The Dark Tower (Page 128)

It was around this time that Susannah decided she did not believe much of sai Collins’s story. It was undoubtedly entertaining, and given Jake’s first entry into Mid-World, after being run over in die street and killed while on his way to school, it was not totally implausible. But she still didn’t believe much of it.

The question was, did it matter?

"You couldn’t call it heaven, because there were no clouds and no choirs of angels," Joe said, "but I decided it was some sort of an afterlife, just the same." He had wandered about. He found food, he found a horse (Lippy), and moved on. He had met various roving bands of people, some friendly, some not, some true-threaded, some mutie. Enough so he’d picked up some of the lingo and a little Mid-World history; certainly he knew about the Beams and the Tower. At one point he’d tried to cross the Badlands, he said, but he’d gotten scared and turned back when his skin began to break out in all sorts of sores and weird blemishes.

"I got a boil on my ass, and that was the final touch," he said.

"Six or eight years ago, this might have been. Me n Lippy said the hell with going any further. That was when I found this place, which is called Westring, and when Stuttering Bill found me.

He’s got a litde doctorin, and he lanced the boil on my bottom."

Roland wanted to know if Joe had witnessed the passage of the Crimson King as that mad creature made his final pilgrimage to the Dark Tower. Joe said he had not, but that six months ago there had been a terrible storm ("a real boilermaker") that drove him down into his cellar. While he was there the electric lights had failed, genny or no genny, and as he cowered in the dark, a sense had come to him that some terrible creature was close by, and that it might at any moment touch Joe’s mind and follow his thoughts to where he was hiding.

"You know what I felt like?" he asked them.

Roland and Susannah shook their heads. Oy did the same, in perfect imitation.

"Snack-food," Joe said. "Potential snack-food."

This part of his story’s true, Susannah thought. He may have changed it around a little, but basically it’s true. And if she had any reason to think that, it was only because the idea of the Crimson King traveling in his own portable storm seemed horribly plausible.

"What did you do?" Roland asked.

"Went to sleep," he said. "It’s a talent I’ve always had, like doing impressions-although I don’t do famous voices in my act, because they never go over out in the sticks. Not unless you’re Rich Little, at least. Strange but true. I can sleep pretty much on command, so that’s what I did down in the cellar.

When I woke up again the lights were back on and the… the whatever-it-was was gone. I know about the Crimson King, of course, I see folks from time to time still-nomads like you three, for the most part-and they talk about him. Usually they fork the sign of the evil eye and spit between their fingers when they do. You think that was him, huh? You think the Crimson King actually passed by Odd’s Lane on his way to the Tower." Then, before they had a chance to answer: "Well, why not? Tower Road’s the main throughfare, after all. It goes all the way there."

You know it was him, Susannah thought. What game are you playing, Joe?

The thin cry that was most definitely not the wind came again. She no longer thought it was Mordred, though. She thought that maybe it was coming from the cellar where Joe had gone to hide from the Crimson King… or so he’d said. Who was down there now? And was he hiding, as Joe had done, or was he a prisoner?

"It hasn’t been a bad life," Joe was saying. "Not the life I expected, not by any manner or means, but I got a theory-the folks who end up living the lives they expected are more often than not the ones who end up takin sleepin pills or stickin the barrel of a gun in their mouths and pullin the trigger."

Roland seemed still to be a few turns back, because he said, ‘You were a court jester and the customers in these inns were your court."

Joe smiled, showing a lot of white teeth. Susannah frowned.

Had she seen his teeth before? They had been doing a lot of laughing and she should have seen them, but she couldn’t remember that she actually had. Certainly he didn’t have the mush-mouth sound of someone whose teeth are mosdy gone

(such people had consulted with her father on many occasions, most of them in search of artificial replacements). If she’d had to guess earlier on, she would have said he had teeth but they were down to nothing but pegs and nubbins, and-

And what’s the matter with you, girl? He might be lying about a few things, but he surely didn’t grow afresh set of teeth since you sat down to dinner! You’re letting your imagination run away with you.

Was she? Well, it was possible. And maybe that thin cry was nothing but the sound of the wind in the eaves at the front of the house, after all.

"I’d hear some of your jokes and stories," Roland said. "As you told them on the road, if it does ya."

