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\DOUGIE\Stephen King\Stephen King - ... 7/22/2006
The Road Virus Heads North
Page 2 of 12
slip the picture comfortably into the trunk.
It showed a young man behind the wheel of a muscle car-maybe a Grand Am, maybe a GTX, something with a T-top, anyway -
crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. The T-top was off, turning the black car into a half-assed convertible. The young man's left arm.
was cocked on the door, his right wrist was draped casually over the wheel. Behind him, the sky was a bruise-colored mass of yellows
and grays, streaked with veins of pink. The young man had lank blond hair that spilled over his low forehead. He was grinning, and
his parted lips revealed teeth which were not teeth at all but fangs.
Or maybe they're filed to points, Kinnell thought. Maybe he's supposed to be a cannibal.
He liked that; liked the idea of a cannibal crossing the Tobin Bridge at sunset. In a Grand Am. He knew what most of the audience at
the PEN panel discussion would have thought - Oh, yes, great picture for Rich Kinnell he probably wants it for inspiration, a feather to
tickle his tired old gorge into one more fit of projectile vomiting-but most of those folks were ignoramuses, at least as far as his work
went, and what was more, they treasured their ignorance, cossetted it the way some people inexplicably treasured and cossetted those
stupid, mean-spirited little dogs that yapped at visitors and sometimes bit the paperboy's ankles. He hadn't been attracted to this
painting because he wrote horror stories; he wrote horror stories because he was attracted to things like this painting. His fans sent him
stuff - pictures, mostly - and he threw most of them away, not because they were bad art but because they were tiresome and
predictable. One fan from Omaha had sent him a little ceramic sculpture of a screaming, horrified monkey's head poking out of a
refrigerator door, however, and that one he had kept. It was unskillfully executed, but there was an unexpected juxtaposition there that
lit UP his dials. This painting had some of the same quality, but it was even better. Much better.
As he was reaching for it, wanting to pick it up right now, this second, wanting to tuck it under his arm and proclaim his intentions, a
voice spoke up behind him: "Aren't you Richard Kinnell?"
He jumped, then turned. The fat woman was standing directly behind him, blotting out most of the immediate landscape. She had put
on fresh lipstick before approaching, and now her mouth had been transformed into a bleeding grin.
"Yes, I am," he said, smiling back.
Her eyes dropped to the picture. "I should have known you'd go right to that," she said, simpering. "It's so You."
"It is, isn't it?" he said, and smiled his best celebrity smile. "How much would you need for it?"
"Forty-five dollars," she said. "I'll be honest with you, I started it at seventy, but nobody likes it, so now it's marked down. If you come
back tomorrow, you can probably have it for thirty." The simper had grown to frightening proportions. Kinnell could see little gray
spit-buds in the dimples at the comers of her stretched mouth.
"I don't think I want to take that chance," he said. "I'll write you a check right
Similar Books
