“King’s Afterlife!”



I didn’t know what he was up to; I didn’t even know who he was at first, until I got closer to him, it was King—I actually found him, that macabre writer, I asked “What the heck are you doing?” He had a Ran-McNally Road Atlas in his lap, sitting across the bar of his bike, himself on a skinny seat.
“Man I’m not making any process with this map,” he said, confusingly.
“Steven,” I said, “that’s a pretty old map you’ve got there, where you been?” (Knowing all the time, where he’s been, kind of known the area.)
“Old,” he said, “I just bought it at Boarders, cost me seven dollars. He gave me a galvanized look, you know, like with that closed mouth and staring eyes as if he was saying, but not saying, just thinking: yah, yah, yah, get lost—I’m busy. I doubted that thought was meant to push me away, knowing he was preoccupied if not irritated with the map, trying to find where his next stop was, not knowing his reality, which one he was in not knowing he was, now living in his death, after death, where he might have to stay remain in this post-death, status? The longer I stood there the more I felt I was getting warmer—and he was getting warmer.
Mr. King had died of some malfunction with one of his organs, something burst within, and it looked to me he didn’t know he was dead—he was riding that bike in circles for a very long time. I remember when he passed on, how sad his followers were, but he was quickly replaced, as we all are; and he was right about something: there is an afterlife. I do remember it happened so fast, he didn’t even know what took place, when it took place, here today, gone tomorrow, that’s how it was; surely he didn’t know this was it. He had for the most part lived a sort of a gasping life, now it was a long pause. “Shaaaah!” I told myself, don’t tell him—he needs to figure this out for himself, and then he noticed something in my wanting all of a sudden to leave, knowing I was the first person he saw in a long, long time.
“Just stay as you are buddy,” he told me. I knew now that new thoughts were blowing in and out of his mind, filling his brainpower: I think he had written so much on fantasy, he didn’t realize if he was sleeping or in some new reality.
“Focus,” I told Mr. King. He thought, shaking his head back and forth, stepping off his bike, setting it down alongside of the dirt road. “Where does this road go to?” he questioned.
“Where do you think it goes?” I asked. He thought on that for a moment, he looked at several blank signs on the road, unmarked signs, no white lines, not anything, just a skinny road, no, not even that, a wide path, then he looked at his map, “I wish this was more detailed,” he said.
“Settle on something, somewhere, anything will do…” I told him.
“Well who are you?” he asked, I think he knew now, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew who I was, perhaps he thought he was alive, and he had a few screws loose for a moment, and I was his doctor and this background was some delusion. On the other hand that moment had past, and he was contemplating something else, perhaps from one of his horror stories, now his heart rate was beating faster, and faster—that told me something.
“If you were writing one of your short stories, how would you end this tale, or situation?” I asked.
And it occurred to him, and then came that little laugh: as if he had a can-opener and out popped the Jeanie
“You’re Dennis, and you’re here to tell me I’m dead, and have been for a very long time, in a place where one might not encounter new people or new adventures, or any people other than one’s self, ever again, just living and reliving the rudimentary controlled old life I had previously lived.” (He was correct, on all such insight; they often are once they focus.)
“Whoopee,” I said, “bingo,” I exclaimed. It didn’t take any Harvard graduate to figure that out, I told myself, just focus and backtrack, see where you’ve been and walk slowly up to today that usually will give you a good roadmap into your present reality. Then he asked for a clean shirt, “You don’t need one,” I said, “it never gets any dirtier here.”
“How do I get out of this little story of yours?” he remarked.
“Don’t get mad at the messenger,” I said, “I just deliver what I’m told to deliver—to inform you.”
“Okay,” he said, “let bygones be bygones, where can I go besides here?”
“Speaking of that,” I said, trying to be sympathetic towards his new world, his situation, “where would you go?” Knowing he never liked Jesus, so heaven was out of the question, and hell was too bleak, and the Muslim’s harem he didn’t believe in, and well—as he now knew, there was no towns—I mean, he had been here for a very long time; thus, I just stood there and waited for his answer, but he didn’t answer, he was in the best of all worlds, considering there wasn’t a big choice, and I simply said, “There is no purpose in you getting off your bike again, Mr. King, the path you’ve chosen is circular, without end, and in this world one never gets tired.” Although I knew it would be boring.

No: 673 (8-29-2010)