The Shining

if you can’t control that. Law isn’t like soccer. Two hours of practice every night won’t cut it. What are you going to do, stand up in front of a board meeting and say, `Nuh-nuh-now, g-gentlemen, about this t-ttort’?”
He suddenly flushed, not with anger but with shame at his own cruelty. This was not a man in front of him but a seventeen-year-old boy who was facing the first major defeat of his life, and maybe asking in the only way he could for Jack to help him find a way to cope with it.
George gave him a final, furious glance, his lips twisting and bucking as the words bottled up behind them struggled to find their way out.
“Yuh-yuh-you s-s-set it aheadl You huh-hate me b-because you nuh-nuh-nuh-know… you know… nuh-nuh-”
With an articulate cry he had rushed out of the classroom, slamming the door hard enough to make the wire-reinforced glass rattle in its frame. Jack had stood there, feeling, rather than hearing, the echo of George’s Adidas in the empty hall. Still in the grip of his temper and his shame at mocking George’s stutter, his first thought had been a sick sort of exultation: For the first time in his life George Hatfield had wanted something he could not have. For the first time there was something wrong that all of Daddy’s money could not fix. You couldn’t bribe a speech center. You couldn’t offer a tongue an extra fifty a week and a bonus at Christmas if it would agree to stop flapping like a record needle in a defective groove. Then the exultation was simply buried in shame, and he felt the way he had after he had broken Danny’s arm.
Dear God, I am not a son of a bitch. Please.
That sick happiness at George’s retreat was more typical of Denker in the play than of Jack Torrance the playwright.
You hate me because you know…
Because he knew what?
What could he possibly know about George Hatfield that would make him hate him? That his whole future lay ahead of him? That he looked a little bit like Robert Redford and all conversation among the girls stopped when he did a double gainer from the pool diving board? That he played soccer and baseball with a natural, unlearned grace?
Ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. He envied George Hatfield nothing. If the truth was known, he felt worse about George’s unfortunate stutter than George himself, because George really would have made an excellent debater. And if Jack had set the timer ahead-and of course he hadn’t-it would have been because both he and the other members of the squad were embarrassed for George’s struggle, they had agonized over it the way you agonize when the Class Night speaker forgets some of his lines. If he had set the timer ahead, it would have been just to… to put George out of his misery.
But he hadn’t set the timer ahead. He was quite sure of it.
A week later he had cut him, and that time he had kept his temper. The shouts and the threats had all been on George’s side. A week after that he had gone out to the parking lot halfway through practice to get a pile of sourcebooks that he had left in the trunk of the VW and there had been George, down on one knee with his long blond hair swinging in his face, a hunting knife in one hand. He was sawing through the VW’s right front tire. The back tires were already shredded, and the bug sat on the fiats like a small, tired dog.
Jack had seen red, and remembered very little of the encounter that followed. He remembered a thick growl that seemed to issue from his own throat: “All right, George. If that’s how you want it, just come here and take your medicine.”
He remembered George looking up, startled and fearful. He had said: “Mr. Torrance-” as if to explain how all this was just a mistake, the tires had been flat when he got there and he was just cleaning dirt out of the front treads with the
tip of this gutting knife he just happened to have with him and-
Jack had waded in, his fists held up in front of him, and it seemed that he had been grinning. But he wasn’t sure of that.
The last thing be remembered was George holding up the knife and saying: “You better not come any closer-”
And the next thing was Miss Strong, the French teacher, holding Jack’s arms, crying, screaming: “Stop it, Jack! Stop it! You’re going to kill him!”
He had blinked around stupidly. There was the hunting knife, glittering harmlessly on the parking lot asphalt four yards away. There was his Volkswagen, his poor old battered bug, veteran of many wild midnight drunken rides, sitting on three fiat shoes. There was a new dent in the right front fender, he saw, and there was something in the middle of the dent that was either red paint or blood. For a moment he had been confused, his thoughts
(jesus christ al we hit him after all)
of that other night. Then his eyes had shifted to