sk.everythingseventual-第3部分

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easures　so　excellent　as　sitting　in　my　favorite　chair　on　a　cold　night　with　a　hot　cup　of　tea；　listening　to　the　wind　outside　and　reading　a　good　story　which　I　can　plete　in　a　single　sitting。
　　Writing　them　is　not　so　pleasurable。　I　can　only　think　of　two　in　the　current　collection…the　title　story　and　'L。T。's　Theory　of　Pets'…which　were　written　without　an　amount　of　effort　far　greater　than　the　relatively　slight　result。　And　yet　I　think　I　have　succeeded　in　keeping　my　craft　new；　at　least　to　myself；　mostly　because　I　refuse　to　let　a　year　go　by　without　writing　at　least　one　or　two　of　them。　Not　for　money；　not　even　precisely　for　love；　but　as　a　kind　of　dues…paying。　Because　if　you　want　to　write　short　stories；　you　have　to　do　more　than　think　about　writing　short　stories。　It　is　not　like　riding　a　bicycle　but　more　like　working　out　in　the　gym：　your　choice　is　use　it　or　lose　it。
　　To　see　them　collected　here　like　this　is　a　great　pleasure　for　me。　I　hope　it　will　be　for　you；　as　well。　You　can　let　me　know　at　stephenking；　and　you　can　do　something　else　for　me　（and　yourself）；　as　well：　if　these　stories　work　for　you；　buy　another　collection。　Sam　the　Cat　by　Matthew　Klam；　for　instance；　or　The　Hotel　Eden　by　Ron　Carlson；　These　are　only　two　of　the　good　writers　doing　good　work　out　there；　and　although　it's　now　officially　the　twenty…first　century；　they're　doing　it　in　the　same　old　way；　one　word　at　a　time。　The　format　in　which　they　eventually　appear　doesn't　change　that。　If　you　care；　support　them。　The　best　method　of　support　really　hasn't　changed　much：　read　their　stories。
　　I'd　like　to　thank　a　few　of　the　people　who've　read　mine：　Bill　Buford；　at　The　New　Yorker；　Susan　Moldow；　at　Scribner；　Chuck　Verrill；　who　has　edited　so　much　of　my　work　across　such　a　span　of　years；　Ralph　Vici…nanza；　Arthur　Greene；　Gordon　Van　Gelder；　and　Ed　Ferman　at　The　Magazine　of　Fantasy　and　Science　Fiction；　Nye　Willden　at　Cavalier；　and　the　late　Robert　A。　W。　Lowndes；　who　bought　that　first　short　story　back　in　'68。　Also…most　important…my　wife；　Tabitha；　who　remains　my　favorite　Constant　Reader。　These　are　all　people　who　have　worked　and　are　still　working　to　keep　the　short　story　from　being　a　lost　art。　So　am　I。　And；　by　what　you　buy　（and　thus　choose　to　subsidize）　and　by　what　you　read；　so　are　you。　You　most　of　all；　Constant　Reader。　Always　you。
　　
　　Stephen　King
　　Bangor；　Maine
　　December　11；　2001
　　
　　
　　
　　　
　　　AUTOPSY　ROOM　FOUR
　　
　　
　　It's　so　dark　that　for　a　while…just　how　long　I　don't　know…I　think　I'm　still　unconscious。　Then；　slowly；　it　es　to　me　that　unconscious　people　don't　have　a　sensation　of　movement　through　the　dark；　acpanied　by　a　faint；　rhythmic　sound　that　can　only　be　a　squeaky　wheel。　And　I　can　feel　contact；　from　the　top　of　my　head　to　the　balls　of　my　heels。　I　can　smell　something　that　might　be　rubber　or　vinyl。　This　is　not　unconsciousness；　and　there　is　something　too　。　。　。　too　what？　Too　rational　about　these　sensations　for　it　to　be　a　dream。
　　Then　what　is　it？
　　Who　am　I？
　　And　what's　happening　to　me？
　　The　squeaky　wheel　quits　its　stupid　rhythm　and　I　stop　moving。　There　is　a　crackle　around　me　from　the　rubber…smelling　stuff。
　　A　voice：　'Which　one　did　they　say？'
　　A　pause。
　　Second　voice：　'Four；　I　think。　Yeah；　four。'
　　We　start　to　move　again；　but　more　slowly。　I　can　hear　the　faint　scuff　of　feet　now；　probably　in　soft…soled　shoes；　maybe　sneakers。　The　owners　of　the　voices　are　the　owners　of　the　shoes。　They　stop　me　again。　There's　a　thump　followed　by　a　faint　whoosh。　It　is；　I　think；　the　sound　of　a　door　with　a　pneumatic　hinge　being　opened。
　　What's　going　on　here？　I　yell；　but　the　yell　is　only　in　my　head。　My　lips　don't　move。　I　can　feel　them…and　my　tongue；　lying　on　the　floor　of　my　mouth　like　a　stunned　mole…but　I　can't　move　them。
　　The　thing　I'm　on　starts　rolling　again。　A　moving　bed？　Yes。　A　gurney；　in　other　words。　I've　had　some　experience　with　them；　a　long　time　ago；　in　Lyndon　Johnson's　shitty　little　Asian　adventure。　It　es　to　me　that　I'm　in　a　hospital；　that　something　bad　has　happened　to　me；　something　like　the　explosion　that　almost　neutered　me　twenty…three　years　ago；　and　that　I'm　going　to　be　operated　on。　There　are　a　lot　of　answers　in　that　idea；　sensible　ones；　for　the　most　part；　but　I　don't　hurt　anywhere。　Except　for　the　minor　matter　of　being　scared　out　of　my　wits；　I　feel　fine。　And　if　these　are　orderlies　wheeling　me　into　an　operating　room；　why　can't　I　see？　Why　can't　I　talk？
