Stephen King's IT and The Long Dark Corridor of Regret

I love horror in general but I have only ever read Stephen King’s IT twice. Don’t get me wrong I like the book, but when I read it in junior high it scared the shit out of me. I used to get rides from my dad to school everyday because he worked at the high school and it was a short walk past the gym and across the parking lot to the junior high for me so I was glad; especially in the winter since it was better than the half-mile trek in bitter Oregon coast wind to get there. I would stay up late reading IT and then get up around six in the morning and sit at the dining room table to eat Corn Flakes and read more of my book. If the newspaper were free I would also catch up on Alley Oop and “Calvin and Hobbes”. This would be the pattern of my mornings until I left for college, though by that time I was no longer up by six and the newspaper had been replaced by Time magazine.

The best part about my mornings was the darkness. As far back as I can remember, Monday through Friday started in darkness for me. Which made IT even more tantalizing. Since I started reading IT in the dead of winter, I would have to walk to the junior high in all sorts of creepy weather. Sometimes it would be a thick fog, or even better was the near darkness of heavy cloud cover. My walk past the High School’s gym involved a long, empty corridor. It had these old light fixtures from the sixties or seventies that had gotten dirty so they cast a strange, orange light. It had a cement floor and cold cinder block walls that were a stark white. The acoustics were astounding, your footsteps reverberated slightly all around you and there was no way to walk quietly. It was the classic horror movie cliché of the long hallway with the lights quietly going out one by one behind the poor unaware victim. My imagination would toy with me as I took that long slow walk down the corridor. I could almost hear the soft shuffle-then-drag footsteps of an unknown assailant coming ever closer. The entire interminable length of the corridor would be a constant struggle to keep from running in fear. Sometimes I would win and my walk would be slow, tortuous, and dignified; sometimes I would lose and my walk would turn into a mad, blind dash through the early darkness and light across the parking lot, where I would arrive breathless and jittery, thankful that there were few kids at the school who arrived earlier than I did and so fewer eyes to witness my cowardly retreat in the face of death.

However, I am not here to talk about the first time I read Stephen King’s IT. I am here to tell you about the second time I read IT. The second time through, the book had somehow changed for me. The book no longer contained the exhilarating yet fear-filled dashes down long corridors of so long ago. Instead it was filled with a different kind of fear. The kind of fear that comes with regret. It isn’t until you’ve hit your mid-twenties that I suspect anyone will know the kind of nameless, subtle fear and dread that I am talking about. Instead of the silent screaming and stark terror of evil clowns and frightened children, I was dreading the quiet moments of good storytelling and character development that created a living, breathing reminder of my life in public school.

It is hard to really describe how it felt to come across those little vignettes that seemed like they were pulled directly from my own life. There was the elation that comes with remembering a long lost moment in your past, then sadness and regret for paths not taken in your life; and then finally dread and fear of where you ended up or where you might still end up and whether or not it is what you wanted in life.

There is one point in the book where Ben, the shy fat kid writes a poem on the back of a postcard and sends it to the girl he has a crush on. That moment in the story hit me like a load of bricks because it sent me reeling back through the years to the first week of sophomore English back in High school (cue flashback animation, engage voice-over).

It was our first writing assignment and I was all perked up on “first week of school” energy. I was one of those few kids that loved being at the school. I would get there early and I tended to leave well after school was out for the day. My favorite class was Ms. Sause’s English class. She gave out these writing assignments that left a lot of room for the creative writer to maneuver, or maybe it was just that the assignments weren’t boring, whatever the case may be, I found myself inspired.

Our assignment was simple, we had to tour the high school and then write about a memory we had of our freshman year. It was pretty standard stuff really, but for some reason I couldn’t imagine a better opportunity to finally express myself and get what I had to say off my chest. I rushed home after school and sat down in my room at an old hand-me-down desk that I had set up in the corner looking out the window. I grabbed for my paper and pencils and started furiously scribbling down the words pouring out of my head. Looking back, I can clearly compare myself to that kid in A Christmas Story who thinks he is writing the best damn essay in the world about the toy he wants for Christmas. Looking back though, had that thought occurred to me, I wouldn’t have cared. I was a man possessed, or more accurately, a man in love.

