“May I have your attention, hey!”
the Delta guy called.
“How long’s the delay gonna be?”
Credit: Shane Leonard; Scribner
“Don’t sugarcoat it.”
A collective groan went up, and Tim saw several people unlimber their cell phones in case of trouble.
There had been trouble in these situations before.
Someone said, “Just shoot me.”
The functionary continued, undeterred.
“You’ll be given a hotel voucher for tonight, plus four hundred dollars.
It’s a good deal, folks.
Who wants it?”
He had no takers.
The security blond said nothing, only surveyed the crowded economy class cabin with all-seeing but somehow lifeless eyes.
“Eight hundred,” the Delta guy said.
“Plus the hotel voucher and the complimentary ticket.”
There were still no takers.
“Fourteen hundred?”
Tim found this interesting but not entirely surprising.
It wasn’t just because a 6:45 flight meant getting up before God, either.
This sally provoked laughter.
It didn’t sound terribly friendly.
She just continued her survey, nothing moving but her eyes.
He sighed and said, “Sixteen hundred.”
Tim Jamieson suddenly decided he wanted to get the fuck off this plane and hitchhike north.
There he was, standing on Highway 301 somewhere in the middle of Hernando County with his thumb out.
The best part wouldn’t even be the cash money in his pocket.
The second-best part, however, would be squeezing the government tit for a few dollars more.
There he paid the driver, strolled to the nearest 301-N sign, and stuck out his thumb.
Fifteen minutes later he was picked up by an old guy in a Case gimme cap.
“Where you headed, friend?”
the old guy asked.
“Well,” Tim said, “New York, eventually.
The old guy spat a ribbon of tobacco juice out the window.
“Now why would any man in his right mind want to go there?”
He pronounced itraht mahnd.
“I’m just hoping to get to Georgia tonight.
Maybe I’ll like that better.”
“Now you’re talking,” the old guy said.
“Georgia ain’t bad, specially if you like peaches.
They gi' me the backdoor trots.
You don’t mind some music, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“Got to warn you, I play it loud.
I’m a little on the deef side.”
“I’m just happy to be riding.”
It was Waylon Jennings instead of REO Speedwagon, but that was okay with Tim.
Waylon was followed by Shooter Jennings and Marty Stuart.
The two men in the mud-streaked Dodge Ram listened and watched the highway roll.
He didn’t need the money, but it seemed to Tim that he needed the time.
He was in transition, and that didn’t happen overnight.
Also, there was a bowling alley with a Denny’s right next door.
Hard to beat a combo like that.
From THE INSTITUTE by Stephen King.
Copyright c 2019 by Stephen King.
Reprinted by permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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