Stephen's Misery

By TAD BARTIMUS

I don't know many famous people. The ones I do know I feel weird admitting to. I've made a career out of avoiding name-droppers and social climbers and have never asked for an autograph. When I went on a media tour to publicize my book, I was too shy to talk about it. Instead, I spent my 15 minutes of fame interviewing the interviewers.

Fortunately, during my stint as a rock 'n' roll diva wannabe with the writers' band The Rock Bottom Remainders, I was in such famous company nobody ever thought to ask me a question. All of the oxygen in the room was taken up by the likes of Dave Barry, Barbara Kingsolver and Amy Tan. But the biggest star of all was Stephen King. He was the one the fans came to see, the TV anchors fawned over, the waiters pointed at and whispered about. He was the reason for the bodyguards, the tight security, the elevator keys. His celebrity necessitated that he travel in a rarefied bubble, protected from close scrutiny and intrusion.

Horror stuff scares the pants off me, so I have never read a Stephen King book or seen a Stephen King movie. My limited knowledge of him is as guitarist, husband, dad, baseball fanatic, private philanthropist and a gentle soul of wicked humor, fast-draw quips and self-effacing modesty. His moral support at crucial times has given me courage to tackle creative challenges, including this column. I see him as a wonderful fellow, not an icon.

That's why I had a momentary mental disconnect when his smiling face flashed onto the television screen. What's my friend Steve's picture doing there? Then I heard that he'd been knocked 14 feet through the air and into a ditch by a van while taking an afternoon stroll near his home in Lovell, Maine.

So. Fame is not a shield, it is merely a condition. Despite private jets, elaborate security systems and self-imposed seclusion, life's vagaries can happen to any of us at any time. Listening to the dispassionate reports of his accident and subsequent medical bulletins, I reacted on two levels: one as a news consumer, the other as a friend. That's the tricky part about knowing someone famous. It's hard to separate the real person from the persona.

"They made cuts in King's lower leg to drain fluid and reduce swelling; (fixed) his broken thighbone by cleaning the wound and inserting a metal pin and plate (and) built an external metal device that will keep his shinbone in a normal position."

Five operations and counting, more to come. This is Steve King's leg they're talking about. This isn't fiction, this is real life in real time. This is his family at his bedside, his doctors in serious discussion in the hall, his body hooked up to machines that beep and pulse. Yes, people get hit by cars every day and all of them suffer because of it. Yes, Stephen King, unlike many other accident victims, has the financial resources to get the best care available. But for all of his celebrity, wealth and privilege, he remains a solitary injured man doing solitary battle with pain and disability. He is what he has written about so often -- a protagonist trying to overcome overwhelming odds.

As I add my hopes and prayers to those of his millions of fans around the world, I wish for Stephen King -- my friend as well as superstar author -- a happy ending to this latest, unfinished horror story.

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