yuletide fic: 'the rainbow in my mind: three times richie tozier forgot, and one he remembered'
My first Yuletide fic, for Stephen King's 'It'.
A03 link
But there is a place, sweet as you will ever know
In music and love and things you never tell
You see it in their face, secrets on the telephone
A time out of time, for you and no one else
- John Fogerty, Rock and Roll Girls
“I know something,” Beverly said in the dark, and to Bill her voice sounded older. “I know because my father told me. I know how to bring us back together. And if we’re not together we’ll never get out.”
- Stephen King, It
1. Sewer. August.
Eddie, the closest to Beverly, flinches as if hit.
(he shouldn't be down here)
Bill instead, takes the place next to Bev
(nothing but natural)
Richie pauses, he’s not sure if he’s hopeful, or a little afraid of being chosen
(Bevvy’s hair smells so clean, her touch is light, but she’s one of the guys, one hell of a pretty guy)
but instead she holds a small palm to a scarlet Haystacks. Her gesture seems to wake them, and they file as one, sitting cross-legged in a circle, holding hands
(seven, that’s the magic number)
Stan moves with his usual, almost-eerie grace but the whites of his eyes look odd, as he plants himself between Ben and Mike, with a dry: ‘Get over here, new kid.’ Mike in turn, silently offers his other hand to Richie
(substance in smoke, comfort in desire)
who holds Eds’ good arm, leaving Bill with the broken one
(that arm’s not looking, you know, too cool)
and Richie with an odd feeling.
The feeling itself he recognises. Spite, bitter and pungent, flooding his mouth, recalling an afternoon in Freese’s
(way to go, banana-heels!)
but in conjunction with Bill, his brother, his best friend, their leader, whom he loves like family (more than family, to his shame); it’s unrecognisable for a brief second. Like devouring his beloved hot dogs, slathered in mustard and onions, then seeing on the calendar that it’s Friday.
Eddie worships Bill, a gold-tinted idealism; like Bevvy does, like all of them. Maybe it's his mom's frocked up influence, not having a dad. Richie would die cheerfully for Big Bill in a second, but he doesn’t worship. You can't worship someone you understand so well, only love them
(like a child)
(or a father)
Richie knows Bill won’t
(can’t)
stop this, not until it’s over, and they all seem to wordlessly understand the need for
(sacrifice)
some kind of gesture.
Haystacks looks content stroking Beverly's hair with one hand, the other clutching Stan, muscles in his leg visible in his shorts, stark and quivering.
Bill kisses her on the cheek
(like in the school play)
a strangely courtly gesture after the summer they’ve all spent, shooting the shit, bickering about comic books and throwing rocks.
Bill’s always been the oldest of them, somehow, even bawling snot, riding a bike far too big for him; and Richie thinks if he squints a little, he can somehow see the man inside.
The William Denborough of the future, ready to file taxes and change diapers and all that good shit, waiting to born from Big Bill, eating him up, with that little kiss.
(it’s a beginning. or an ending)
Bev doesn’t move, her eyes closed, the lids trembling, whether in joy or fear Richie doesn’t know, and even though he’s not touching her himself, he feels a pang of guilt. It’s more for girls, somehow. Richie may have been bragging all summer about his wang, but even he gets that, the difference between the stories he’s been telling; and the stories told about Bevvy.
Stan's pale hands are shaking, nails digging into Mike’s hand, which feels to Richie like he’s calloused from his grandfather's farm. Mike strokes Richie's thumb briefly, and the movement betrays a surety, a boy used to turning pages.
On his right side, Eddie’s hand feels sweaty, damp under Richie’s fingers, and Richie, unused to the quiet, takes refuge in absurdity, as always.
'So, how hard should I be jerking now, Bev? Am I taking Eds here Around the Worlds, or just making him sleep? Gonna let me light your rocket, Kaspbrak?’
'Beep beep, Richie’, Eddie whispers, but hearing that exasperated, familiar tone out of the mellow dark reassures Richie, and he leans in awkwardly to peck at the other boy’s cheek, first one, then the other, with enthusiastic smacking noises to follow.
Eddie wipes his face nervously afterwards, but his hand seeks Richie’s again, as he whispers. 'This is frigged up.'
'Been frigged up your whole life, Eds,' Richie murmurs, leaning his face against the other boy’s shoulder, careful to avoid the edge of the cast. ‘You rather become blood brothers? Slice up our wrists a little, that’ll help us find our way out of these tunnels.’
'This is what It wants. To make us...dirty. Like It.' Eddie sounds almost frightened now, despite his hand intertwined tightly with Richie’s, so hard that Richie’s fingers are starting to cramp.
‘You think you’re gonna get the syph? Crabs?’ Richie gently kisses Eddie’s hand where they join. ‘You spend too much time with your mother.’
Wrong tack.
Eddie's voice rises, raw, on the edge of panic. 'She says you guys are unhealthy. The hold you have over me. Especially you.'
Richie’s baffled. 'What'd I do?'
Eddie looks down at their hands, tilts his head at the circle of them, together, as if to illustrate his point.
'Besides the mom jokes? The constant cursing? She says she smelt cigarettes on your breath.'
'She said she wouldn't tell you about that!' Richie chuckles, can’t help himself, even now. 'The Winstons? I bet you can't even tell.’
This summer has been a parade of firsts.
First time taking a girl to the movies.
The first time wearing his big-boy suit, one he had to get specially measured for, the one his mom caterwauled over how she thought he’d wear it for junior prom, not Bill’s little brother’s funeral.
First time he can remember wailing like he was Georgie’s age himself, after seeing that fucking clown; and first time he realised, really and truly, that he could die. That any of them could, that there’s no magic spell protecting them, any more than there was for Betsy Ripsom or the late and unlamented Patrick Hockstetter.
That anything could get them, not just the clown, but a car wreck; the doctor frowning and asking for a second round of tests; a dirty subway pole and a hangnail in just the wrong place.
