The Black House Story

Often, when I'm looking for something to read and don't have the time or inclination to hit up the bookstore, I just raid my mother's spare room. It is home to a gazillion books she's collected over the years.

The last time I was there, I came across a hardback copy of Black House, the sequel to Stephen King's/Peter Straub's jointly written novel The Talisman. I finished rereading The Talisman earlier this summer, so I figured this was a good time to start in on the sequel.

Last night, as I was reading, I realized that this book wasn't one of my mother's after all. It was one that had been given to me a few years ago.

You run into some wonderfully interesting people at The Pub. Several years back, I reconnected with a guy I knew vaguely from high school, Wes. He'd become something of a regular on Ye Olde Barstool. It seemed for a while that he was there just about every time I stopped by (which made sense, since he was always there).

Although just a few years older than me, his life had taken him down a much rougher road. He had medical issues, addiction issues, and financial issues, all stacked one on top of the other like a haphazard Lego concoction. But in spite of all the crazy crap he'd gotten himself into over the years, he was an avid reader and something of an aspiring writer.

He told me one night that reading was what he liked most about being in jail, a place I think he'd spent way more than his share of time. He said this with the casual offhandedness that I'd describe how I spent a free Saturday morning.

"When I have to go in, I just use the time to hit up the library and clear out my head," he explained. He made his semi-regular jaunts to jail sound like going off to college. But in spite of his strangely skewed version of life and the things he always seemed to get himself into, there was just something kind and hopeful about Wes. I know that sounds strange, but there it was.

It was more than just his view on time in jail that made Wes .... different. Another thing was his aversion to shoes. He just flat-out hated them. He was always coming into the bar barefoot, and it didn't matter whether it was August or January. 

"Don't your feet get cold?" I asked him one bitter night, and got a "oh, hell no, honey." So I asked him if he'd ever thought about the fact that he was trekking those bare feet into the men's room every hour or so, and we knew damn well that drunk men don't exactly have the best aim. 

"Never thought of that," he said, after a moment's consideration. But he still wouldn't wear shoes.    

One night we got to talking about Lord of the Rings, and the next time I stopped by the pub I brought him in my finished copy of the trilogy and gave it to him, joking that now he wouldn't have to go to jail to get something to read anymore.

Shortly after that night, he left town. We'd talked about his plan a bit. He was moving to the Eastern Shore, to try to get away from our city and the people and habits that kept landing him in all sorts of holes. He was hoping to start over in a quiet, rural area and find some peace. Do some reading on a back porch instead of in a jail cell, maybe.

But before he left, he brought his copy of Black House up to the pub, and since I wasn't there he asked my mom to make sure I got it. Mom said he was so excited about giving it to me - I don't think Wes had many "book exchange" types of friends.

My own life turned upside down for a while not too long after that. Nothing like his, but my own version of falling on my face and floundering around for a bit. I wasn't doing a whole lot of reading during that time period. By the time I got back into the swing of my more normal habits, I had forgotten about the book. So it has sat at my parents' house all this time, just waiting for me to remember it and the friend who gave it to me.

I hope he found his back porch, complete with leaves rustling in the trees and crickets chirping in the background. I hope he kept it together and has a lawn to trek through barefoot. And I hope he's still reading.

Thanks, Wes.