　　A　third　voice：　'Over　here；　boys。'
　　My　rolling　bed　is　pushed　in　a　new　direction；　and　the　question　drumming　in　my　head　is　What　kind　of　a　mess　have　I　gotten　myself　into？
　　Doesn't　that　depend　on　who　you　are？　I　ask　myself；　but　that's　one　thing；　at　least；　I　find　I　do　know。　I'm　Howard　Cottrell。　I'm　a　stock　broker　known　to　some　of　my　colleagues　as　Howard　the　Conqueror。
　　Second　voice　（from　just　above　my　head）：　'You're　looking　very　pretty　today；　doc。'
　　Fourth　voice　（female；　and　cool）：　'It's　always　nice　to　be　validated　by　you；　Rusty。　Could　you　hurry　up　a　little？　The　babysitter　expects　me　back　by　seven。　She's　mitted　to　dinner　with　her　parents。'
　　Back　by　seven；　back　by　seven。　It's　still　the　afternoon；　maybe；　or　early　evening；　but　black　in　here；　black　as　your　hat；　black　as　a　woodchucks　asshole；　black　as　midnight　in　Persia；　and　what's　going　on？　Where　have　I　been？　What　have　I　been　doing？　Why　haven't　I　been　manning　the　phones？
　　Because　it's　Saturday；　a　voice　from　far　down　murmurs。　You　were　。　。　。　were　。　。　。
　　A　sound：　WHOCK！　A　sound　I　love。　A　sound　I　more　or　less　live　for。　The　sound　of　。　。　。　what？　The　head　of　a　golf　club；　of　course。　Hitting　a　ball　off　the　tee。　I　stand；　watching　it　fly　off　into　the　blue　。　。　。
　　I'm　grabbed；　shoulders　and　calves；　and　lifted。　It　startles　me　terribly；　and　I　try　to　scream。　No　sound　es　out　。　。　。　or　perhaps　one　does；　a　tiny　squeak；　much　tinier　than　the　one　produced　by　the　wheel　below　me。　Probably　not　even　that。　Probably　it's　just　my　imagination。
　　I'm　swung　through　the　air　in　an　envelope　of　blackness…Hey；　don't　drop　me；　I've　got　a　bad　back！　I　try　to　say；　and　again　there's　no　movement　of　the　lips　or　teeth；　my　tongue　goes　on　lying　on　the　floor　of　my　mouth；　the　mole　maybe　not　just　stunned　but　dead；　and　now　I　have　a　terrible　thought；　one　that　spikes　fright　a　degree　closer　to　panic：　What　if　they　put　me　down　the　wrong　way　and　my　tongue　slides　backward　and　blocks　my　windpipe？　I　won't　be　able　to　breathe！　That's　what　people　mean　when　they　say　someone　'swallowed　his　tongue'；　isn't　it？
　　Second　voice　（Rusty）：　'You'll　like　this　one；　doc；　he　looks　like　Michael　Bolton。'
　　Female　doc：　'Who's　that？'
　　Third　voice…sounds　like　a　young　man；　not　much　more　than　a　teenager：　'He's　this　white　lounge…singer　who　wants　to　be　black。　I　don't　think　this　is　him。'
　　There's　laughter　at　that；　the　female　voice　joining　in　（a　little　doubtfully）；　and　as　I　am　set　down　on　what　feels　like　a　padded　table；　Rusty　starts　some　new　crack…he's　got　a　whole　standup　routine；　it　seems。　I　lose　this　bit　of　hilarity　in　a　burst　of　sudden　horror。　I　won't　be　able　to　breathe　if　my　tongue　blocks　my　windpipe；　that's　the　thought　that　has　just　gone　through　my　mind；　but　what　if　I'm　not　breathing　now？
　　What　if　I'm　dead？　What　if　this　is　what　death　is　like？
　　It　fits。　It　fits　everything　with　a　horrid　prophylactic　snugness。　The　dark。　The　rubbery　smell。　Nowadays　I　am　Howard　the　Conqueror；　stock　broker　extraordinaire；　terror　of　Derry　Municipal　Country　Club；　frequent　habitué　of　what　is　known　at　golf　courses　all　over　the　world　as　the　Nineteenth　Hole；　but　in　'71　I　was　part　of　a　medical　assistance　team　in　the　Mekong　Delta；　a　scared　kid　who　sometimes　woke　up　wet…eyed　from　dreams　of　the　family　dog；　and　all　at　once　I　know　this　feel；　this　smell。
　　Dear　God；　I'm　in　a　body　bag。
　　First　voice：　'Want　to　sign　this；　doc？　Remember　to　bear　down　hard…it's　three　copies。'
　　Sound　of　a　pen；　scraping　away　on　paper。　I　imagine　the　owner　of　the　first　voice　holding　out　a　clipboard　to　the　woman　doctor。
　　Oh　dear　Jesus　let　me　not　be　dead！　I　try　to　scream；　and　nothing　es　out。
　　I'm　breathing；　though　。　。　。　aren't　I？　I　mean；　I　can't　feel　myself　doing　it；　but　my　lungs　seem　okay；　they're　not　throbbing　or　yelling　for　air　the　way　they　do　when　you've　swum　too　far　underwater；　so　I　must　be　okay；　right？
　　Except　if　you're　dead；　the