FEBRUARY 9, 2012 1:25PM

RATE: 23 Flag



I was reading Stephen King’s latest – 11/2/63, an alternate history of JFK’s assassination - when I ran into my father. I was using the Kindle app on my iPad, so I can’t say which page it was on, only that it was location 1071, 8% through the book. My father would have been horrified that the book didn’t have page numbers, horrified by the whole concept of eBooks. He was lucky not to live to see them.


 I have recounted in a previous post – Brain in a Jar  – how when I was young my father loved to tell me gruesome tales, and how they combined with my seeing a real brain in a jar to produce the worst nightmare of my young life.

That dream should have put me off dark stories. It didn’t. Maybe I developed a fondness for them because they took up much of the rare time I got to spend with my busy father, who in the years before his fame worked by day and wrote by night. Or maybe I was just born with a taste for the macabre. At some point my appetite grew beyond my father’s stories. I found myself devouring Poe and the midnight side of Ray Bradbury.

Just as I reached adolescence my father became too busy to tell me stories. He was busy - 15 hours a days, 7 days a week - telling the very real dark story that King’s fictional work is based on– the assassination of Kennedy. He started by conducting 1000 interviews. By fall of 1965 he was writing, and reached a roadblock when it came to describing the moment the side of Kennedy’s head was blown off. It was particularly tough because he’d called Kennedy a friend.

 By spooky coincidence, during those same weeks that he struggled I was meeting one of the hardest challenges of my young life – battling a psychopathic roommate at the boarding school my parents had shuffled me off to. Months after I escaped him I was still haunted by the memory of that terrible experience. My parents were too embroiled in my father’s epic battle with Jackie Kennedy   to hear about my trouble. So I turned to the thing I’d learned at my father’s knee - storytelling. I wove my own dark story from my trails, and told my friends. They found it entertaining, and I found myself unburdened of some of the weight of an unpleasant memory.

 In college someone turned me on to H. P. Lovecraft. Crappy and impenetrable as I find this overly-adjectived author today, discovering him felt like finding a long lost friend – those stories of my dad.

 Out of college, on the road with my band, I picked up Ed Sanders’ The Family– the story of Charlie Manson and his skeleton crew. But other than that I forgot about dark tales.


 It wasn’t until my mid twenties that the strange seed my father had planted fully bloomed –like that plant Aubrey, in The Little Shop of Horrors -into a literary obsession.


 My obsession started on a dark and, yes, stormy night. I was driving home to my crummy apartment in Allston from a recording session I was producing at a studio far out in the sticks. My car broke down on a back road. For the sake of this story I’d like to report that I was picked up by a tall, dark stranger, who grinned at me, revealing feline incisors and a tongue thick with the blood of his previous victim.

 But no, it was just my boss who picked me up - a short, eccentric fellow I knew all too well. He was kind enough to drop me at the train station in white bread Lincoln, about as unlikely a venue for a creepy tale as one can imagine.

 Yet as I entered the train station I did experience a fright. My train was on the platform. I ran out only to watch it leave without me. I fretted -when was the next one? It was getting late.

 Not for an hour and a half. Shit. I was hungry and tired. No longer afraid, but annoyed. And soon bored. I spied a rack of paperbacks. I spun it around. Nothing here for me.

 Wait. A teenaged girl, standing, drenched in blood. Might be my kind of book.Carrie, by some guy I’d never heard of -Stephen King.


 I stood at the rack, and started reading to see if it was worth the couple of bucks they were charging. By the time the next train came I was still reading, and almost missed it. I ran over, paid for the book, hopped on the train and finished reading before I got home.


 It was King’s first book. I liked his second, Salem’s Lot, too. I proceeded to read every subsequent book of his, plus just about anything else I could get my hands on involving vampires, evil forces, ancient curses, you name it. Many of the books were terrible.


 King was more or less reliable. He was  (and still is) terribly prolific, and uneven. But for every turkey like Cujo (which King himself admits he wrote in a chemically-induced haze) there were always at least a couple of fine tales likeThe Stand and The Shining.


 Back to my father. He was a very difficult man to buy presents for at Christmas. Writing consumed about 95% of his time and energy. He had all the pens and typewriter ribbons he needed.


 When he wasn’t writing he was reading. He liked stuff by guys like John D. MacDonald, Ed McBain, and John  LeCarre. I was always afraid to get him one of those, in case he already had the latest. I hate getting presents I already have, and assumed he felt the same way.


 Socks, sweaters, ho hum…one Christmas I had a new idea. What about those stories he’d once told me?  I gave him King’s Misery.  When I called him later he said,  “I liked that book. He tells a good story.” Real praise coming from my father.


 It became a yearly ritual. And the prolific King was obliging. We hit a snag the Christmas after my mother died, when I unthinkingly bought my father Bag of Bones, the tale of a man who’s recently lost his wife. My father scolded me, though only halfheartedly – his marriage had been no picnic, unless you’re talking about that one at Hanging Rock…


 My father didn’t just like King’s writing. He identified with him, too. They both came from blue-collar families, both sold a lot of books while suffering the scorn of academic elites. The New York Review of Books trashed my father’s work, and he never made it into the New Yorker, except for a truly horrifying picture of him in old age that Richard Avedon took. King has come up in the world, not only making the New Yorker, but having the New York Times list 11/22/63 as one of the ten notable books of 2011.


