I had the oddest dream the other night. I dreamt that I lost control of my
"super b tanker" after a car ran a light and I had to lock the brakes
up. The big truck, loaded down with 49,000 litres of diesel cut into a
jack-knife whipping me completely around and the pup disconnected from my train
and took off. When it was over I climbed out of the truck to examine the
carnage and too my surprise there was none. The pup was upright and sitting in
an empty lot. As I went about recovering the trailer I happened upon a
bookstore.
Dreams are funny, causing your attention and priorities to shift crazily. I
say this because all my anguish regarding the near miss seemed suddenly
unimportant as I entered the bookstore to look around. It was one
of those old havens that you rarely find
anymore. A little independent place with old shelves—plaster peeling from the
walls—the musty smell of paper permeating in the air; or perhaps it was the
radiator. I don't know. I do know that my truck was out on the street and
though it was blocking traffic I seemed to not to care as I explored this little
shop.
On a worn coffee table there were a dozen or so used books strewn about.
There was a Dean Koontz, a Michael Connelly and book by my pal Jim Steel:
Amiens: Dawn of Victory. I recognized that one immediately because I have
a signed copy. In the center of these second hands was a recipe card folded in
half that read: $4.50 A Real Bargain! The penmanship looked as though it had
been scrawled out by a four year-old. I glanced out the window to make sure my
rig wasn't on fire, then back down at the books. I was getting ready to pick up
the Connelly Book, wondering if it was a Harry Bosch novel, when from behind I
heard a voice I recognized.
"There's some real treasures in there," he said and I turned
around. It was Stephen King. He was dressed in blue jeans and a loose fitting
sweatshirt and his glasses hung over his nose magnifying his strange eyes.
"There might even be a McCammon book in there if you're willing to
dig."
In the real world I probably would have said. "You're Stephen King,
what the fuck are you doing in a little independent book store." But I
didn't, because in dreams you are more apt to accept the ridiculous and this
was as ridiculous as it got. What I did say was, "You like Robert R
McCammon too? That's pretty cool."
"McCammon writes like Pete Townsend plays the guitar," King said.
"He's a genius and highly underrated." Shit, he liked THE WHO as
well, imagine that. I wondered if he liked Pink Floyd? "I see you had a
bit of trouble out there." He was pointing to my rig and smiled.
I gazed out again. There was a cop sizing the truck up. He had a ticket pad
in his hand. That was going to cost. I turned back to King and said, "The
first book I read by you was Different Seasons, I enjoyed it a lot and it
opened up a whole new world for me. I always wanted to be a writer, but reading
was hard for me."
King smiled, but said nothing.
So I continued. "I read almost everything you wrote. I liked THE
RUNNING MAN and THE LONG WALK. The Bachman Books rocked! In the mid-nineties my
wife and I took our kids down to Bangor on a weekend excursion and I parked
outside your property for about an hour, but you never came out. I don’t know
why I was sitting out there, it wasn’t like I had a book for you to sign.” I
paused and rubbed my goatee. That wasn’t quite true. “I guess I wanted to thank
you. There was a time when reading was a real chore for me, but your
storytelling made it easy. You opened up a door for me and as a result I found
other writers that caught my eye. Clancy, McCammon, Barker, Koontz, Harlan
Ellison.” I didn’t tell King that I wrote a book, that I had mailed it to his
Bangor Office expecting that it would end up in a dumpster or a bargain bin,
instead I just said. “I guess I’ll say thanks now.”
Then I put out my hand.
That’s when Stephen frowned and said. “They’re towing your rig away.”
I turned to look out the window and the Cop was now directing a Peterbilt
tow truck and it was lifting my rig onto its hook. “Man, the boss is going to
be pissed.” I turned back and Stephen King was gone, then I heard the rumble of
a diesel engine and darkness enveloped me. When the veil of darkness cleared I
found myself waking inside my sleeper, above me the buttoned leather ceiling. Faux
leather.
As I lay there in the dark I checked the time, I’d been asleep roughly four
hours. I was parked in a scale house outside of
Dawson Creek, British Columbia. I had just
finished Kings latest book: Doctor Sleep. I suppose that was what conjured the memories.
“I never got to say thanks,”
I mumbled and rolled over.
I guess this will have to
do.
MJ Preston is the Author of the Horror Novel: THE EQUINOX
His new novel ACADIA EVENT is forecasted for release in 2014
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