He was absolutely the most suave man anybody had ever met. Dressed all in black, with a silver bottle opener tucked neatly into his faux-leather belt, the bartender made his rounds, checking on customers as if each were the only one in the place. It was quiet, for a Thursday night, but he would not let one drink go empty, one pretty girl's cigarette go unlit. He walked with a slight swagger and spoke in smooth, one or two word phrases like, "Oh yeah?" (with a mischeivous smile) or "Nice," used to punctuate a funny story. Sometimes he would wink after that one. "Niiiicceee." Wink. That's how you get the girls. The above is a hopeful description - as in one I'm sure the actual bartender in question might have hoped for. He would see no tinge of sarcasm in this description. In fact, to make fun of this bartender to the point where he noticed it would, I'm sure, bring about pain too harsh for me to even think about. The strange thing is, I like this guy.

Last night after a few beers a friend and I decided it was time for a glass of wine, and an inevitable headache the next day (which did, on schedule, arrive). We chose the aptly named "Pub" for its charming decor. Christmas lights hang outside around a plastic covered dining area. The inside is smoky and "mysterious" with a bar surrounded by several tables and booths. On our only other trip to this pub my friend and I had planted ourselves at the bar right about where we ended up last night.

Again, the conversation with friendly strangers was effortless. We talked about fishing with our new best friend to the right, a gentleman who inspired the subject when he produced a picture of himself with a monstrous fish he had caught. To the group in back of us, more our age, the conversation was one of casual shouts more than anything really meaningful. "Drink!" "Woo!" Stuff like that.

My friend and I, experts in the art of baring our innermost thoughts and worries when out together, interspersed our deep dialouge with observations of our magical surroundings. Fake pine-tree vines climbed about the bar and over liquor bottles. "Is it Christmas?" I asked the bartender, probably one too many times - two times, being too many.

The bartender laughed though. His nonchalance about the place brutally clear; he made it so. The food? Not so good. The crowd? Pretty tame tonight. The red wine? May have been uncorked several weeks ago. His mission was clear. This was an ultra hip bartender in a mediocre bar - or at least, this was the persona being thrown in my face - "thrown," of course, in an extremely subtle way. This was his way.

He had an act. He had his black shirt tucked in neatly and his hair styled. He really did look after his customers, the bartender, and although he mentioned several times that this was an unusually small crowd, I got the feeling he liked it that way.

But I liked him. I liked this bartender because he made me feel cool. He made me feel like my friend and I, having our late night glass of red wine and deep, neverending talks, were special. He made me feel justified in making fun of the Christmas decorations in August. He made me feel like I could just go this bar alone, sit, and spill my worries, because that was his job - to listen - as the bartender.

I probably won't do that.

The last time my friend visited this particular "Pub" the bartender was a different sort. He was wearing safety goggles and encouraging us to attend '80's night. When we inquired about this other bartender and the famed "'80's night" to Mr. Suave, he scoffed at his competing co-worker, muttering something like, "Sure, he's always got some crazy thing going on..."

For last night there was no talk of Dixie's Midnight Runners or The Cars. Last night was about a mysterious man all in black who provided us with a hip attitude in a Christmas-decorated pub in a strip mall, a chance to talk, and red wine that had been opened for the least amount of time.

Dear Mr. King, It is with great regret that I write to inform you I will no longer be reading any of your acclaimed works. This is made all the more regrettable as I have only read one of your books in the first place.

My recent experience with _The Stand_ left me restless, unproductive, and angry. Please let me explain.

It was with excitement that my boyfriend handed me the book, even after my proclamation that I did not like books about "horror and magic" etc. "This one's not like that," he said.

I began my experience enjoyably enough. I've always had a soft spot for incurable life destroying illnesses that produce large amounts of bodily fluids aptly described by an author or witness. Each time someone around me would cough or sneeze, I'd mutter "Captain Trips?" under my breath, sharing a delightful little private joke with myself.

