11/22/63

Mr. Norbert Keene, proprietor of the Center Street Drug, was behind the counter when I came in on that Friday afternoon. The wooden paddle-fan over his head lifted what remained of his hair in a wavery dance: cobwebs in a summer breeze. Just looking at that made my abused stomach give another warning lurch. He was skinny inside his white cotton smock — almost emaciated — and when he saw me coming, his pale lips creased in a smile.

“You look a little under the weather, my friend.”

“Kaopectate,” I said in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like my own. “Do you have it?” Wondering if it had even been invented yet.

“Are we suffering a little touch of the bug?” The overhead light caught in the lenses of his small rimless spectacles and skated around when he moved his head. Like butter across a skillet, I thought, and at that my stomach gave another lunge. “It’s been going around town. You’re in for a nasty twenty-four hours, I’m afraid. Probably a germ, but you may have used a public convenience and forgotten to wash your hands. So many people are lazy about th—”

“Do you have Kaopectate or not?”

“Of course. Second aisle.”

“Continence pants — what about those?”

The thin-lipped grin spread out. Continence pants are funny, of course they are. Unless, of course, you’re the one who needs them. “Fifth aisle. Although if you stay close to home, you won’t need them. Based on your pallor, sir… and the way you’re sweating… it might be wiser to do that.”

“Thanks,” I said, and imagined socking him square in the mouth and knocking his dentures down his throat. Suck on a little Polident, pal.

I shopped slowly, not wanting to joggle my liquefied guts any more than necessary. Got the Kaopectate (Large Economy Size? check), then the continence pants (Adult Large? check). The pants were in Ostomy Supplies, between the enema bags and brooding yellow coils of plastic hose whose function I didn’t want to know about. There were also adult diapers, but at those I balked. If necessary, I would stuff the continence pants with dish towels. This struck me as funny, and despite my misery I had to struggle not to laugh. Laughing in my current delicate state might bring on disaster.

As if sensing my distress, the skeletal druggist rang up my items in slow motion. I paid him, holding out a five-dollar bill with a hand that was shaking appreciably.

“Anything else?”

“Just one thing. I’m miserable, you can see I’m miserable, so why the hell are you grinning at me?”

Mr. Keene took a step backward, the smile falling from his lips. “I assure you, I wasn’t grinning. I certainly hope you feel better.”

My bowels cramped. I staggered a little, grabbing the paper bag with my stuff inside it and holding onto the counter with my free hand. “Do you have a bathroom?”

The smile reappeared. “Not for customers, I’m afraid. Why not try one of the… the establishments across the street?”

“You’re quite the bastard, aren’t you? The perfect goddam Derry citizen.”

He stiffened, then turned away and stalked into the nether regions where his pills, powders, and syrups were kept.

I walked slowly past the soda fountain and out the door. I felt like a man made of glass. The day was cool, no more than forty-five degrees, but the sun felt hot on my skin. And sticky. My bowels cramped again. I stood stock-still for a moment with my head down, one foot on the sidewalk and one in the gutter. The cramp passed. I crossed the street without looking for traffic, and someone honked at me. I restrained myself from flipping the bird at the honker, but only because I had enough trouble. I couldn’t risk getting into a fight; I was in one already.

The cramp struck again, a double knife to the lower gut. I broke into a run. The Sleepy Silver Dollar was closest, so that was the door I jerked open, hustling my unhappy body into semidarkness and the yeasty smell of beer. On the jukebox, Conway Twitty was moaning that it was only make-believe. I wished he were right.

The place was empty except for one patron sitting at an empty table, looking at me with startled eyes, and the bartender leaning at the end of the stick, doing the crossword puzzle in the daily paper. He looked up at me.

“Bathroom,” I said. “Quick.”

He pointed to the back, and I sprinted toward the doors marked BUOYS and GULLS. I straight-armed BUOYS like a fullback looking for open field to run in. The place stank of shit, cigarette smoke, and eye-watering chlorine. The single toilet stall had no door, which was probably good. I tore my pants open like Superman late for a bank robbery, turned, and dropped.

Just in time.