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Now
all
that
remained
of
those
days
was
the
play
on
the
desk
in
his
and
Wendy
’
s
bedroom
,
and
when
it
was
done
and
sent
off
to
Phyllis
’
s
hole
-
in
-
the
-
wall
New
York
agency
,
he
could
turn
to
other
things
.
Not
a
novel
,
he
was
not
ready
to
stumble
into
the
swamp
of
another
three
-
year
undertaking
,
but
surely
more
short
stories
.
Perhaps
a
book
of
them
.
Moving
warily
,
he
scrambled
back
down
the
slope
of
the
roof
on
his
hands
and
knees
past
the
line
of
demarcation
where
the
fresh
green
Bird
shingles
gave
way
to
the
section
of
roof
he
had
just
finished
clearing
.
He
came
to
the
edge
on
the
left
of
the
wasps
’
nest
he
had
uncovered
and
moved
gingerly
toward
it
,
ready
to
backtrack
and
bolt
down
his
ladder
to
the
ground
if
things
looked
too
hot
.
He
leaned
over
the
section
of
pulled
-
out
flashing
and
looked
in
.
The
nest
was
in
there
,
tucked
into
the
space
between
the
old
flashing
and
the
final
roof
undercoating
of
three
-
by
-
fives
.
It
was
a
damn
big
one
.
The
grayish
paper
ball
looked
to
Jack
as
if
it
might
be
nearly
two
feet
through
the
center
.
Its
shape
was
not
perfect
because
the
space
between
the
flashing
and
the
boards
was
too
narrow
,
but
he
thought
the
little
buggers
had
still
done
a
pretty
respectable
job
.
The
surface
of
the
nest
was
acrawl
with
the
lumbering
,
slowmoving
insects
.
They
were
the
big
mean
ones
,
not
yellow
jackets
,
which
are
smaller
and
calmer
,
but
wall
wasps
.
They
had
been
rendered
sludgy
and
stupid
by
the
fall
temperatures
,
but
Jack
,
who
knew
about
wasps
from
his
childhood
,
counted
himself
lucky
that
he
had
been
stung
only
once
.
And
,
he
thought
,
if
Ullman
had
hired
the
job
done
in
the
height
of
summer
,
the
workman
who
tore
up
that
particular
section
of
the
flashing
would
have
gotten
one
hell
of
a
surprise
.
Yes
indeedy
.
When
a
dozen
wall
wasps
land
on
you
all
at
once
and
start
stinging
your
face
and
hands
and
arms
,
stinging
your
legs
right
through
your
pants
,
it
would
be
entirely
possible
to
forget
you
were
seventy
feet
up
.
You
might
just
charge
right
off
the
edge
of
the
roof
while
you
were
trying
to
get
away
from
them
.
All
from
those
little
things
,
the
biggest
of
them
only
half
the
length
of
a
pencil
stub
.
He
had
read
someplace
-
in
a
Sunday
supplement
piece
or
a
back
-
of
-
the
-
book
newsmagazine
article
-
that
7
per
cent
of
all
automobile
fatalities
go
unexplained
.
No
mechanical
failure
,
no
excessive
speed
,
no
booze
,
no
bad
weather
.
Simply
one
-
car
crashes
on
deserted
sections
of
road
,
one
dead
occupant
,
the
driver
,
unable
to
explain
what
had
happened
to
him
.
The
article
had
included
an
interview
with
a
state
trooper
who
theorized
that
many
of
these
so
-
called
"
foo
crashes
"
resulted
from
insects
in
the
car
.
Wasps
,
a
bee
,
possibly
even
a
spider
or
moth
.
The
driver
gets
panicky
,
tries
to
swat
it
or
unroll
a
window
to
let
it
out
.
Possibly
the
insect
stings
him
.
Maybe
the
driver
just
loses
control
.
Either
way
it
’
s
bang
!
.
,
.
all
over
.
