Last May, I traveled to Bangor, Maine, Stephen King's hometown. The result of the trip was an article in Writing magazine's October issue (check out our exclusive King interview). This is the last of my journal entries, however I will be posting a few other King related goodies as Halloween draws near.

May 12, 2005
8:35 p.m.

Here we are in mid-May. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, and everyone is comfortable in the warm evening spring weather. Oh wait... we're in Maine.

It's cold, son. It's dang cold.

I just got back from a baseball game. I went to Trevor Mansfield Park to watch Bangor High take on Hampden. By the end of the Star Spangled Banner (which was pumped out over the loudspeakers all around the field), the wind was blowing hard and frigid causing many teeth to chatter. Of course... the numbing noise was coming from my mouth only as the rest of the fans were nestled under wool blankets, drinking hot cocoa from their mittened hands, and rooting for the home team through multi-layered scarves. They expect this kind of weather, they come prepared. They are the locals.

As Bangor took the field, I realized that I was freezing. I looked up past the stadium lights in right field and could vaguely make out Stephen King's chimney through the trees (the volunteer groundskeeper had pointed it out yesterday). There was no smoke billowing out from the top but still it looked warm. I thought about Mr. King inside, enjoying the warmth of his house with Tabitha, just two people like any other two people in the world who love each other. No big deal. Back to the game.

After two innings, the score was tied at 1. I would have loved to stay for the whole game but I was quickly turning into a popsicle and people were beginning to wonder about who the poor underdressed moron was and where his keepers had got to. Well, they probably weren't thinking that, but I was. It was hard to enjoy the game when all you can think about is sticking your toesies in a bonfire. So I left.

On the way out, I looked back at everyone in the stands. Some of them were high school kids, some of them were parents, some of them were townsfolk out in the brisk evening to support their hometown team. It's possible that the King of Horror was spinning his latest tale just a few hundred yards away... but no one was thinking about that. If he showed up among them, they wouldn't gush or prattle on and on about how The Stand was "honest to God the bestest book I ever read in my whole entire life!" They would just welcome him like any other Bangorian and perhaps, from time to time, join him in chiding the ump on a questionable call. True, everyone knows that Stephen King is STEPHEN KING!!! It's a fact that must cross their minds from time to time. But what I've learned in my three day excursion to this once ago lumber port, is that he's also just another face in the crowd. He just happens to have an unmistakable face, a charitable face, a face lined with decades of scary stories that can turn a reader's blood ice cold.

Here in Bangor, they're used to the chill. It keeps them warm.

So here I am, back in my hotel room, sad to be leaving tomorrow but happy I came. I met a lot of genuine people and heard a lot of great stories. I was a little disappointed yesterday when I realized that I wasn't going to meet The Man face to face. But today I'm OK with it. I've been walking the King beat for three days now and I feel like I have a much greater appreciation for him than I did before. In all those years reading him as a kid, as a young adult, as a... well... whatever I am now... In all those years, I pictured the man behind the words as some kind of phantom--a ghost character of his own creation. As it turns out, he's just the guy down the street with the wicked cool day job.