Eddie’s known this all along, maybe that’s why he’s so scared of everything, and so it seems to make a weird kind of sense that they’re going to share another first, a much more pleasant one.
'It's not funny, this is the stuff people go to hell for,' Eddie mutters,
(the hot place)
And for a second, Richie feels a shock of fear, stronger even than the eye
(waking up to damp, urine-soaked sheets, strangely relieved, at first he’d thought it was blood or)
(the other)
and he’s convinced that Eddie's right somehow, that this is the lure, the clown, that Bevvy's frocked up for suggesting it, that her dad has warped her like Mrs. K did Eddie
(like good old ma and pa Tozier, don't let yourself off the hook there, Richie)
He clumsily murmurs 'Jeez, Eds', as Eddie pulls his hand back, eyes closed in self-loathing, and Richie gets it, Trashmouth silenced for once, realising Eddie - Eddie Kaspbrak, who still reads Little Lulu comics, who didn’t even know Chuck Berry was black, who was born with a compass in his head - this Eddie thinks he’s evil, thinks he’s somehow
(rotten)
dirty, going to hell, belonging to the clown forever and ever more, amen, all for not wondering what colour underwear the girls at school are wearing.
Richie leans in once more, and tries to speak with the clutch of his hand and the brush of his lips, not his runaway tongue, tries to tell Eddie: ‘You're not a
(werewolf)
monster,’ that it’s okay.
He’s so close to Eds, he can feel the other boy’s sharp intake of breath. Separating reluctantly, he peers at Eddie, who looks strangely calm, then at the others, hands held loosely but gently, trust radiating from the circle like it’s an eighth person.
'...I think I just realised where we took that wrong turning,' Eddie offers in a pleasant, almost dopey tone, and suddenly they’re all laughing, gails, so heartily that they struggle to breath, as they rise to leave the sewers, Richie cackling: ‘Eddie gets off a good one!’
2. New York. November.
Rich (he’s trying it out, feels like he’s not quite a Richard, but 'Richie' is way too juvenile) is currently stoned out of his mind, the oldest story in the book. He took the coke, then he figured a 'lude to calm down. Calm felt a little too chill when the night was so young, so he found some grass to even out, and plenty of drinks meanwhile.
It’s his night, he figures, why cool it? In five years stuff like this will be behind him, he’s already a little over it, over the NY scene, cold and harsh. Sure LA's bullshit, but it's bullshit with a smile, a layer of sunshine. And sure, the job’s just a graveyard shift on a local station, but half the high’s on getting somewhere.
The first step of a very tall ladder, he tries to remind himself, his parents' voices will do it for him if he felt like picking up the phone, which he doesn't. His sensible side reminds him to count showbiz could-have-beens, the sinking numbers for radio in the advent of MTV and Videoplay. But somehow, he believes it anyway. This is it. It’s starting to happen.
Still bubbling over, even as his head starts to pound, when the doorman, who looks like he should have a snooty British accent, sneers about calling a cab for the party stragglers.
Richie bursts out his best: 'Absolutely spiffing. Make it a limo.'
The logo on the car outside reads ROYAL CREST, and Rich sits in the front passenger seat. He figures for the amount he’s doling out for an overpriced taxi, the guy can tolerate that his fare's reached babbling stage of the evening
(morning)
The driver's not much older than him, but he has that seen-it-all look that he's pretty sure they teach at NY pre-school. When he asks ‘where to?’, his accent's pure Maine, though, might as well add an 'Ayuh'.
Rich wonders fleetingly if it's a put-on for tourists, a little colour. The guy does kind of resemble Anthony Perkins, minus the hairline, which is already receding a little, and the tacky pinky ring, which is pure new money. Or a signal thing.
Rich's not in that loop yet, he's heard of the cocaine nails, silver straws, the handkerchief code and the ear piercings, but he's not aware of any meaning to ruby rings on the little finger, has to bite on his tongue, aware he's stoned enough to ask.
The streets are dark, and he's not so wasted that he doesn’t remember 10 blocks will feel more like twenty in a New York winter.
Instead, he kills the dead air with the usual nothing talk: ‘busy night?’ And 'Jeez, it's cold'. And 'How long ya been driving?'
The driver’s back stiffens a little. 'I own the company,' he offers, on the edge of defensive.
Richie winces, cursing his tongue, still flapping.
'Little young for that, arencha?'
'Not really', the driver offers shortly. 'New York's the ideal place to start a business. Besides, I'll be twenty five next birthday.'
'Me too,' Rich exclaims, 'Hey, you're from Maine, right? I've got an ear for Voices.' He tries out a not-too-shabby professorial tone: 'You might say it's my calling.’
The driver catches his eye in the mirror and visibly represses a small smile.
'Bangor? Sanford? You don't look like a Portland guy,'
He doesn't mean anything by it, but the driver’s eyes shutter over again. 'I'm married, if that's what you mean.'
'Congrats, guy!'
Rich privately thinks marriage before 40 is crazy, the wedding, the home, the 2.4 kids to introduce to the shitty world.
To CFCs polluting the ozone layer from the day they spritz away the shitty nappy smell, to picture books and day trips to Three Mile Island and the Love Canal, all that happy-clap bullshit, the chronic alcoholism trying to chase that gold ring, that Norman Rockwell picture.
But why ruin the guy’s buzz?
'You got a picture? What's her name?'
'Marty.'
Rich hesitates a split-second. Not one to judge.
He prefers girls, almost sure he does, although he's done his fair share of bullshitting with Sandy about the Kinsey scale; 'if it feels good, do it'; about toxic masculinity and the innate homoerotic fixation of the American military with guns.
(He hopes the more he agrees with her on that, on the need for more women in the boardroom, men in the nursery, on the prison of the pram in the hall; the longer it'll kill time before another mention of what their plans are when she finishes law school. That they'll be too busy calling out the Clarence Thomases and pulling for the Geraldine Ferraros to confront the Toziers.)
