Grey MatterStephen King
GREY MATTERGREY MATTER
They had been predicting a norther all week and along about Thursday we got it,
a real screamer that piled up eight inches by four in the afternoon and showed
no signs of slowing down. The usual five or six were gathered around the
Reliable in Henry's Nite-Owl, which is the only little store on this side of
Bangor that stays open right around the clock.
Henry don't do a huge business - mostly, it amounts to selling the college kids
their beer and wine - but he gets by and it's a place for us old duffers on
Social Security to get together and talk about who's died lately and how the
world's going to hell.
This afternoon Henry was at the counter; Bill Pelham, Bertie Connors, Carl
Littlefield, and me was tipped up by the stove. Outside, not a car was moving on
Ohio Street, and the ploughs was having hard going. The wind was socking drifts
across that looked like the backbone on a dinosaur.
Henry'd only had three customers all afternoon - that is, if you want to count
in blind Eddie. Eddie's about seventy, and he ain't completely blind. Runs into
things, mostly. He comes in once or twice a week and sticks a loaf of bread
under his coat and walks out with an expression on his face like: there, you
stupid sonsabitches, fooled you again.
Bertie once asked Henry why he never put a stop to it.
'I'll tell you,' Henry said. 'A few years back the Air Force wanted twenty
million dollars to rig up a flyin' model of an airplane they had planned out.
Well, it cost them seventy-five million and then the damn thing wouldn't fly.
That happened ten years ago, when blind Eddie and myself were considerable
younger, and I voted for the woman who sponsored that bill. Blind Eddie voted
against her. And -since then I've been buyin' his bread.'
Bertie didn't look like he quite followed all of that, but he sat back to muse
Now the door opened again, letting in a blast of the cold grey air outside, and
a young kid came in, stamping snow off his boots. I placed him after a second.
He was Richie Grenadine's kid, and he looked like he'd just kissed the wrong end
of the baby. His Adam's apple was going up and down and his face was the colour
of old oilcloth.
'Mr Parmalee,' he says to Henry, his eyeballs rolling -around in his head like
ball bearings, 'you got to come. You got to take him his beer and come. I can't
stand to go back there. I'm scared.'
'Now slow down,' Henry says, taking off his white butcher's apron and coming
around the counter. 'What's the matter? Your dad been on a drunk?'
I realized when he said that that Richie hadn't been in for quite some time.
Usually he'd be by once a day to pick up a -case of whatever beer was going
cheapest at that time, a big --fat man with jowls like pork butts and ham-hock
arms. Richie always was a pig about his beer, but he handled it okay when he was
working at the sawmill out in Clifton. Then something happened - a pulper piled
a bad load, or maybe Richie just made it out that way - and Richie was off work,
free an' easy, with the sawmill company paying him compensation. Something in
his back. Anyway, he got awful fat. He hadn't been in lately, although once in a
while I'd seen his boy come in for Richie's nightly case. Nice enough boy Henry
sold him the beer, for he knew it was only the boy doing as his father said.
'He's been on a drunk,' the boy was saying now, 'but that ain't the trouble.
It's . . . it's . . . oh Lord, it's awful!'
Henry saw he was going to bawl, so he says real quick:
'Carl, will you watch things for a minute?'
'Now, Timmy, you come back into the stockroom and tell me what's what.'
He led the boy away, and Carl went around behind the counter and sat on Henry's
stool. No one said anything for quite a while. We could hear 'em back there,
Henry's deep, slow voice and then Timmy Grenadine's high one, speaking very
fast. Then the boy commenced to cry, and Bill Pelham cleared his throat and
started filling up his pipe.
'I ain't seen Richie for a couple of months,' I said.
Bull grunted. 'No loss.'
'He was in . . . oh, near the end of October,' Carl said. 'Near Halloween.
Bought a case of Schlitz beer. He was gettin' awful meaty.'
There wasn't much more to say. The boy was still crying, but he was talking at
the same time. Outside the wind kept on whooping and yowling and the radio said
we'd have another six inches or so by morning. It was mid-January and it made me
wonder if anyone had seen Richie since October - besides his boy, that is.
The talking went on for quite a while, but finally Henry and the boy came out.
The boy had taken his coat off, but Henry had put his on. The boy was kinda
hitching in his chest the way you do when the worst is past, but his eyes was
red and when he glanced at you, he'd look down at the floor.
Henry looked worried. 'I thought I'd send Timmy here upstairs an' have my wife
cook him up a toasted cheese or somethin'. Maybe a couple of you fellas'd like
to go around to Richie's place with me. Timmy says he wants some beer. He gave
me the money.' He tried to smile, but it was a pretty sick affair and he soon
'Sure,' Bertie says. 'What kind of beer? I'll go fetch her.'
'Get Harrow's Supreme,' Henry said. 'We got some cut-down boxes back there.'
