Joyland

by Stephen King

That fall was the most beautiful of my life. Even forty years later I can say that. And I was never so unhappy, I can say that, too.

Like....... this means so much to me

“Here is to Erin, Tom, and Devin,” she said. “May they have a wonderful summer, and wear the fur only when the temperature is below eighty degrees.”

It was one of the best speeches I ever heard, because it was truth rather than horseshit. I mean, listen: how many rubes can put sold fun for three months in 1973 on their resumes?

I’ve done a lot of jobs in the years since then, and my current editorial gig—probably my last gig before retirement seizes me in its claws—is terrific, but I never felt so weirdly happy, so absolutely in-the-right-place, as I did when I was twenty-one, wearing the fur and doing the Hokey Pokey on a hot day in June. Seat of the pants, baby.

Me, reading this: smiling like an idiot

“Her father might change,” Mrs. Shoplaw said, “but I doubt it. Young women and young men grow up, but old women and old men just grow older and surer they’ve got the right on their side. Especially if they know scripture.”

All I can say is what you already know: some days are treasure. Not many, but I think in almost every life there are a few. That was one of mine, and when I’m blue—when life comes down on me and everything looks tawdry and cheap, the way Joyland Avenue did on a rainy day—I go back to it, if only to remind myself that life isn’t always a butcher’s game. Sometimes the prizes are real. Sometimes they’re precious.

UGH