In Laymon's Terms

All of a sudden, there was movement in the car. From behind the closed windows, Ron heard a muffled cry, a word that sounded like “Detente,” and then the sun rose, a single ray of light beaming cinematically onto the passenger window as though programmed to do so by a Hollywood special effects shop.

There was a whirlwind in the vehicle, a small black tornado that plastered rotting leaves and what looked like a blackened chili pepper with a human eye to the windshield and side windows.

And then it was gone.

Joanne opened the car door.

All that remained was a netted bag of oranges.

“Thank God!” she breathed, and he heard real relief in her voice. She kissed him on the lips, quickly, gratefully, and he smelled cinnamon, tasted sugar.

“What—” He cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

She put her hand on his, and her touch was soft, smooth. “We can go,” she said. “If we hurry, we can be in Big Bear by lunchtime.”

He thought about what had just happened, then thought about how hard it was to meet someone, even through a personal ad, and he looked into her eyes in the orange light of the rising sun.

He took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Jack Ketchum

ICHARD LAYMON WAS born to be a horror writer. Just take a look at a photo of the guy. Hell, it’s written all over his face. Just look at that goofy wicked grin. Reminds you of the Great Pumpkin, doesn’t it?

Though Richard had more teeth.

But what can I say here? What can I say about Laymon that I’m not on record as having said already? It’s a problem.

That his violence was overstressed, his sense of humor underappreciated?

Nah, said that.

That he was basically just a great big grown-up kid at heart who had a gift for remembering raging teenage hormones better than anybody I can think of and in doing so, helped you back to finding your own?

Unh-unh. Been said.

That he was a great storyteller with a wild absurdist bent who flung you into a yarn and double-dared you to find your way out again?

Damn! Said something along those lines too.

What then?

I know. That he’s already been gone too long and I miss him. The good handshake, the firm hug.

The goofy Great Pumpkin grin.

Jack Ketchum

E PUT THE PHONE down in its cradle on the desk and sat back in the wooden armchair—its springs creaked. The springs annoyed him. If he held on to this job for any time at all he’d have to remember to bring in the 3-in-1 oil.

In his crossword puzzle he was stuck on a nine-letter word for shapeless. All he had was a final s.

Four calls, he thought, in a little over two hours, the first two hours of his very first solo shift. Damn! People were depressed these days. He’d taken the training and asked a few questions but obviously he hadn’t asked one of the important ones—just what was the volume anyway?

He hadn’t expected it to be this heavy.

If grief were cash he’d be looking at a windfall here.

Could be it was the storm outside. A heavy cold March rainfall. He could hear it pounding at the windows of the Y. The storm wanted in.

A low barometer was called a depression, wasn’t it?

He wondered if there was a connection.

Connection. Another interesting word, given what he was doing.

He was considering an expressly forbidden trip to the men’s room for a Winston when the phone rang again.

“Crisis Center Hotline,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve been...I’m thinking that...”

The voice was agitated, thin. Male.

“Yes?”

“I’m thinking that maybe I ought to kill myself.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir? Talk to me about it. That’s what I’m here for.”

He sighed. “Okay. All right. It’s been nine whole months since Barbara left and I still can’t put it behind me—that last conversation, those last couple of days, I still can’t stop thinking about her. Jesus, nine whole months! You’d think I’d be over it by now, wouldn’t you? What do you call it? Reconciled? I mean, people have babies in nine months! I get up in the morning and the first thing I do is check my e-mail, thinking maybe there’ll be a message from her. Something. There never is. I’m constantly depressed. My sleep-pattern’s a goddamn wreck. I don’t eat enough, I drink too much. I can’t seem to decide what to do with myself, y’know?”

“You can’t get control of things.”

“That’s right. That’s it exactly. Everything’s out of control. You should see me. You really should. I’m a mess! I’ve gained weight, my immune system’s all shot to hell—I’ve had three colds already this year, herpes sores, the whole bit. Half the time I don’t even bother shaving. I can’t get into my work god knows...”

“What do you do for a living, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m a painter.”

“A housepainter?”

“No, I paint. I do magazine and book covers. And my own fine art. I’ve got a gallery here and there. But I can’t seem to give a damn about any of it anymore.”

“You’ve lost contact with a lot of your friends, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you taking risks? I mean unnecessary risks?”