Susannah looked at him closely, wondering if the gunslinger had some ulterior motive for this request, but he seemed genuinely interested. Even before seeing the Polaroid of the Dark Tower tacked to the living room wall (his eyes returned to it constandy as Joe told his story), Roland had been invested by a kind of hectic good cheer that was really not much like him at all. It was almost as if he were ill, edging in and out of delirium.

Joe Collins seemed surprised by the gunslinger’s request, but not at all displeased. "Good God," he said. "I haven’t done any stand-up in what seems like a thousand years… and considering the way time stretched there for awhile, maybe it has been a thousand. I’m not sure I’d know how to begin."

Susannah surprised herself by saying, "Try."

EIGHT

Joe thought about it and then stood up, brushing a few errant crumbs from his shirt. He limped to the center of the room, leaving his crutch leaning against his chair. Oy looked up at him with his ears cocked and his old grin on his chops, as if anticipating the entertainment to come. For a moment Joe looked uncertain. Then he took a deep breath, let it out, and gave them a smile. "Promise you won’t throw no tomatoes if I stink up the joint," he said. "Remember, it’s been a long time."

"Not after you took us in and fed us," Susannah said. "Never in life."

Roland, always literal, said, "We have no tomatoes, in any case."

"Right, right. Although there are some canned ones in the pantry… forget I said that!"

Susannah smiled. So did Roland.

Encouraged, Joe said: "Okay, let’s go back to that magical place called Jango’s in that magical city some folks call the mistake on the lake. Cleveland, Ohio, in other words. Second show. The one I never got to finish, and I was on a roll, take my word for it. Give me just a second…"

He closed his eyes. Seemed to gather himself. When he opened them again, he somehow looked ten years younger. It was astounding. And he didn’t just sound American when he began to speak, he looked American. Susannah couldn’t have explained that in words, but she knew it was true: here was one Joe Collins, Made in U.S.A.

"Hey, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Jango’s, I’m Joe Collins and you’re not."

Roland chuckled and Susannah smiled, mostly to be polite-that was a pretty old one.

"The management has asked me to remind you that this is two-beers-for-a-buck night. Got it? Good. With them the motive is profit, with me it’s self-interest. Because the more you drink, the funnier I get."

Susannah’s smile widened. There was a rhythm to comedy, even sheknew that, although she couldn’t have done even five minutes of stand-up in front of a noisy nightclub crowd, not if her life had depended on it. There was a rhythm, and after an uncertain beginning, Joe was finding his. His eyes were halflidded, and she guessed he was seeing the mixed colors of the gels over the stage-so like the colors of the Wizard’s Rainbow, now that she thought of it-and smelling the smoke of fifty smoldering cigarettes. One hand on the chrome pole of the mike; the other free to make any gesture it liked. Joe Collins playing Jango’s on a Friday night-

No, not a Friday. He said all the clubs book rock-and-roll bands on the weekends.

"Ne’mine all that mistake-on-the-lake stuff, Cleveland’s a beautiful city," Joe said. He was picking up the pace a little now.

Starting to rap, Eddie might have said. "My folks are from Cleveland, but when they were seventy they moved to Florida.

They didn’t want to, but shitfire, it’s the law. Bing!"Joe rapped his knuckles against his head and crossed his eyes. Roland chuckled again even though he couldn’t have the slightest idea where (or even what) Florida was. Susannah’s smile was wider than ever.

"Florida’s a helluva place," Joe said. "Helluva place. Home of the newly wed and the nearly dead. My grandfather retired to Florida, God rest his soul. When I die, I want to go peacefully, in my sleep, like Grampa Fred. Not screaming, like the passengers in his car."

Roland roared with laughter at that one, and Susannah did, too. Oy’s grin was wider than ever.

"My grandma, she was great, too. She said she learned how to swim when someone took her out on the Cuyahoga River and threw her off the boat. I said, ‘Hey, Nana, they weren’t trying to teach you how to swim.’"

Roland snorted, wiped his nose, then snorted again. His cheeks had bloomed with color. Laughter elevated the entire metabolism, put it almost on a fight-or-flight basis; Susannah had read that somewhere. Which meant her own must be rising, because she was laughing, too. It was as if all the horror and sorrow were gushing out of an open wound, gushing out like-