The idea of actually being with another guy gives him an almost queasy feeling in his stomach
(werewolf)
But with all this AIDs shit going around
(no more going bareback, Richard)
that's no surprise, it certainly doesn't indicate anything unique to him. Besides, there are plenty of chicks with guys' names now, this may be New York, but he doubts the queers are so progressive that they go around proclaiming their business to every fare they get.
'You, uh, got any kids?'
'There's no rush.' The cabbie says, still sharp, and Rich wonders why this guy got into a job like driving cabs when he’s so testy. He’s about to apologise, bust out his new Ray-Bans he bought to celebrate landing this gig, and spending the next block or so snoozing behind them, when the cab driver continues.
‘There’s crickets. In our bedroom.’ His breath is almost whistling, like a teakettle, like he’s about to cry, but then he lets out this crazy little giggle, like he’s the stoned one.
‘And I think there’s bread. In the toilet.’
This is officially the weirdest fucking ride Rich’s ever taken, he’s torn between the hysterical urge to laugh, and terror, waiting for the guy to start croaking ‘the dead travel fast, time to ride the bullet, Richie’ or 'but you've always been here, Mr. Tozier'.
But when the car finally pulls to a halt, he must be more toasted than he thought. Instead of dumping change in the dish or even passing the notes through the open window, he leans in and hugs the guy tightly.
‘Thanks for leading me home’, he slurs, and within ten minutes, he’s in his room, his head’s hit the pillow and he’s forgot the whole goddamn night.
3. Room 217 of the Derry town house. May.
Bill and Bev have headed off to god-knows-where, and it’s sure not Richie’s place to judge, considering how stricken Bev looks every time her saintly husband Tom comes up in conversation, but he can’t help but feel a little pang for Haystacks.
Twenty-seven years on, and still eating his heart out over a crush.
It’s strange being around them, like being exquisitely stoned. At intervals over the last few days, his stomach has lurched suddenly, as he remembers the guy with the thinning hair scraped into a ponytail is Big Bill; that the tall guy in spurred boots is chubby Ben Hanscom, who taught them all how to build a dam.
He hasn’t recalled his childhood in nearly three decades, and now suddenly it’s all around him, breathed in the thick smog of Derry Air (even in his mind, he’s compelled to ‘beep, beep’ himself for that awful pun.)
He and Eds peel off, trying to preserve Ben’s dignity. As his room’s nearest the lobby, he drags in ole Eds for a nightcap, gesturing towards the slim guest bed, like a king displaying his castle.
‘I don’t have any prune juice, but the bar’s got gin. You ever mixed it with...?’ he peers at the miniatures: ‘...Pineapple juice?’
Eds sits on the bed, rewards him with a small smile. He pours the drink neatly into the proffered paper cup, no sign of the shots he’s already put away tonight.
For a guy who looks like he could only have grown a foot or so since they last met, he can apparently hold his liquor pretty well, not to mention the pill he’s currently popping.
‘What’s that? Angina? Arthritis? Oh lawdy, tell me we ain’t so old yet, Massah!’
Eds rolls his eyes. ‘Just something to help me sleep. Would you like one?’
Richie leers exaggeratedly, ‘I got something else to help me sleep’. He twists his wrist in an obscene gesture, but leans in as Eddie tilts his wallet open to reveal half-a-dozen blister packs amid folded prescription sheets.
Richie catches sight of a few mutual friends, Valium and Quaaludes, amidst what looks like some heavier duty shit, making out the printed words ‘tricyclic’ and ‘opiate’ on a couple, and emits a low whistle.
‘Shit, Eds, you could fly to the moon on this stuff.’
Eddie retorts, deadpan: ‘Yup, it really moves the mail’, and Richie snickers, laying out on the other twin.
He’s really too drunk to think about it right now, to prod at the issue. He hasn’t seen Eddie Kaspbrak in years, it’s hardly his place to start nagging him. So the guy has a few pills. Richie’s hardly a stranger to better living through chemistry.
The guy’s got a successful business, even tied the knot, so clearly he knows something Richie doesn’t about making it work, as all three ex Mrs. Toziers would likely agree.
‘Your wife join you on your trips?’, Richie throws in a peace sign, shapes a curve in the air that represents god-knows-what. ‘Or is she the clean-living sort?’
Eddie looks away. ‘She takes good care of…herself. And me, of course. You’ve been married, you know what it’s like.’ He shrugs a little. ‘I think we’re past the age where we swap stories about our sex lives, don’t you?’
Richie recoils, bewildered at the shift in mood. Eddie mentioned his wife’s weight problem, and their issues conceiving earlier. Richie inwardly curses, wondering if he’s hit a sore spot for his old friend. Maybe he’s wondering if the grass is greener for single guys. Richie hates to shatter any illusions Eds may have preserved, but at 37, his bed's empty most nights.
‘Shit, Eds, what sex life? Jerking off in a Dixie cup just about covers it, recently’.
Eddie eyeballs him, suspiciously, and Richie spreads his hands.
‘No fake, jake. Chucks are few and far between, and fucks even more so, welcome to the cold, cruel eighties, et cetera, et cetera. Every dame wants five condoms and a blood test; and you need way more than a decent radio show, even in syndication, to impress L.A. twinks.’
For a second there, he regrets throwing that out, it’s easy being brave when you’re playing someone else, whether it’s Buford Kissdrivel or the queen-y voice he’s pretty sure he originally copied from Robin Williams, the one that in his head has some bougy name, Colin or Nigel or
(Adrian)
Easier in the anonymous bath houses and house parties, where all the guy knows about you is the size of your dick or the price of your wallet, where you can get high not just on the poppers, but on not feeling like a freak,
(don’t touch the boys, Richie)
working up a boner over your dad's old copy of Gem and your mom's J.C. Penney catalogue, dog-eared at the guy's underwear page.
Where the only person you fall in love with is yourself and what you're doing, too excited to be good at it right away, still growing out of the coke bottle lenses and the buck-teeth, and into Records Tozier, syndicated nationwide.