I got up, too. It would have to be Bertie and me. Carl's arthritis gets
something awful on days like this, and Billy Pelham don't have much use of his
right arm any more.
Bertie got four six-packs of Harrow's and I packed them into a box while Henry
took the boy upstairs to th~ apartment, overhead.
Well, he straightened that out with his missus and came back down, looking over
his shoulder once to make sure the upstairs door was closed. Billy spoke up,
'What's up? Has Richie been workin' the kid over?'
'No,' Henry said. 'I'd just as soon not say anything just yet. It'd sound crazy.
I will show you somethin-', though. The money Timmy had to pay for the beer
with.' He shed four dollar bills out of his pocket, holding them by the corner,
and I don't blame him. They was all covered with a grey, slimy stuff that looked
like the scum on top of bad preserves. He laid them down on the counter with a
funny smile and said to Carl: 'Don't let anybody touch 'em. Not if what the kid
says is even half right!'
And he went around to the sink by the meat counter and washed his hands.
I got up, put on my pea coat and scarf and buttoned up. It was no good taking a
car; Richie lived in an apartment building down on Curve Street, which is as
close to straight up and down as the law allows, and it's the last place the
As we were going out, Bill Pelham called after us: 'Watch out, now.'
Henry just nodded and put the case of Harrow's on the little handcart he keeps
by the door, and out we trundled.
The wind hit us
like a sawblade, and right away I pulled my scarf up over my
ears. We paused in the doorway just for a second while Bertie pulled on his
gloves. He had a pained sort of a wince on his face, and I knew how he felt.
It's all well for younger fellows to go out skiing all day and running those
goddam waspwing snowmobiles half the night, but when you get up over seventy
without an oil change, you feel that north-east wind around your heart.
'I don't want to scare you boys,' Henry said, with that queer, sort of revolted
smile still on his mouth, 'but I'm goin' to show you this all the same. And I'm
goin' to tell you what the boy told me while we walk up there. . . because I
want you to know, you see!'
And he pulled a .45-calibre hogleg out of his coat pocket - the pistol he'd kept
loaded and ready under the counter ever since he went to twenty-four hours a day
back in 1958. I don't know where he got it, but I do know the one time he
flashed it at a stickup guy, the fella just turned around and bolted right out
the door. Henry was a cool one, all right. I saw him throw out a college kid
that came in one time and gave him a hard time about cashing a cheque. That kid
walked away like his ass was on sideways and he had to crap.
Well, I only tell you that because Henry wanted Bertie and me to know he meant
business, and we did, too.
So we set out, bent into the wind like washerwomen, Henry trundling that cart
and telling us what the boy had said. The wind was trying to rip the words away
before we could hear 'em, but we got most of it - more'n we wanted to. I was
damn glad Henry had his Frenchman's pecker stowed away in his coat pocket.
The kid said it must have been the beer - you know how you can get a bad can
every now and again. Flat or smelly or green as the peestains in an Irishman's
underwear. A fella once told me that all it takes is a tiny hole to let in
bacteria that'll do some damn strange things. The hole can be so small that the
beer won't hardly dribble out, but the bacteria can get in. And beer's good food
for some of those bugs.
Anyway, the kid said Richie brought back a case of Golden Light just like always
that night in October and sat down to polish it off while Timmy did his
Timmy was just about ready for bed when he hears Richie say, 'Christ Jesus, that
And Timmy says, 'What's that, Pop?'
'That beer,' Richie says. 'God, that's the worst taste I ever had in my mouth.'
Most people would wonder why in the name of God he drank it if it tasted so bad,
but then, most people have never seen Richie Grenadine go to his beer. I was
down in Wally's Spa one afternoon, and I saw him win the goddamndest bet. He bet
a fella he could drink twenty two-bit glasses of beer in one minute. Nobody
local would take him up, but this salesman from Montpelier laid down a
twenty-dollar Bill and Richie covered him. He drank all twenty with seven
seconds to spare - although when he walked out he was more'n three sails into
the wind. So I expect Richie had most of that bad can in his gut before his
brain could warn him.
'I'm gonna puke,' Richie say. 'Look out!'
But by the time he got to the head it had passed off, and that was the end of
it. The boy said he smelt the can, and it smeltlike something crawled in there
and died. There was a little grey dribble around the top, too.
Two days later the boy comes home from school and there's Richie sitting in
front of the TV and watching the afternoon tearjerkers with every goddamn shade
in the place pulled down.
'What's up?' Timmy asks, for Richie don't hardly ever roll in before nine.
'I'm watchin' the TV,' Richie says. 'I didn't seem to want to go out today.'
Timmy turned on the light over the sink, and Richie yelled at him: 'And turn off
that friggin' light!'
