King's Kitchen

     So I have a confession to make.

     I stood in Stephen King's kitchen/side room for a few minutes one hot August day in 1985/86 (being debated) He wasn't home. A cat meowed lazily at me but that was it. I actually called out "Mr. King, sir...anyone home?" There was no reply. In hindsight, maybe that was a good thing. Should he have found me I would have started crying, begged forgiveness and asked for a photo. Heaven help me when he finds this out now.

     My dad, who was killed in a motorcycle accident a few years ago, would have cheered for this little trip down memory lane. It is his fault I started reading Stephen King, it is his fault I still do and in 1986 my foray into home invasion was his fault too.  He was the one driving the Chrysler LaBaron, the wagon we used to get to there. How did someone not see that behemoth?

     We had been camping. We went to Maine for a few summers. We lived on the New Hampshire coast (still do) and liked to travel farther north some times. My mom, sister, brother and best friend Lisa were all packed into the side paneled wagon. I had spent my summer in some pouting melodrama over a boyfriend. I continued to fuel my teen angst with a daily dose of Pink Floyd and Stephen King. Usually after overindulging in one or the other, I felt just anxious enough to stay depressed. I begged Dad to drive to Bangor.

 "Oh my God, Dad! Please!? It will be so cool! What if I meet him? Holy crap! I wanna photo of me in front of the gates. I looooove Stephen King! He's a genius!"

     We were off and I spent the drive dreaming of our meeting. He would answer the door perfectly delighted I came. No lines, no waiting. He would invite me in and I would tell him, I too am a writer. My family would go home without me while Mr. King took me under his wing and taught me the craft of fine writing. It never even occurred to me he had a family. That he might be busy. I spent that drive to his house with my stomach on the floor, my mind racing, sweet adrenaline pulsing and my mouth encouraging my brother and sister to make faces at other cars.

     When we got there I couldn't see the house very well because of the hedge. Dad parked near the side walk and Lisa and I got out. She was giggling and nervous. I wanted to be a spaz myself, but needed to remain solemn. This was serious stuff. This was big. I was embarking on greatness. We walked to the gates and marveled at their intricate detail.

   "Ohhhhh, look at the bats! So, cool....." my voice trailing off. We needed photos. I do not remember who took them or how many we took. I do remember my arm around Lisa. The sad part of this story is that I never saw them. They never got developed. The film was never found. Interesting...sad, but interesting.

     I stood at the gates and looked toward the car port. There were no cars. The side gates were open. There was no one in view. The house appeared to be under some sort of renovation. I remember drop cloths and the sound of workmen, maybe in the back or inside. I stood at the gates. My Dad said we needed to go. My mom pleading with me that I would get in trouble and somewhere in my hormone infused brain I decided "no". NO, I am not going home. I am going IN.

     There were protests, but I left everyone and quickened my pace toward the side of the house. I will just act like I know him. I will act like this is no big deal. Slow my stride. Act normal. House is getting close. Steps. Door. Check handle. Does it turn? I will...is this door open? Oh my God, it is. I really...am I really...can I just walk in there? Holy shit.Yep, so I did. It was cool and dark and I don't remember much. I was in the vacuum of derealization and it's sister slow motion. Dark tile, counter, sink, smell of brick and copper. I wanted to run through the house and touch everything and find him writing. (oh Lord, how that would have been a monumental mistake) Instead, I stood frozen and whispered his name. Then a little louder. I think I knew in my brain he wasn't home, but my heart wanted the fantasy to play out. A cat came around the corner. I made a weak motion to acknowledge, but it ran away. Then nothing. I didn't hear anything. I too, better run away. So I did. I ran back to the car.

     25 years is long time for the mind to hold on to details. I'm sure I have attached memory to emotions. I have closed my eyes and thought hard. This is the story I came back with. I have thought that I did indeed speak to a worker there. Briefly? Maybe? I feel like there was an exchange of "Can I help you?" My reply, "No, thanks. I was just seeing if the Kings were home." Of course, this being said as I quickly made my way the hell out of there.

  This adventure has been told many times. I am not famous. I am not rich. I am raising a family, go to church, run a business and work as a CMA. I have life long friends who remember this little squib. It's my claim to fame, one of them anyway ( I also have the gratification of being in U2's Elevation Tour: Live From Boston video). I digress. I am now at the age I can say, "Back in the day". Good Lord and all that is holy, I am aging. I'm getting old like every human does. What a bummer. After becoming a member of StephenKing.com it is crystal clear something like this would never happen now. Mr. King battened down the hatches a while ago. He is so famous it's...well, scary.

    So in closing, Mr. King, should you ever read this, please forgive me my trespasses.