Spurting down the first guy’s throat after an unimpressively short interval, and still the only time you truly feel wrong is when you see the poster in the drugstore, the one with the tagline ‘You won’t believe what we like to wear in bed’, which for some reason, always makes him think of rotted lace cuffs, and church basements.
He hasn’t remembered these six
(five, with a wince)
people for thirty years, but they're suddenly the only people in the world right now, and he holds his breath for a second in anticipation of Eds' reaction, suddenly petrified.
Eddie’s fingers tighten around his cup, but he doesn’t look disgusted, instead...almost awed.
Like getting a blowjob in a hygienically lacking sauna nearly a decade ago is some kind of heroic act, like Richie’s spent his adult life saving orphans from fires or curing cancer.
Eds' cup is full of gin chasing dope, but his eyes are lucid and clear, and he opens his discarded wallet once more, pulling out a condom from behind the meds.
Richie moves towards him, dream-like, laying down on the bed, trying to avoid Eddie’s long-healed arm for some reason, stroking his hand through soft curls like he did earlier at the restaurant, and shuts off the lamp.
(Here there was love, desire, and the dark.)
4. California. June.
‘So how’d you two meet?’ ask Steve, baffled.
Richie can’t blame the guy. His star DJ took a powder, and came back a week later from his hometown, now a certified disaster zone reaching national press, claiming that he didn’t remember the last week, but had at some point moved in with a New York cab driver.
His usual ‘I’ll give you the short version’, or spinning elaborate tales, each one less plausible than the last: ‘he’s my long-lost twin’, ‘Ozzy Osbourne introduced us’, have already worn thin, and he shrugs a little, helplessly, improvises something about two old college buddies reconnecting in an airport bar, not convinced he isn't telling the truth.
He doesn’t really recall, knows his hometown is something Irish sounding (classic Catholic) and that Eddie's from Maine, too, that maybe they came from Haven or Dexter, some shitpoke town along the Penobscot.
It doesn't matter, he doesn't wonder.
He doesn't wonder why he gets a strange pang listening to ‘Seein’ Stars’ talk about the production shut down on ‘Attic Room’, or why he, a workaholic who’s watched maybe five movies in the last decade, goes to the effort of seeking out Larry, the head researcher for the programme.
Larry tells him the whole thing’s hush-hush, the actress got sick, and she and her husband dropped out.
Richie’s tempted to let it drop, Christ knows he’s met plenty of unreliable celebrities in his time, and a Hollywood pairing is surely double the drama, but he presses, and Larry offers him the number of a Freddie Firestone, producer and apparent friend to both.
Freddie’s a KLAD fan, and knows Steve vaguely through Todd-A0, which apparently assures him Richie isn’t some gossip columnist, and after a few drinks, he confides that Audra Phillips, the leggy redhead that Richie always kind of had a thing for, in the rare times he read the gossip rags and spotted her photos; had an accident and had to quit.
It was off set, Freddie rushes to assure, when she was with her husband. Not that Freddie's casting suspicion on Bill Denborough, 'he's a helluva good guy', he repeats, over and over. Apparently, the studio had already had several legal snags over this shoot, and were keen to avoid more: 'Honestly, they couldn't done more, offered to finance the best facilities, trained nurses, the works, but Bill wanted to do it all himself. Said it was his responsibility. Like I said, a decent guy. I mean, for better or worse, sure, but my wife did all that diaper stuff with the kids, I can't imagine...' He trails off, and finishes his Scotch in a single swallow, mouth twisting.
Richie makes his excuses shortly after that little revelation and exits sharply, wiping at his eyes, not sure why they're wet.
He doesn’t wonder why his and Eds’ answerphone is always filled with messages from a weeping woman, who just leaves the name ‘Myra’. He answered once, tried to help, but the dame’s out of her tree, kept asking for her husband, but when he asked for the guy’s name, she couldn’t remember. They’ve called the phone company, changed the number a couple of times, but she keeps getting through.
He doesn’t wonder why, when KLAD land an exclusive interview with Def Leppard, this hot new British band; for some reason, he refuses the meeting, begs Mike O’Hara to cover for him. He’d been enjoying their songs, but when they walk into the studio, he claims illness (he’s shaking so hard, he’s not sure it is a lie, although when he’s back home with Eds, he can barely recall why he left) but really, he can’t bear to look at them, especially the drummer, the kid they call ‘Thunder God.’
He doesn’t wonder why, whenever he and Eds share an evening highball, why he always feels compelled to rise to toast ‘to us’, his hand trembling a little. Why sometimes, he wakes up sobbing, clutching Eds, or why he keeps a lamp on by their bedside in case it’s too dark. Why he finds himself staring into the refrigerator for minutes at an end, one idle Sunday, only to find in his own inky flourish the words 'FOUND' in black biro written all over the face on the milk carton. Why he feels an odd sense of guilt, like their happiness came at a price, that they somehow purchased a fair extension at someone else’s cost.
Eds asks him once, on edge after another call, and still acclimatising to each other’s ways, if it isn’t abnormal.
If they shouldn’t get CAT scans.
If Richie doesn’t want to know how they met, if it could be some fucked up Alzheimer's or whatever medical syndrome the quacks have invented (Richie’s words, not Eddie’s, who has a respect for doctors bordering on worship.)
Eds isn’t irritated so much as confused, now, his honest face creased and lovely, as he asks Richie why he’s okay with this, okay with the unanswered questions, the gap in their histories, and the nightmares; and Richie shrugs.
‘I don’t know, shweetheart’, he offers, in a credible Bogart voice, and Eddie’s face creases into a smile. Eds swats his arm, and Richie leans in for a kiss, smiling, love in his heart and a lie on his lips.
He knew well enough.
*
Notes: Thrown in some easter eggs from the movie, the miniseries, King’s books, and the 2015 script.
The title is from the song Richie mentions enjoying to Mike at the end of the book, 'Rock and Roll Girls' by John Fogerty; and the drummer of Def Leppard is of course, Rick Allen, who’s left arm was severed in a car crash in 1985, the year 'It' was set. The AIDS poster was made in 1986 by the Aids Foundation Houston.
