It

grin of the myth-hero. The bench which had been sheared in two was whole and intact, thank you very much. The gravel where Tall Paul (He’s –a my all, A n n e t t e F u n i c e l l o s a n g m a n i a c a l l y i n Richie’s head) had planted his huge foot was raked and immaculate except for the scuffed spot where Richie had fallen off while he was
(getting away from the giant)
dreaming. There was no footprint, no axe-slash in the concrete. There was nothing here but a boy who had been chased by other boys, bigger boys, and so had had himself a very small (but ve ry potent) dream about a homicidal Colossus . . . the Giant Economy-Size Henry Bowers, if you pleased.
‘Shit,’ Richie said in a tiny wavering voice, and then uttered an uncertain laugh.
He stood there awhile longer, waiting to see if the statue would move again — perhaps wink, perhaps shift its axe from one shoulder to the other, perhaps come down and have at him again. But of course none of those things happened.
Of course.
What, me worry? Har-de-har-har –har.
A doze. A dream. No more than that.
But, as Abraham Lincoln or Socrates or someone like that had once observed, enough was enough. It was time to go home and cool out; to make like Kookie on 77 Sunset Strip and just lay chilly.
And although it would have been quicker to cut through the City Center grounds, he decided not to. He didn’t want to get close to that statue again. So he had gone the long way around and by that evening he had nearly forgotten the incident.
Until now.
Here sits a man, he thought, here sits a man dressed in a mossy-green sportcoat purchased at one of the best shops on Rodeo Drive; here sits a man with Bass Weejuns on his feet and Calvin Klein underwear to cover his ass; here sits a man with soft contact lenses resting easily on his eyes; here sits a man remembering the dream of a boy who thought an Ivy League shin with a fruit-loop on the back and a pair of Snap Jack shoes was the height of fashion; here sits a grownup looking at the same old statue, and hey, Paul, Tall Paul, I’m here to say you’r e the same in every way, you ain’t aged a motherfucking day.
The old explanation still rang true in his mind: a dream.
He supposed he could believe in monsters if he had to; monsters were no big deal. Hadn’t he sat in radio studios at one time or another reading news copy about such fellows as Idi Amin Dada and Jim Jones and that guy who had blown away all those folks in a McDonald’s just down the road apiece? Shitfire and save matches, monsters were cheap! Who needed a five –buck movie ticket when you could read about them in the paper for thirty-five cents or hear about them on the radio for free? And he supposed if he could believe in the Jim Jones variety, he could believe in Mike Hanlon’s version, at least for awhile; It even had Its own sorry charm, because It came from Outside and no one had to claim responsibility for It. He could believe in a monster that had as many faces as there are rubber masks in a novelty shop (if you’re gonna have one, you might as well have a pack of em, he thought, cheaper by the dozen, right, gang?), at least for the sake of argument . . . but a thirty-foot-high plastic statue that stepped off its pedestal and then tried to carve you up with its plastic axe? That was just a little too ripe. As Abraham Lincoln or Socrates or someone had also said, I’ll eat fish and I’ll eat meat, but there is some shit I will not eat. It just wasn’t —
That sharp needling pain struck his eyes again, without warning jerking a dismayed cry from him. This was the worst yet, going deeper and lasting longer, scaring the bejesus out of him. He clapped his hands to his eyes and then groped instinctively for the bottom lids with his forefingers, meaning to pop his contacts out. It’s maybe some kind of infection, he thoughtdimly. But Jesus it hurts!
He pulled the lids down and was ready to give