And
the
insect
,
usually
completely
unharmed
,
would
buzz
merrily
out
of
the
smoking
wreck
,
looking
for
greener
pastures
.
The
trooper
had
been
in
favor
of
having
pathologists
look
for
insect
venom
while
autopsying
such
victims
,
Jack
recalled
.
Now
,
looking
down
into
the
nest
,
it
seemed
to
him
that
it
could
serve
as
both
a
workable
symbol
for
what
he
had
been
through
(
and
what
he
had
dragged
his
hostages
to
fortune
through
)
and
an
omen
for
a
better
future
.
How
else
could
you
explain
the
things
that
had
happened
to
him
?
For
he
still
felt
that
the
whole
range
of
unhappy
Stovington
experiences
had
to
be
looked
at
with
Jack
Torrance
in
the
passive
mode
.
He
had
not
done
things
;
things
had
been
done
to
him
.
He
had
known
plenty
of
people
on
the
Stovington
faculty
,
two
of
them
right
in
the
English
Department
,
who
were
hard
drinkers
.
Zack
Tunney
was
in
the
habit
of
picking
up
a
full
keg
of
beer
on
Saturday
afternoon
,
plonking
it
in
a
backyard
snowbank
overnight
,
and
then
killing
damn
near
all
of
it
on
Sunday
watching
football
games
and
old
movies
.
Yet
through
the
week
Zack
was
as
sober
as
a
judge
-
a
weak
cocktail
with
lunch
was
an
occasion
.
He
and
Al
Shockley
had
been
alcoholics
.
They
had
sought
each
other
out
like
two
castoffs
who
were
still
social
enough
to
prefer
drowning
together
to
doing
it
alone
.
The
sea
had
been
whole
-
grain
instead
of
salt
,
that
was
all
.
Looking
down
at
the
wasps
,
as
they
slowly
went
about
their
instinctual
business
before
winter
closed
down
to
kill
all
but
their
hibernating
queen
,
he
would
go
further
.
He
was
still
an
alcoholic
,
always
would
be
,
perhaps
had
been
since
Sophomore
Class
Night
in
high
school
when
he
had
taken
his
first
drink
.
It
had
nothing
to
do
with
willpower
,
or
the
morality
of
drinking
,
or
the
weakness
or
strength
of
his
own
character
.
There
was
a
broken
switch
somewhere
inside
,
or
a
circuit
breaker
that
didn
’
t
work
,
and
he
had
been
propelled
down
the
chute
willynilly
,
slowly
at
first
,
then
accelerating
as
Stovington
applied
its
pressures
on
him
.
A
big
grease
amp
;
slide
and
at
the
bottom
had
been
a
shattered
,
ownerless
bicycle
and
a
son
with
a
broken
arm
.
Jack
Torrance
in
the
passive
mode
.
And
his
temper
,
same
thing
.
All
his
life
he
had
been
trying
unsuccessfully
to
control
it
.
He
could
remember
himself
at
seven
,
spanked
by
a
neighbor
lady
for
playing
with
matches
.
He
had
gone
out
and
hurled
a
rock
at
a
passing
car
.
His
father
had
seen
that
,
and
he
had
descended
on
little
Jacky
,
roaring
.
He
had
reddened
Jack
’
s
behind
…
and
then
blacked
his
eye
.
And
when
his
father
had
gone
into
the
house
,
muttering
,
to
see
what
was
on
television
,
Jack
had
come
upon
a
stray
dog
and
had
kicked
it
into
the
gutter
.
There
had
been
two
dozen
fights
in
grammar
school
,
even
more
of
them
in
high
school
,
warranting
two
suspensions
and
uncounted
detentions
in
spite
of
his
good
grades
.
Football
had
provided
a
partial
safety
valve
,
although
he
remembered
perfectly
well
that
he
had
spent
almost
every
minute
of
every
game
in
a
state
of
high
piss
-
off
,
taking
every
opposing
block
and
tackle
personally
.