A03 link
But there is a place, sweet as you will ever know
In music and love and things you never tell
You see it in their face, secrets on the telephone
A time out of time, for you and no one else
- John Fogerty, Rock and Roll Girls
“I know something,” Beverly said in the dark, and to Bill her voice sounded older. “I know because my father told me. I know how to bring us back together. And if we’re not together we’ll never get out.”
- Stephen King, It
1. Sewer. August.
Eddie, the closest to Beverly, flinches as if hit.
(he shouldn't be down here)
Bill instead, takes the place next to Bev
(nothing but natural)
Richie pauses, he’s not sure if he’s hopeful, or a little afraid of being chosen
(Bevvy’s hair smells so clean, her touch is light, but she’s one of the guys, one hell of a pretty guy)
but instead she holds a small palm to a scarlet Haystacks. Her gesture seems to wake them, and they file as one, sitting cross-legged in a circle, holding hands
(seven, that’s the magic number)
Stan moves with his usual, almost-eerie grace but the whites of his eyes look odd, as he plants himself between Ben and Mike, with a dry: ‘Get over here, new kid.’ Mike in turn, silently offers his other hand to Richie
(substance in smoke, comfort in desire)
who holds Eds’ good arm, leaving Bill with the broken one
(that arm’s not looking, you know, too cool)
and Richie with an odd feeling.
The feeling itself he recognises. Spite, bitter and pungent, flooding his mouth, recalling an afternoon in Freese’s
(way to go, banana-heels!)
but in conjunction with Bill, his brother, his best friend, their leader, whom he loves like family (more than family, to his shame); it’s unrecognisable for a brief second. Like devouring his beloved hot dogs, slathered in mustard and onions, then seeing on the calendar that it’s Friday.
Eddie worships Bill, a gold-tinted idealism; like Bevvy does, like all of them. Maybe it's his mom's frocked up influence, not having a dad. Richie would die cheerfully for Big Bill in a second, but he doesn’t worship. You can't worship someone you understand so well, only love them
(like a child)
(or a father)
Richie knows Bill won’t
(can’t)
stop this, not until it’s over, and they all seem to wordlessly understand the need for
(sacrifice)
some kind of gesture.
Haystacks looks content stroking Beverly's hair with one hand, the other clutching Stan, muscles in his leg visible in his shorts, stark and quivering.
Bill kisses her on the cheek
(like in the school play)
a strangely courtly gesture after the summer they’ve all spent, shooting the shit, bickering about comic books and throwing rocks.
Bill’s always been the oldest of them, somehow, even bawling snot, riding a bike far too big for him; and Richie thinks if he squints a little, he can somehow see the man inside.
The William Denborough of the future, ready to file taxes and change diapers and all that good shit, waiting to born from Big Bill, eating him up, with that little kiss.
(it’s a beginning. or an ending)
Bev doesn’t move, her eyes closed, the lids trembling, whether in joy or fear Richie doesn’t know, and even though he’s not touching her himself, he feels a pang of guilt. It’s more for girls, somehow. Richie may have been bragging all summer about his wang, but even he gets that, the difference between the stories he’s been telling; and the stories told about Bevvy.
Stan's pale hands are shaking, nails digging into Mike’s hand, which feels to Richie like he’s calloused from his grandfather's farm. Mike strokes Richie's thumb briefly, and the movement betrays a surety, a boy used to turning pages.
On his right side, Eddie’s hand feels sweaty, damp under Richie’s fingers, and Richie, unused to the quiet, takes refuge in absurdity, as always.
'So, how hard should I be jerking now, Bev? Am I taking Eds here Around the Worlds, or just making him sleep? Gonna let me light your rocket, Kaspbrak?’
'Beep beep, Richie’, Eddie whispers, but hearing that exasperated, familiar tone out of the mellow dark reassures Richie, and he leans in awkwardly to peck at the other boy’s cheek, first one, then the other, with enthusiastic smacking noises to follow.
Eddie wipes his face nervously afterwards, but his hand seeks Richie’s again, as he whispers. 'This is frigged up.'
'Been frigged up your whole life, Eds,' Richie murmurs, leaning his face against the other boy’s shoulder, careful to avoid the edge of the cast. ‘You rather become blood brothers? Slice up our wrists a little, that’ll help us find our way out of these tunnels.’
'This is what It wants. To make us...dirty. Like It.' Eddie sounds almost frightened now, despite his hand intertwined tightly with Richie’s, so hard that Richie’s fingers are starting to cramp.
‘You think you’re gonna get the syph? Crabs?’ Richie gently kisses Eddie’s hand where they join. ‘You spend too much time with your mother.’
Wrong tack.
Eddie's voice rises, raw, on the edge of panic. 'She says you guys are unhealthy. The hold you have over me. Especially you.'
Richie’s baffled. 'What'd I do?'
Eddie looks down at their hands, tilts his head at the circle of them, together, as if to illustrate his point.
'Besides the mom jokes? The constant cursing? She says she smelt cigarettes on your breath.'
'She said she wouldn't tell you about that!' Richie chuckles, can’t help himself, even now. 'The Winstons? I bet you can't even tell.’
This summer has been a parade of firsts.
First time taking a girl to the movies.
The first time wearing his big-boy suit, one he had to get specially measured for, the one his mom caterwauled over how she thought he’d wear it for junior prom, not Bill’s little brother’s funeral.
First time he can remember wailing like he was Georgie’s age himself, after seeing that fucking clown; and first time he realised, really and truly, that he could die. That any of them could, that there’s no magic spell protecting them, any more than there was for Betsy Ripsom or the late and unlamented Patrick Hockstetter.
That anything could get them, not just the clown, but a car wreck; the doctor frowning and asking for a second round of tests; a dirty subway pole and a hangnail in just the wrong place.
Eddie’s known this all along, maybe that’s why he’s so scared of everything, and so it seems to make a weird kind of sense that they’re going to share another first, a much more pleasant one.
