If It Bleeds

AUTHOR’S NOTE

When my mom or one of my four aunties happened to see a lady pushing a pram, they were apt to chant something they probably learned from their mother: “Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the nowhere and into the here.” I sometimes think of that bit of doggerel when I’m asked where I got the idea for this or that story. I often don’t know the answer, which makes me embarrassed and a little ashamed. (Some childhood complex at work there, no doubt.) Sometimes I give the honest answer (“No idea!”), but on other occasions I just make up some bullshit, thus satisfying my questioner with a semi-rational explanation of cause and effect. Here, I will try to be honest. (Of course that’s what I would say, isn’t it?)

As a kid, I may have seen some movie—likely one of the American-International horror flicks my friend Chris Chesley and I used to hitchhike to see at the Ritz in Lewiston—about a guy so afraid of being buried alive that he had a phone put in his crypt. Or it might have been an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Anyway, the idea resonated in my over-imaginative child’s mind: the thought of a phone ringing in a place of the dead. Years later, after a close friend died unexpectedly, I called his cell phone just to hear his voice one more time. Instead of comforting me, it gave me the creeps. I never did it again, but that call, added to the childhood memory of that movie or TV show, was the seed for “Mr. Harrigan’s Phone.”

Stories go where they want to, and the real fun of this one—for me—was returning to a time when cell phones in general and the iPhone in particular were brand new, and all their ramifications barely glimpsed. In the course of my researches, my IT guy, Jake Lockwood, bought a first-gen iPhone on eBay and got it working. It’s nearby as I write. (I have to keep it plugged in, because somewhere along the way someone dropped it and busted the on/off switch.) I can go on the Internet with it, I can get stock reports and the weather. I just can’t make calls, because it’s 2G, and that technology is as dead as the Betamax VCR.

I have no idea where “The Life of Chuck” came from. All I know is one day I thought of a billboard with that “Thanks, Chuck!” line on it, along with the guy’s photo and 39 GREAT YEARS. I think I wrote the story to find out what that billboard was about, but I’m not even sure of that. What I can say is that I’ve always felt that each one of us—from the kings and princes of the realm to the guys who wash dishes at Waffle House and the gals who change beds in turnpike motels—contains the whole world.

While staying in Boston, I happened to see a guy playing the drums on Boylston Street. People were passing him with hardly a glance, and the basket in front of him (not a Magic Hat) was mighty low on contributions. I wondered what would happen if someone, a Mr. Businessman type, for instance, stopped and began to dance, sort of like Christopher Walken in that brilliant Fatboy Slim video, “Weapon of Choice.” The connection to Chuck Krantz—a Mr. Businessman type if ever there was one—was natural. I put him into the story and let him dance. I love dancing, the way it frees a person’s heart and soul, and writing the story was a joy.

Having written two stories about Chuck, I wanted to write a third one that would knit all three into a unified narrative. “I Contain Multitudes” was written a year after the first two. Whether or not the three acts—presented in reverse order, like a film running backwards—succeed will be up to readers to determine.

Let me jump ahead to “Rat.” I have absolutely no clue where this story came from. All I know is that it felt like a malign fairy tale to me, and it gave me a chance to write a little bit about the mysteries of the imagination, and how that translates to the page. I should add that the Jonathan Franzen lecture Drew refers to is fictional.

Last but hardly least: “If It Bleeds.” The basis of this story existed in my mind for at least ten years. I began to notice that certain TV news correspondents seem always to appear at the scenes of horrific tragedies: plane crashes, mass shootings, terrorist attacks, celebrity deaths. These stories almost always head local and national news; everyone in the biz knows the axiom “If it bleeds, it leads.” The story remained unwritten because someone had to catch the trail of the supernatural being masquerading as a TV news correspondent and living on the blood of innocents. I couldn’t figure out who that someone might be. Then, in November of 2018, I realized the answer had been staring me in the face all along: Holly Gibney, of course.

I love Holly. It’s as simple as that. She was supposed to be a minor character in Mr. Mercedes, no more than a quirky walk-on. Instead, she stole my heart (and almost stole the book). I’m always curious about what she’s doing and how she’s getting along. When I go back to her, I’m relieved to find she’s still taking her Lexapro and still not smoking. I was also curious, frankly, about the circumstances that made her what she is, and thought I could explore that a little… as long as it added to the story, that is. This is Holly’s first solo outing, and I hope I did it justice. Particular thanks to elevator expert Alan Wilson, who walked me through the way modern computerized elevators work, and the things that can go wrong with them. Obviously I took his info and (ahem) embellished it, so if you know this stuff and think I got it wrong, blame me—and the needs of my story—rather than him.

The late Russ Dorr worked with me on “Mr. Harrigan’s Phone.” It was our last collaboration, and how I miss him. Thanks are due to Chuck Verrill, my agent (who particularly enjoyed “Rat”), and my whole Scribner team, including (but not limited to) Nan Graham, Susan Moldow, Roz Lippel, Katie Rizzo, Jaya Miceli, Katherine Monaghan, and Carolyn Reidy. Thanks to Chris Lotts, my foreign rights agent, and Rand Holston, from the Paradigm Agency in LA. He does movies and TV stuff. Big thanks also—and big love—to my kids, my grandkids, and my wife, Tabitha. I love you, honey.

Last but not least, thank you, Constant Reader, for coming with me again.