It

remembered his childhood here as a fearful, nervous time . . . not only because of the summer of ’58, when the seven of them had faced the terror, but because of George’s death, the deep dream his parents seemed to have fallen into following that death, the constant ragging about his stutter, Bowers and Huggins and Criss constantly on the prod for them after the rockfight in the Barrens
(Bowers and Huggins and Criss, oh my! Bowers and Huggins and Criss, oh my!)
and just a feeling that Derry was cold, that Derry was hard, that Derry didn’t much give a shit if any of them lived or died, and certainly not if they triumphed over Pennywise the Clown. Derry folk had lived with Pennywise in all his guises for a long time . . . and maybe, in some mad way, they had even come to understand him. To like him, need him. Love him? Maybe. Yes, maybe that too.
So why this dismay?
Perhaps only because it seemed such dull change, somehow. Or perhaps because Derry seemed to have lost its essential face for him.
The Bijou Theater was gone, replaced with a parking lot (BY PERMIT ONLY, the sign over the ramp announced; VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO TOW). The Shoeboat and Bailley’s Lunch, which had stood next to it, were also gone. They had been replaced by a branch of the Northern National Bank. A digital readout jutted from the front of the bland cinderblock structure, showing the time and the temperature — the latter in both degrees Fahrenheit and degrees Celsius. The Center Street Drug, lair of Mr Keene and the place where Bill had gotten Eddie his asthma medicine that day, was also gone. Richard’s Alley had become some strange hybrid called a ‘mini-mall.’ Looking inside as the cab idled at a stoplight, Bill could see a record shop, a natural-foods store, and a toys-and –games shop which was featuring a clearance sale on ALL DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS SUPPLIES.
The cab pulled forward with a jerk. ‘Gonna take awhile,’ the driver said. ‘I wish all these goddam banks would stagger their lunch-hours. Pardon my French if you’re a religious man.’
‘That’s all right,’ Bill said. It was overcast outside, and no w a few splatters of rain hit the cab’s windshield. The radio muttered about an escaped mental patient from somewhere who was supposed to be very dangerous, and then began muttering about the Red Sox who weren’t. Showers early, then clearing. When Barry Manilow began moaning about Mandy, who came and who gave without taking, the cabbie snapped the radio off. Bill asked, ‘When did they go up?’
‘What? The banks?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Oh, late sixties, early seb’nies, most of em,’ the cabbie said. He was a big man with a thick neck. He wore a red-and –black-checked hunter’s jacket. A fluorescent-orange cap was jammed down squarely on his head. It was smudged with engine-oil. ‘They got this urban-renewal money. Reb ‘nue Sharin, they call it. So how they shared it was rip down everythin. And the banks come in. I guess that was all that could afford to come in. Hell of a note, ain’t it? Urban renewal, says they. Shit for dinner, says I. Pardon my French if you’re a religious man. There was a lot of talk about how they was gonna revitalize the downtown. Ayup, they revitalized it just fine. Tore down most the old stores and put up a lot of banks and parking lots. And you know you still can’t find a fucking slot to park your car in. Ought to string the whole City Council up by their cocks. Except for that Polock woman that’s on it. String her up by her tits. On second thought, it don’t seem like she’s got any. Flat as a fuckin board. Pardon my French if you’re a religious man.’
‘I am,’ Bill said, grinning.
‘Then get outta my cab and go to fucking church,’ the cabbie said, and they both burst out laughing.
‘You lived here long?’ Bill asked.
‘My whole life. Born in Derry Home Hospital, and they’ll bury my fuckin remains out in Mount Hope Cemetery.’
‘Good deal,’ Bill said.
‘Yeah, right,’ the cabbie said. He hawked, rolled down his window, and spat an extremely large yellow-green lunger into the rainy air. His attitude, contradictory but somehow attractive — almost piquant — was one of glum good cheer. ‘Guy who catches that won’t have to buy no fuckin chewing gum for a week. Pardon my French if you’re a religious man.’
‘It hasn’t all changed,’ Bill said. The depressing promenade of banks and parking lots was slipping behind them as they climbed Center Street. Over the hill and past the First National, they began to pick up some speed. ‘The Aladdin’s still there.’
‘Yeah,’ the cabbie conceded. ‘But just barely. Suckers tried to tear that down, too.’
‘For another bank?’ Bill asked, a pan of h im amused to find