'It's not funny, this is the stuff people go to hell for,' Eddie mutters,
(the hot place)
And for a second, Richie feels a shock of fear, stronger even than the eye
(waking up to damp, urine-soaked sheets, strangely relieved, at first he’d thought it was blood or)
(the other)
and he’s convinced that Eddie's right somehow, that this is the lure, the clown, that Bevvy's frocked up for suggesting it, that her dad has warped her like Mrs. K did Eddie
(like good old ma and pa Tozier, don't let yourself off the hook there, Richie)
He clumsily murmurs 'Jeez, Eds', as Eddie pulls his hand back, eyes closed in self-loathing, and Richie gets it, Trashmouth silenced for once, realising Eddie - Eddie Kaspbrak, who still reads Little Lulu comics, who didn’t even know Chuck Berry was black, who was born with a compass in his head - this Eddie thinks he’s evil, thinks he’s somehow
(rotten)
dirty, going to hell, belonging to the clown forever and ever more, amen, all for not wondering what colour underwear the girls at school are wearing.
Richie leans in once more, and tries to speak with the clutch of his hand and the brush of his lips, not his runaway tongue, tries to tell Eddie: ‘You're not a
(werewolf)
monster,’ that it’s okay.
He’s so close to Eds, he can feel the other boy’s sharp intake of breath. Separating reluctantly, he peers at Eddie, who looks strangely calm, then at the others, hands held loosely but gently, trust radiating from the circle like it’s an eighth person.
'...I think I just realised where we took that wrong turning,' Eddie offers in a pleasant, almost dopey tone, and suddenly they’re all laughing, gails, so heartily that they struggle to breath, as they rise to leave the sewers, Richie cackling: ‘Eddie gets off a good one!’
2. New York. November.
Rich (he’s trying it out, feels like he’s not quite a Richard, but 'Richie' is way too juvenile) is currently stoned out of his mind, the oldest story in the book. He took the coke, then he figured a 'lude to calm down. Calm felt a little too chill when the night was so young, so he found some grass to even out, and plenty of drinks meanwhile.
It’s his night, he figures, why cool it? In five years stuff like this will be behind him, he’s already a little over it, over the NY scene, cold and harsh. Sure LA's bullshit, but it's bullshit with a smile, a layer of sunshine. And sure, the job’s just a graveyard shift on a local station, but half the high’s on getting somewhere.
The first step of a very tall ladder, he tries to remind himself, his parents' voices will do it for him if he felt like picking up the phone, which he doesn't. His sensible side reminds him to count showbiz could-have-beens, the sinking numbers for radio in the advent of MTV and Videoplay. But somehow, he believes it anyway. This is it. It’s starting to happen.
Still bubbling over, even as his head starts to pound, when the doorman, who looks like he should have a snooty British accent, sneers about calling a cab for the party stragglers.
Richie bursts out his best: 'Absolutely spiffing. Make it a limo.'
The logo on the car outside reads ROYAL CREST, and Rich sits in the front passenger seat. He figures for the amount he’s doling out for an overpriced taxi, the guy can tolerate that his fare's reached babbling stage of the evening
(morning)
The driver's not much older than him, but he has that seen-it-all look that he's pretty sure they teach at NY pre-school. When he asks ‘where to?’, his accent's pure Maine, though, might as well add an 'Ayuh'.
Rich wonders fleetingly if it's a put-on for tourists, a little colour. The guy does kind of resemble Anthony Perkins, minus the hairline, which is already receding a little, and the tacky pinky ring, which is pure new money. Or a signal thing.
Rich's not in that loop yet, he's heard of the cocaine nails, silver straws, the handkerchief code and the ear piercings, but he's not aware of any meaning to ruby rings on the little finger, has to bite on his tongue, aware he's stoned enough to ask.
The streets are dark, and he's not so wasted that he doesn’t remember 10 blocks will feel more like twenty in a New York winter.
Instead, he kills the dead air with the usual nothing talk: ‘busy night?’ And 'Jeez, it's cold'. And 'How long ya been driving?'
The driver’s back stiffens a little. 'I own the company,' he offers, on the edge of defensive.
Richie winces, cursing his tongue, still flapping.
'Little young for that, arencha?'
'Not really', the driver offers shortly. 'New York's the ideal place to start a business. Besides, I'll be twenty five next birthday.'
'Me too,' Rich exclaims, 'Hey, you're from Maine, right? I've got an ear for Voices.' He tries out a not-too-shabby professorial tone: 'You might say it's my calling.’
The driver catches his eye in the mirror and visibly represses a small smile.
'Bangor? Sanford? You don't look like a Portland guy,'
He doesn't mean anything by it, but the driver’s eyes shutter over again. 'I'm married, if that's what you mean.'
'Congrats, guy!'
Rich privately thinks marriage before 40 is crazy, the wedding, the home, the 2.4 kids to introduce to the shitty world.
To CFCs polluting the ozone layer from the day they spritz away the shitty nappy smell, to picture books and day trips to Three Mile Island and the Love Canal, all that happy-clap bullshit, the chronic alcoholism trying to chase that gold ring, that Norman Rockwell picture.
But why ruin the guy’s buzz?
'You got a picture? What's her name?'
'Marty.'
Rich hesitates a split-second. Not one to judge.
He prefers girls, almost sure he does, although he's done his fair share of bullshitting with Sandy about the Kinsey scale; 'if it feels good, do it'; about toxic masculinity and the innate homoerotic fixation of the American military with guns.
(He hopes the more he agrees with her on that, on the need for more women in the boardroom, men in the nursery, on the prison of the pram in the hall; the longer it'll kill time before another mention of what their plans are when she finishes law school. That they'll be too busy calling out the Clarence Thomases and pulling for the Geraldine Ferraros to confront the Toziers.)