They both loved the Red Sox, though my father would die the spring before their long awaited World Series triumph in 2004. King would go on to write a book about it.

King and my father had one other thing in common. They agreed on who killed John Kennedy.


 I’ll leave that story for Part 2.









  Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit! 


Nice to see you back here, first of all...you've been missed.
I thoroughly enjoyed this weaving of your father, Stephen King, books and memoir all together, plus feeling some visceral memories of the times then seeping in here and there...
and look forward to part two!
I noticed your absence as well, and am glad you are back with this fascinating tale. Will eagerly await Part 2.
I had no idea that King wrote Cujo 'dog stoned'

"15 hours a days, 7 days a week" I honestly thought I was the only one with traces of gluten free cookies around my lips,fingerprints on the keyboard, and the only thing heard in the silence is the chatter of the keyboard.

But I do not know who killed John Kennedy... I await the next chapter..:)

Great to see you back, LM. I followed your link to read about your father and found your piece here fascinating. I recently finished reading 11/22/63 - the first Stephen King book I have ever read. Looking forward to Part 2. & Congrats on the EP
So great to see you again. And happy to see you received an EP.

As a big admirer of your father and his work, I was happy to read about another side of his personality and life.

Thank you.
Interesting interweaving of your dad and King through JFK. Look forward to your memoir.
This was an incredible read! I spent much time on your link to your father's epic battle with Jackie Kennedy. I admire your father and felt for him and his family through his endeavor/ordeal. I'd love to get a copy of his book now that I know the back story. Looking forward to part 2. Thank you very much for this part.
Wonderful way to connect with your Dad. I am a Stephen King fan too. My Dad and I connect through poetry. Rated!
What a fascinating tale. Enjoyed each and every word of it. Please alert me to part two so I don't miss it. I have my own alternate theory about Robert Kennedy, by the way.
So nice to see you back. I look forward to pt 2. What do you think about that book out now by Mimi..something who had an affair with JFK when she was 19?
I really want to know who killed JFK -- I have no theories of my own! I also wish my dad enjoyed my love of reading because it's such an important part of my life, and that cuts us off from one another to a large degree.
I want to hear more about your psychopathic roommate--is that in Pt. 2? And yes, welcome back!
Nell Connally? Dude was never my Maine man, but I'm sure looking forward to Pt 2 of this.
Great post. Missed you.
You've been away too long Luminous. Of course I'm looking forward to part 2. Your account of how you started with Steven king reminded me of my own start with LeCarre. I had a delayed flight from Miami to L.A. and had finished whatever I was reading by arrival time. There was a quick 45 minutes connecting flight on to Sydney. I popped into the L.A. airport bookstore to discover it was the schlockiest I'd ever seen. Every cover was garish and most authors were unknown to me. Then I spied The Little Drummer Girl. At least I'd heard of LeCarre. So I took the chance, loved the book and within five years had read almost everything he'd ever written.
Thank you for a great part one. My favorite Stephen King is "The Man in the Black Suit." I pair it with Hawthorne's short story "Young Goodman Brown," and the class and I discuss the nature of evil. I've been a fan of scary fiction tales for many years myself.
What a great review and well told story of your father. Can't wait for part 2. Well deserved EP
rated with love
Luminous: I have truly missed you here. You give us a compelling story, or rather more than one story, that is woven together. Looking forward to part 2. As always ...
I can't wait and I love King too. People, when asked, never put him in the top ten, but somehow he has sold more books than anyone else.
How your words ... all your words ... catch me here ...
Lovely to see you here again ...
Lovely to be caught ... and waiting ...

Thinking for a moment of a dad who loved the Red Sox. Mine too.
After those moments in 2004 that took so long to believe, I remember telling my students that I needed to go home ... to my father's grave ... and tell him ... there ... not only in air ...
I learned one day ... that I was not the only one.
That your dad loved them too ... lovely simply to share in this ...
I'm not only glad you're back, I loved this weaving of your father and Stephen King and your own obsession with grisly tales. I've never been able to read King's work (too over-blown for me), although I get the appeal and I admit to a youthful dalliance with Lovecraft myself. In any case, it's so interesting the way public literary figures and personal experiences munge around in our heads. Rated.

Views: 15


You need to be a member of Our Salon to add comments!

Join Our Salon


Hooking up on BS

Posted by Robert B. James on June 24, 2019 at 7:47am 5 Comments

Just a Little Too

Posted by Doc Vega on June 24, 2019 at 1:39am 0 Comments

Water View II

Posted by koshersalaami on June 23, 2019 at 3:00pm 11 Comments

The Merlin Of BindleSnitch

Posted by Robert B. James on June 23, 2019 at 7:07am 7 Comments

Old Soft Shoe (POEM)

Posted by J.P. Hart on June 22, 2019 at 1:00pm 4 Comments

I saw one Mountain Lion

Posted by Robert B. James on June 22, 2019 at 8:00am 3 Comments

© 2019   Created by lorianne.   Powered by

Badges  |  Report an Issue  |  Privacy Policy  |  Terms of Service