So Timmy did, not asking how he's gonna do his homework in the dark. When
Richie's in that mood, you don't ask him nothing.
'An' go out an' get me a case,' Richie says. 'Money's on the table.'
When the kid gets back, his dad's still sitting in the dark, only now it's dark
outside, too. And the TV's off. The kid starts getting the creeps well, who
wouldn't? Nothing but a dark flat and your daddy setting in the corner like a
So he puts the beer on the table, knowing that Richie don't like it so cold it
spikes his forehead, and when he gets close to his old man he starts to notice a
kind of rotten smell, like an old cheese someone left standing on the counter
over the weekend. He don't say shit or go blind, though, as the old man was
never what you'd call a cleanly soul. Instead he goes into his room and shuts
the door and does his homework, and after a while he hears the TV start to go
and Richie's popping the top in his first of the evening.
And for two weeks or so, that's the way things went. The kid got up in the
morning and went to school an' when he got home Richie'd be in front of the
television, and beer money on the table.
The flat was smelling ranker and ranker, too. Richie wouldn't have the shades up
at all, and about the middle of November he made Timmy stop studying in his
room. Said he couldn't abide the light under the door. So Timmy started going
down the block to a friend's house after getting his dad the beer.
Then one day when Timmy came home from school - it was four o'clock and pretty
near dark already - Richie says, 'Turn on the light.'
The kid turned on the light over the sink, and damn if Richie ain't all wrapped
up in a blanket.
'Look,' Richie says, and one hand creeps out from under the blanket. Only it
ain't a hand at all. Something grey, is all the kid could tell Henry. Didn't
look like a hand at all. Just a grey lump.
Well, Timmy Grenadine was scared bad. He says, 'Pop, what's happening to you?'
And Richie says, 'I dunno. But it don't hurt. It feels. . kinda nice.'
So, Timmy says, 'I'm gonna call Dr Westphail.'
And the blanket starts to tremble all over, like something awful was shaking -
all over- under there. And Richie says, 'Don't you dare. If you do I'll touch ya
and you'll end up just like this.' And he slides the blanket down over his face
for just a minute.
By then we were up to the corner of Harlow arid Curve Street, and I was even
colder than the temperature had been on Henry's Orange Crush thermometer when we
came out. A person doesn't hardly want to believe such things, and yet there's
still strange things in the world.
I once knew a fella named George Kelso, who worked for the Bangor Public Works
Department. He spent fifteen years fixing water mains and mending electricity
cables and all that, an' then one day he just up an' quit, not two years before
his retirement. Frankie Haldeman, who knew him, said George went down into a
sewer pipe on Essex laughing and joking just like always and came up fifteen
minutes later with his hair just as white as snow and his eyes staring like he
just looked through a window into hell. He walked straight down to the BPW
garage and punched his clock and went down to Wally's Spa and started drinking.
It killed him two years l
ater. Frankie said he tried to talk to him about it and
George said something one time, and that was when he was pretty well blotto.
Turned around on his stool, George did, an' asked Frankie Haldeman if he'd ever
seen a spider as big as a good-sized dog setting in a web full of kitties an'
such all wrapped up in silk thread. Well, what could he say to that? I'm not
saying there's truth in it, but I am saying that there's things in the corners
of the world that would drive a man insane to look 'em right in the face.
So we just stood on the corner a minute, in spite of the wind that was whooping
up the street.
'What'd he see?' Bertie asked.
'He said he could still see his dad,' Henry answered, 'but he said it was like
he was buried in grey jelly. . . and it was all kinda mashed together. He said
his clothes were all stickin' in and out of his skin, like they was melted to
'Holy Jesus,' Bertie said.
'Then he covered right up again and started screaming at the kid to turn off the
'Like he was a fungus,' I said.
'Yes,' Henry said. 'Sorta like that.'
'You keep that pistol handy,' Bertie said.
'Yes, I think I will.' And with that, we started to trundle up Curve Street.
The apartment house where Richie Grenadine had his flat was almost at the top of
the hill, one of those big Victorian monsters that were built by the pulp an'
paper barons at the turn of the century. They've just about all been turned into
apartment houses now. When Bertie got his breath he told us Richie lived on the
third floor under that top gable that jutted out like an eyebrow. I took the
chance to ask Henry what happened to the kid after that.
Along about the third week in November the kid came back one afternoon to find
Richie had gone one further than just pulling the shades down. He'd taken and
nailed blankets across every window in the place. It was starting to stink
worse, too - kind of a mushy stink, the way fruit gets when it goes to ferment
A week or so after that, Richie got the kid to start heating his beer on the
stove. Can you feature that? The kid all by himself in that apartment with his
dad turning into, well, into something . . . an' heating his beer and then
having to listen to him - it - drinking it with awful thick slurping sounds, the
way an old man eats his chowder: Can you imagine it?