The idea of actually being with another guy gives him an almost queasy feeling in his stomach
(werewolf)
But with all this AIDs shit going around
(no more going bareback, Richard)
that's no surprise, it certainly doesn't indicate anything unique to him. Besides, there are plenty of chicks with guys' names now, this may be New York, but he doubts the queers are so progressive that they go around proclaiming their business to every fare they get.
'You, uh, got any kids?'
'There's no rush.' The cabbie says, still sharp, and Rich wonders why this guy got into a job like driving cabs when he’s so testy. He’s about to apologise, bust out his new Ray-Bans he bought to celebrate landing this gig, and spending the next block or so snoozing behind them, when the cab driver continues.
‘There’s crickets. In our bedroom.’ His breath is almost whistling, like a teakettle, like he’s about to cry, but then he lets out this crazy little giggle, like he’s the stoned one.
‘And I think there’s bread. In the toilet.’
This is officially the weirdest fucking ride Rich’s ever taken, he’s torn between the hysterical urge to laugh, and terror, waiting for the guy to start croaking ‘the dead travel fast, time to ride the bullet, Richie’ or 'but you've always been here, Mr. Tozier'.
But when the car finally pulls to a halt, he must be more toasted than he thought. Instead of dumping change in the dish or even passing the notes through the open window, he leans in and hugs the guy tightly.
‘Thanks for leading me home’, he slurs, and within ten minutes, he’s in his room, his head’s hit the pillow and he’s forgot the whole goddamn night.
3. Room 217 of the Derry town house. May.
Bill and Bev have headed off to god-knows-where, and it’s sure not Richie’s place to judge, considering how stricken Bev looks every time her saintly husband Tom comes up in conversation, but he can’t help but feel a little pang for Haystacks.
Twenty-seven years on, and still eating his heart out over a crush.
It’s strange being around them, like being exquisitely stoned. At intervals over the last few days, his stomach has lurched suddenly, as he remembers the guy with the thinning hair scraped into a ponytail is Big Bill; that the tall guy in spurred boots is chubby Ben Hanscom, who taught them all how to build a dam.
He hasn’t recalled his childhood in nearly three decades, and now suddenly it’s all around him, breathed in the thick smog of Derry Air (even in his mind, he’s compelled to ‘beep, beep’ himself for that awful pun.)
He and Eds peel off, trying to preserve Ben’s dignity. As his room’s nearest the lobby, he drags in ole Eds for a nightcap, gesturing towards the slim guest bed, like a king displaying his castle.
‘I don’t have any prune juice, but the bar’s got gin. You ever mixed it with...?’ he peers at the miniatures: ‘...Pineapple juice?’
Eds sits on the bed, rewards him with a small smile. He pours the drink neatly into the proffered paper cup, no sign of the shots he’s already put away tonight.
For a guy who looks like he could only have grown a foot or so since they last met, he can apparently hold his liquor pretty well, not to mention the pill he’s currently popping.
‘What’s that? Angina? Arthritis? Oh lawdy, tell me we ain’t so old yet, Massah!’
Eds rolls his eyes. ‘Just something to help me sleep. Would you like one?’
Richie leers exaggeratedly, ‘I got something else to help me sleep’. He twists his wrist in an obscene gesture, but leans in as Eddie tilts his wallet open to reveal half-a-dozen blister packs amid folded prescription sheets.
Richie catches sight of a few mutual friends, Valium and Quaaludes, amidst what looks like some heavier duty shit, making out the printed words ‘tricyclic’ and ‘opiate’ on a couple, and emits a low whistle.
‘Shit, Eds, you could fly to the moon on this stuff.’
Eddie retorts, deadpan: ‘Yup, it really moves the mail’, and Richie snickers, laying out on the other twin.
He’s really too drunk to think about it right now, to prod at the issue. He hasn’t seen Eddie Kaspbrak in years, it’s hardly his place to start nagging him. So the guy has a few pills. Richie’s hardly a stranger to better living through chemistry.
The guy’s got a successful business, even tied the knot, so clearly he knows something Richie doesn’t about making it work, as all three ex Mrs. Toziers would likely agree.
‘Your wife join you on your trips?’, Richie throws in a peace sign, shapes a curve in the air that represents god-knows-what. ‘Or is she the clean-living sort?’
Eddie looks away. ‘She takes good care of…herself. And me, of course. You’ve been married, you know what it’s like.’ He shrugs a little. ‘I think we’re past the age where we swap stories about our sex lives, don’t you?’
Richie recoils, bewildered at the shift in mood. Eddie mentioned his wife’s weight problem, and their issues conceiving earlier. Richie inwardly curses, wondering if he’s hit a sore spot for his old friend. Maybe he’s wondering if the grass is greener for single guys. Richie hates to shatter any illusions Eds may have preserved, but at 37, his bed's empty most nights.
‘Shit, Eds, what sex life? Jerking off in a Dixie cup just about covers it, recently’.
Eddie eyeballs him, suspiciously, and Richie spreads his hands.
‘No fake, jake. Chucks are few and far between, and fucks even more so, welcome to the cold, cruel eighties, et cetera, et cetera. Every dame wants five condoms and a blood test; and you need way more than a decent radio show, even in syndication, to impress L.A. twinks.’
For a second there, he regrets throwing that out, it’s easy being brave when you’re playing someone else, whether it’s Buford Kissdrivel or the queen-y voice he’s pretty sure he originally copied from Robin Williams, the one that in his head has some bougy name, Colin or Nigel or
(Adrian)
Easier in the anonymous bath houses and house parties, where all the guy knows about you is the size of your dick or the price of your wallet, where you can get high not just on the poppers, but on not feeling like a freak,
(don’t touch the boys, Richie)
working up a boner over your dad's old copy of Gem and your mom's J.C. Penney catalogue, dog-eared at the guy's underwear page.
Where the only person you fall in love with is yourself and what you're doing, too excited to be good at it right away, still growing out of the coke bottle lenses and the buck-teeth, and into Records Tozier, syndicated nationwide.
Spurting down the first guy’s throat after an unimpressively short interval, and still the only time you truly feel wrong is when you see the poster in the drugstore, the one with the tagline ‘You won’t believe what we like to wear in bed’, which for some reason, always makes him think of rotted lace cuffs, and church basements.