Her name was Kim. I won’t put down her whole name because that part of my life is gone forever and there is no use crying over spilled milk (I actually did that once, but that is a story for another time anyway). It is important to note that at the time I was writing that first essay, I did write down her whole name. That is the testament to the strength of my convictions, the belief I had in my own self-worth. I had a crush, and like any shy fat kid with a crush on a beautiful girl, the reality around me was a constant reminder of how I failed at life. The essay I was writing though, that was A+ material right there. It was a prizewinner, a fucking masterpiece! I have never felt surer of anything in my life than the words I was putting to paper that long fall afternoon. I won’t try to recreate those words here and now. I don’t really remember exactly what I was writing about. I do remember one specific image in my mind. It is actually from my eighth grade graduation dance. It is the exact moment I got a crush on Kim. I was standing off to the side of the cafeteria/theater/school board meeting hall/dance floor, when through a part in the crowds I glimpsed her. As the crowd parts further I can see her laughing at something someone has said, she has a sort of classic Hollywood beauty about her. Not the machine-tooled, mass produced product they call beauty now days but the sort of beauty you would’ve seen in the forties or fifties, the natural look that female celebrities had in the days before constant photographer surveillance. Her hair was done up and she wore long gloves that went up past the elbow. As I said before I don’t remember what I had written that day so long ago, but I do remember when writing about the crowd parting I made a reference to Moses and The Red Sea, and I also remember her movement through the crowd as that of a goddess seated on a palate born upon the backs of eunuch slaves.

I can’t say for sure that what I wrote that day was all that good, but I do remember the giddy feeling I got when I thought about what would happen when I turned this paper in. The details were fuzzy and there was no logic behind it at all but somehow Kim would come across the paper and she would read it and she would know that someone felt that powerfully about her. That was the power of my belief in that essay. That just by writing I could change the world; I could move continents and destroy armies. By inscribing letters and words onto paper I somehow gained powers beyond those of mortal men. That paper was my passport to Valhalla, where the mighty reside. With the power of those words I would stand tall and be recognized. I would ride forth like a nightmare, through the gates of mere fantasy I would charge, blazing a trail across the world and leaving in my wake such destruction and splendor that for generations to come they would claim that God himself stepped down from heaven and plowed a furrow upon the Earth. Across the world I would ride, armies dashing themselves against my will like so many waves upon the rocks; next to me would ride my Queen, the only woman to tame the dark heart of the beast.

I don’t know when the change happened. At some point I began to slow in my writing. I stared out the window more and more. Hesitated before writing a phrase. Soon I was procrastinating. The final death knell came when I was proof reading what I had written so far and realized that I had forgotten to write my name at the top of the paper. No matter, I quickly scribbled my name in the top corner. Suddenly it was no longer the source of my power but rather my personal Kryptonite. It had gone from a testament of my strength and skill to an indictment of my crimes and atrocities. I sat there for a long time. Eventually I saw her name scribbled somewhere on the first page. Her full name. What had I been thinking? I quickly erased her last name, and then without thinking I erased her first name too. At this point I could have simply set the paper aside and started over, writing about a different subject. The damage was done however, and I had already chosen the form of my destroyer. I started methodically erasing the words from the page one by one. When the eraser on the end of my pencil ran out I simply grabbed another pencil and didn’t even bother with sharpening it.

My fear was all consuming. I rationalized it by telling myself that there would be other essays, other opportunities, but I knew that I would never write on that subject again. Not in that English class and not in any writing class I took ever again. I didn’t just leave those words to be found later and reminisced about, maybe even laughed about; Ha ha, look at what I wrote back in high school! Man, those were good times! I killed those words. I murdered them. When I was done the smell of burnt rubber filled the room. Four sheets of paper front and back, eight pages. It was more than the teachers at my high school expected for a report worth ten percent of your final grade. I did eight pages for a weekend essay. Eight pages I believed in, and I erased those pages and then threw them away.

I wrote a story about something. I don’t know and I don’t care. The first essay I wrote was dense and full of life, while its replacement was sparse and desolate.

In Stephen King’s IT, Ben writes a poem on a post card and mails it to the girl he has a crush on. His life then takes him on an adventure that ultimately leads him to happiness. Even though he is a fictional character, I still find myself feeling jealous. He stood his ground and didn’t give in to his fear. I gave in to my fear and ran blindly down the corridor, hoping no one would see. I am still running.