dkrc Chapter 90 Small Town Test-Takers
Chapter 90 Small Town Test-Takers
Chapter 90 Small Town Test-Takers
Saturday, August 3, 1973.
Bangor International Airport, Maine.
The greyish-white sky hung low, and a fierce wind whipped up snowflakes like goose feathers, painting everything in the world a bleak white.
A Pan Am Boeing 727 pierced through thick clouds and, swept by strong air currents, swooped down toward the runway.
Inside the cabin, Sylvester Stallone gripped the armrests tightly.
His face, which had remained unfazed even when he was beaten black and blue, now looked pale and sickly.
As the landing gear slammed into the ground, the massive fuselage jolted violently, and he felt his stomach churn up.
"God—" He unbuckled his seatbelt and let out a long sigh, as if he had just finished a boxing match that went the full fifteen rounds: "This thing is way more uncomfortable than riding a motorcycle."
George, sitting next to him, was a completely different person.
The boy, who came from the slums of Los Angeles, pressed his face against the porthole, watching the snow rushing past outside, his eyes filled with excitement.
"Sly! That's so cool! We're really flying!" He turned his head, flashing a set of white teeth. "I wish we could stay flying forever!"
Sylvester Stallone chuckled wryly, ruffled the boy's hair, and picked up the duffel bag at his feet: "Let's go, kid. I still prefer this down-to-earth feeling."
As the two followed the flow of people out of the covered bridge, a biting gust of cold wind instantly pierced through their thick coats, making them shiver involuntarily.
Stallone turned up his collar, hunched his neck, and looked at the snowflakes dancing in the air. The phone call from two days ago involuntarily came to mind.
"They're lucky to be alive," he said to George beside him, waving for a taxi. "An emergency landing at sea is so dangerous!"
George nodded vigorously, his tone filled with admiration: "Of course! My sister said everyone was terrified, but Mr. Qin remained calm and provided the captain with the necessary information, which saved everyone!"
"Yeah, right—" Stallone grinned, exhaling a puff of white breath: "God will surely bless a good man like Qin."
An old yellow taxi pulled up in front of them. Stallone opened the door, shoved George inside first, and then climbed into the back seat himself.
"To the General Union of Communities," he told the driver.
The car started, and the tires crunched over the snow.
"We need to hurry. I boarded Brooks at the pet store before I left, but he doesn't seem to like it there. If we get back late, he might tear down his cage."
Half an hour later, the taxi stopped in front of a red brick building in downtown Bangor.
This is the headquarters of various labor unions in Maine. The lobby is very warm, even a bit stuffy.
As soon as I entered, I heard several staff members gathered at the front desk, holding a newspaper and chatting animatedly.
"See? I told you that Parker is a vampire!" A plump female employee pointed to a photo in the newspaper, which showed Colonel Parker being arrested in Memphis.
"Serves him right! When I saw him being taken away on TV, his fat face was trembling!" another bespectacled man said gloatingly. "Our welfare group really hit the jackpot this time; not only did we get to listen to Elvis, but we also witnessed history!"
Stallone and George exchanged a glance, both seeing a hint of a smile in each other's eyes.
The two men stepped forward and gently knocked on the counter: "Excuse me, everyone."
Several employees turned around and, upon seeing the burly man with a bear-like physique, immediately stopped chatting.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" The plump female employee pushed up her glasses, adopting a businesslike demeanor.
"We're here to find someone." Stallone gave a harmless smile, but there was still a hint of intimidation in his expression. "Could you help me find out about a teacher who attended the concert back then?"
"name?"
"His name was Stephen, his full name—I don't know either," Stallone recalled that night.
Upon hearing the name, the previously enthusiastic employees wore strange expressions.
The bespectacled man pulled a thin roster from the pile of documents, flipped through a few pages, and his finger stopped at a corner: "Stephen King—what do you want with him?"
"He's notorious in the union." He closed the roster, a sneer playing on his lips. "Despite having a college degree, he's a complete freak."
"I have absolutely no idea how to interact with people. I was fired from several jobs because of my personality."
The plump female employee next to him chimed in, "He's currently working part-time as an English teacher at Hampden High School near Bangor. But I heard he's not doing too well there."
"The students don't like his classes; they think he's gloomy. And—"
She spoke as if sharing some incredible gossip: "This guy is a bit of a slacker. He takes a meager salary, doesn't prepare his lessons properly, and spends all his time writing weird horror stories and submitting them to various publishers. And what's the result? Nobody wants his manuscripts."
"Yeah, I really don't know how his wife puts up with it." The bespectacled man shook his head. "Tabitha is a good woman. To support the family, she works part-time at three laundromats, her hands are all raw from washing clothes. If they were on Stephen's meager salary, they would have starved to death long ago."
Hearing these malicious comments, Stallone felt a pang of shared sorrow and sympathy.
He had experienced this feeling of being looked down upon by everyone and trampled underfoot by life far too many times in Hell's Kitchen.