He hasn’t remembered these six
(five, with a wince)
people for thirty years, but they're suddenly the only people in the world right now, and he holds his breath for a second in anticipation of Eds' reaction, suddenly petrified.
Eddie’s fingers tighten around his cup, but he doesn’t look disgusted, instead...almost awed.
Like getting a blowjob in a hygienically lacking sauna nearly a decade ago is some kind of heroic act, like Richie’s spent his adult life saving orphans from fires or curing cancer.
Eds' cup is full of gin chasing dope, but his eyes are lucid and clear, and he opens his discarded wallet once more, pulling out a condom from behind the meds.
Richie moves towards him, dream-like, laying down on the bed, trying to avoid Eddie’s long-healed arm for some reason, stroking his hand through soft curls like he did earlier at the restaurant, and shuts off the lamp.
(Here there was love, desire, and the dark.)
4. California. June.
‘So how’d you two meet?’ ask Steve, baffled.
Richie can’t blame the guy. His star DJ took a powder, and came back a week later from his hometown, now a certified disaster zone reaching national press, claiming that he didn’t remember the last week, but had at some point moved in with a New York cab driver.
His usual ‘I’ll give you the short version’, or spinning elaborate tales, each one less plausible than the last: ‘he’s my long-lost twin’, ‘Ozzy Osbourne introduced us’, have already worn thin, and he shrugs a little, helplessly, improvises something about two old college buddies reconnecting in an airport bar, not convinced he isn't telling the truth.
He doesn’t really recall, knows his hometown is something Irish sounding (classic Catholic) and that Eddie's from Maine, too, that maybe they came from Haven or Dexter, some shitpoke town along the Penobscot.
It doesn't matter, he doesn't wonder.
He doesn't wonder why he gets a strange pang listening to ‘Seein’ Stars’ talk about the production shut down on ‘Attic Room’, or why he, a workaholic who’s watched maybe five movies in the last decade, goes to the effort of seeking out Larry, the head researcher for the programme.
Larry tells him the whole thing’s hush-hush, the actress got sick, and she and her husband dropped out.
Richie’s tempted to let it drop, Christ knows he’s met plenty of unreliable celebrities in his time, and a Hollywood pairing is surely double the drama, but he presses, and Larry offers him the number of a Freddie Firestone, producer and apparent friend to both.
Freddie’s a KLAD fan, and knows Steve vaguely through Todd-A0, which apparently assures him Richie isn’t some gossip columnist, and after a few drinks, he confides that Audra Phillips, the leggy redhead that Richie always kind of had a thing for, in the rare times he read the gossip rags and spotted her photos; had an accident and had to quit.
It was off set, Freddie rushes to assure, when she was with her husband. Not that Freddie's casting suspicion on Bill Denborough, 'he's a helluva good guy', he repeats, over and over. Apparently, the studio had already had several legal snags over this shoot, and were keen to avoid more: 'Honestly, they couldn't done more, offered to finance the best facilities, trained nurses, the works, but Bill wanted to do it all himself. Said it was his responsibility. Like I said, a decent guy. I mean, for better or worse, sure, but my wife did all that diaper stuff with the kids, I can't imagine...' He trails off, and finishes his Scotch in a single swallow, mouth twisting.
Richie makes his excuses shortly after that little revelation and exits sharply, wiping at his eyes, not sure why they're wet.
He doesn’t wonder why his and Eds’ answerphone is always filled with messages from a weeping woman, who just leaves the name ‘Myra’. He answered once, tried to help, but the dame’s out of her tree, kept asking for her husband, but when he asked for the guy’s name, she couldn’t remember. They’ve called the phone company, changed the number a couple of times, but she keeps getting through.
He doesn’t wonder why, when KLAD land an exclusive interview with Def Leppard, this hot new British band; for some reason, he refuses the meeting, begs Mike O’Hara to cover for him. He’d been enjoying their songs, but when they walk into the studio, he claims illness (he’s shaking so hard, he’s not sure it is a lie, although when he’s back home with Eds, he can barely recall why he left) but really, he can’t bear to look at them, especially the drummer, the kid they call ‘Thunder God.’
He doesn’t wonder why, whenever he and Eds share an evening highball, why he always feels compelled to rise to toast ‘to us’, his hand trembling a little. Why sometimes, he wakes up sobbing, clutching Eds, or why he keeps a lamp on by their bedside in case it’s too dark. Why he finds himself staring into the refrigerator for minutes at an end, one idle Sunday, only to find in his own inky flourish the words 'FOUND' in black biro written all over the face on the milk carton. Why he feels an odd sense of guilt, like their happiness came at a price, that they somehow purchased a fair extension at someone else’s cost.
Eds asks him once, on edge after another call, and still acclimatising to each other’s ways, if it isn’t abnormal.
If they shouldn’t get CAT scans.
If Richie doesn’t want to know how they met, if it could be some fucked up Alzheimer's or whatever medical syndrome the quacks have invented (Richie’s words, not Eddie’s, who has a respect for doctors bordering on worship.)
Eds isn’t irritated so much as confused, now, his honest face creased and lovely, as he asks Richie why he’s okay with this, okay with the unanswered questions, the gap in their histories, and the nightmares; and Richie shrugs.
‘I don’t know, shweetheart’, he offers, in a credible Bogart voice, and Eddie’s face creases into a smile. Eds swats his arm, and Richie leans in for a kiss, smiling, love in his heart and a lie on his lips.
He knew well enough.
*
Notes: Thrown in some easter eggs from the movie, the miniseries, King’s books, and the 2015 script.
The title is from the song Richie mentions enjoying to Mike at the end of the book, 'Rock and Roll Girls' by John Fogerty; and the drummer of Def Leppard is of course, Rick Allen, who’s left arm was severed in a car crash in 1985, the year 'It' was set. The AIDS poster was made in 1986 by the Aids Foundation Houston.