Here Comes My Hero

The following is a depiction of the best day of my life, and the events that went down as I perceive them today:

I cannot recall what day it was. I cannot recall what season it was. I cannot recall what I was wearing, what was popular at the time, nor what I had for lunch in the cafeteria that day. I am 35 years old. When I look in the mirror, I can tell that. I see the bags under my eyes. I see that my front teeth (top) are not there anymore. I see that scar above my left eye. Between that day and now, 23 years have passed. And those years were packed full of drugs, sex, and alcohol. So asking me to remember my childhood is like asking me to recite a poem I have never read before. There are photographs in my mind, but I know that eventually those pictures will fade. However, there is one memory that will never collect dust.

About 2 weeks prior, I was sitting in my 4th-grade class. Our teacher was named Mrs. Ranks. Such a wretched sounding name. Just doesn’t roll off the tongue. She didn’t like me very much, because I was the class clown, but I liked her because I knew she cared about all of us. One day she announced:

“Hey, everybody, we will be having a ‘reading week’ soon. I want you all to write a letter to someone to invite into the class to read us a story.”

I mention this because it is the catalyst for this story. This assignment would set into motion the best day of my life, which would occur later on.

I heard the muffled remarks as my fellow 4th graders, as they began writing to their parents, their moms and dads, gleefully asking them to come read to us. Meanwhile, I could not stop thinking about the book I had been recently reading. When I thought of storytelling, I thought of this book. My mother worked in a school, and my dad didn’t give a shit about me, so inviting either of them to do this seemed out of the question. So raced through my own mind to try and think of someone. Everybody is writing at this point. The room is enveloped in total silence, with the exception of the scraping of pencils all around me. And as I stare at the blank piece of paper in front of me, all I can think about is getting back to that book I am reading. So I pick up my pencil and begin writing (note: I do not recall the exact wording I used in this letter, so the following is loosely quoted)...

’Dear Mr. King,

I am a 4th-grade student at Central Street Elementary School in Gardiner, Maine. We have been assigned to invite someone to come and read to us. I have chosen you. You are my favorite author. I have read a lot of your books. Please come and read to us. Remember, I am your number 1 fan.’

I took a glance at the copy of ‘Pet Semetary’ by Stephen King resting in my book bag, before handing the letter into my teacher. Turns out, my friend caught wind of what I was doing and sent a letter to Mr. King as well.

Weeks passed and I didn’t really think about it. To be honest, I almost forgot about even writing the letter. I enjoyed having people’s parents come in and read to us. I cannot recall what they read, but I remember being engaged.

And now we are here. Now we are at the best day of my life.

The bell rung. That was the bell that rang when outside recess was over. I remember because it always sounded to me like something bad was happening. I suppose I was correct, because who the hell wants recess to end?!

I was walking beside my friend, Tom. He was a cool kid. He held a striking resemblance to Macaulay Culkin in ‘Home Alone’. We would later form a band called “Manticore” and would play a Metallica cover at our 5th-grade talent show.

So Tom and I are walking through the school going to our homeroom. We descend the stairs from the second floor and he turns to me.

“Did you see that?”

“What?”, I responded.

He pointed to the top of the stairs, so I turned around.

And there he was. There, standing at the top of the steps, talking to our vice principal, was Stephen King. I was dumbfounded at first. For a second, I felt like I was in a different dimension, which was quickly followed by a feeling of excitement in my gut. I think I actually giggled a little bit and we went back to class.

Stephen King came to our class and read to us. He read a story entitled “The House On Maple Street” which at the time had not been published. It would later be published in the short story collection “Nightmares And Dreamscapes”. I hung on his every word. You have to understand, I have been a fan of the horror genre in both film and writing since I could read. King is an idol of mine, even at the young age of 12. And now, not only is he here, but he is gifting us by sharing work that he has done, that NO ONE else has heard. It was an exceptional feeling. I was sitting here, in dead silence, only instead of the sound of scratching pencils, the only sounds were of my idol reading his work and passion. I remember snickering a little bit because there were swear words in that story.

He read like he was telling a story. He set a mood. He made us live the same nightmare that he was reading, and it was fantastic!

When the story was over, this one wasn’t. There was a cake. I do not recall what kind of cake it was, but I remember that it had white frosting. We sat and talked as 4th graders do, and ate cake. My eyes were fixated on him though. I still could not believe that someone who had such influence on me was right in front of my face.

And then it happened. Mrs. Ranks spoke up…

“David and Tanner, come up front.”

Holy shit! Okay. So I rose up out of my seat and walked towards the front of the room, where my idol was sitting in a chair. I was like a child, walking up to Santa Claus. Fuck that! I WAS a child walking up to Santa Claus!!!

Tanner and I both stood on either side of him, as people snapped pictures like we were on the red carpet.Hell, to our class maybe we were! But I was still so terrified, thinking that I looked foolish. Thinking about the many classmates that had invited their fathers to this reading week. And I couldn’t do that. Instead, I had invited someone who I wished was my father. An adult male who truly inspired me. It made me want to cry in that second. Why didn’t my dad love me? Why did he hate me? Why couldn’t I be like the rest of the kids? Why why why fucking why?

I suddenly realized that Stephen King had extended his hand to me.

“Shake the hand that rocked the world.”

I shook it…. That’s all I remember.

It was the best day of my life and I will never forget it.