If I hadn't met Qin Han, I'd probably be just like this Stephen now, a good-for-nothing who only knows how to daydream.
"Do you know where he lives now?" Stallone interrupted the employees' sarcastic remarks.
"Where do they live?" The bespectacled man scoffed. "He doesn't have a fixed address. He can't afford to buy a house, he can't afford to rent an apartment. The couple lives in a beat-up secondhand trailer."
He scribbled a rough location on a sticky note: "It's near the woods by Hampden High School. Just follow the road; the trailer is very conspicuous."
Stallone took the note, looked at the few scrawled words, and smiled, "Thanks."
Before leaving, he turned around and said to the group of staff, "By the way, we are the ones who are preparing to publish his book."
After leaving the city, the two boarded a bus bound for the outskirts of Bangor.
The car was very old; the shock absorbers had probably been broken for many years, and every bump made it feel like the car's frame was about to fall apart.
The sky outside the window gradually darkened, and the snow was still falling, turning the coniferous forests on both sides of the road into a deathly gray-white.
They drove all the way to Hermon, an inconspicuous little town, before finally getting out of the car, albeit unsteadily.
By the time I arrived at Hampden High School, night had completely fallen.
The cold wind howled through the woods, making a mournful sound.
"Brother Sly, is that it?" George, with his sharp eyes, pointed to a clearing at the edge of the woods.
In the dim moonlight, a trailer truck could be vaguely seen parked there all alone.
The car body was mottled, and a faint, warm yellow light shone from the windows, as if it might be swallowed up by the long winter night at any moment.
Stallone led George over and stood in front of the flimsy iron door, raising his hand to knock.
"Knock knock knock".
A series of light footsteps came from inside the house, followed by a man's wary voice: "Who's there?"
"They came all the way from Memphis to deliver tacos," Stallone joked.
The door creaked open a crack.
Stephen King was wearing thick glasses, his hair was a mess like a bird's nest, he was wrapped in an old, pilling sweater, and he was holding a pen in his hand.
When his gaze fell on Stallone's highly recognizable face, his mouth dropped open, and he was instantly stunned.
He flung open the door, his face contorted with disbelief: "It's you? That guy—that one with the dog—"
"Hello, author," Stallone said with a smile, extending his hand. "Won't you invite us in? It's really cold outside."
Stephen then realized what was happening and quickly stepped aside, saying, "Quick! Please come in! Tabitha! We have a guest!"
The trailer was cramped and filled with books and manuscripts. A petite woman came out from the inner room, carrying an unfinished sweater.
Upon seeing Stallone, Tabitha exclaimed in surprise, "My God! You are—that gentleman from the Taco store?"
'
"It's me, Sylvester Stallone, and this is George." Stallone stood somewhat awkwardly in the small living room; he was so tall that it felt like his head was almost touching the roof of the car.
"Sit wherever you like, don't be shy—though there's not much to sit here anyway." Stephen hurriedly tidied up the books on the sofa. "I'll go boil some water."
A few minutes later, the four of them sat around a small round table.
There was no coffee, no tea, only four cups of steaming hot water.
Looking at the burly man he'd met by chance in Memphis, he couldn't help but ask, "How did you find your way here? I mean—Maine isn't small."
"There's always a way if you're determined to find it." Stallone took a sip of hot water to dispel the chill.
'
Do you remember what I told you in Memphis?
Stephen nodded. "I remember. You said life isn't about how hard you punch, but how hard you can take and still keep going."
"I've always kept those words in mind." He pointed to a thick stack of manuscripts on the corner of the table: "After I came back, I picked up that girl's story again."
Tabitha held her husband's hand, a gentle smile on her face: "He's been writing very well these past few days; I think this is the best story he's ever written."
"That's good." Stallone smiled and pulled a business card from his pocket—it was from HanStudio.
The newly printed business cards have Qin Han's name and his contact information in Los Angeles on them.
"I came here on behalf of our boss."
"Boss?" Stephen picked up the business card and looked at the words "Qin Han" on it.
"That's right, the line I'm giving you is one he taught me." Stallone pointed to himself: "I told him the story of how we met in Memphis."
"He is very interested in you, or rather, in the story you are writing."
Stephen's hands began to tremble: "You mean—Hollywood producers are interested in my novel?"
"It's not just about being interested." Stallone looked at the couple who supported each other despite their poverty and said earnestly, "The boss insisted that I come and see your book in person. He said that if he thinks it's suitable, he'll help you contact a publisher, and even—bring it to the big screen."
"What?" Stephen could hardly believe his ears and stood there stunned. "But he's never even seen me—"
"Yes, that's the most amazing thing about my boss!" Stallone exclaimed. "He said that only those who have experienced hardship in life can write words that touch people's hearts."
"Look at me, a piece of trash from Hell's Kitchen—" He stretched his hand out in front of Stephen: "Don't you think it's fate that we're sitting here face to face?"