The first inklings of my personal horror were innocent-seeming. I started wondering, from time to time, what I would do should the world be suddenly unpopulated, only a few souls to cling to, and rotting corpses all around me. I dreamt about it, sure, but the thought did not take over my regular lifestyle. Not yet.

I had a free weekend. Here in North Carolina, the summer days are filled with excellent activities such as cocktail drinking, swimming in the pool and taking leisurely walks. But I decided to stay indoors, all weekend, and read your book. Did I mention it was the unabridged version? Thank you so much for rereleasing that monster with so many additional pages of utter despair and completely dense paragraphs. And come to think of it, perhaps I should reword my above sentence, "decided to stay indoors." It was not a decision, but a mandatory demand placed upon me by my own, wearily addicted brain.

It was not long into my weekend-long reading frenzy that I started to actually physically worry about Frannie's baby. I drifted in and out of sleep on the couch in our living room (my night's sleeping disturbed, now, by thoughts concerning the future of the human race).

Harold Lauder danced through my fitful naps. If only he had tried a bit harder. The "dark man" sat upon my chest, asking, over and over again, why not choose the devil? And I endlessly compared Mother Abigail to a real 113 year-old woman I had recently met who remarkably fit her description. Had I met a messiah and let the experience slip through my fingers? I didn't know anymore. My dreams were filled with questions I could not answer. What would I do? Who would I choose? How would I deal? How much grief can be forced upon one society?

There were more uplifting sections, of course. I enjoyed greatly Glen's sarcastic wit. The dog, Kojak, was a phenomenal creature, and I projected Kojak-like expectations on my own pets. If I were dying, slowly, in the wilderness, would you bring me a dead rabbit, and wood to build a fire? Their answers were blank, questioning stares. More pertinently, I'm sure they were thinking, why have you not fed or walked us? Maybe you should get off the damn couch?

Characters in the book starting wetting their pants or puking on what seemed like every other page. Other worldly occurrences began to take place. Mixed in with the cast of every day Americans, there was now a hint of what I commonly think of when I hear your name, Mr. King. Good and Evil. Randall Flagg smiles and birds drop dead off telephone wires.

I finished the novel Sunday evening. I was left tired and questioning. Things never change, do they? The policemen want to be armed. Humans make the same mistakes again and again. And I still couldn't get out of my head the image of a United States covered with rotting corpses. Larry Underwood and the tunnel scene. I had to make myself answer the question...would I have been able to do it? Would I have been able to walk through that dark space of death?

I suppose this is the problem. Somehow, with your talent, you got me too involved. I knew a little too much about the situation to deem it imaginary. And so, I believed and had to face the possibility myself.

It was only upon reading the last words that I was able to free myself from the grasp of _The Stand_. And even that night there were a few more dreams. But upon entering my house from the porch, after thankfully closing the book forever, I found my boyfriend getting ready for dinner. We ate real food (not sustenance from cans due to an electricty shortage brought on by a rapidly spreading lethal disease). Neighbors and their children walked through the streets. This is my world.

The characters in your novel faced a great adventure and learned about themselves and the human race while they were at it. I'm glad I had you, and them, to describe it to me and take over my every waking thought for several days. But I'm glad to be back. I like my hairdryer. I like my shelter from the winter snow. The doctor's office.

Am I grateful for the experience? Somewhat. But I'm taking a break, for good if I can, from your wonderful writing, Mr. King. You have enough readers as it is, and apparently my imagination can't handle so realistic a portrayal of destruction and redemption through holy signs.

Don't get me wrong. You have my admiration - absolutely. We just see things differently. If I want pessimistic philsophy in the future, I think I'll just pick up some Nietzsche. I'll probably nod off quickly after doing so, and enjoy deep, dreamless sleep.

One more thought - I know you are from Maine and include the state in many of your works, including _The Stand_. My family and I have always chosen the Maine coast as a vacation destination. Now, when passing through the quaint towns, I will probably look beyond the seagulls and ice cream stands, the wild blueberries, and thriving wilderness, to a deeper, darker remembrance of ghastly and demonic plague-inflicted death. Thank you for that.

Respectfully yours,

Cara Maria Rotondaro