Stephen King Revival

You’ve got one opportunity only, because there are some 449 others getting Revival signed too, which happens in just under 90 minutes on the third floor of BookPeople. Most have something prepared – a short, fast burst, or a single point (hopefully) of intersect. Others just nod and smile, and utter nothing at all. What would you say to Stephen King?

“Is it really you?” manages one, stepping back from the signing table with arms outstretched to somehow grasp the moment.

“Thanks for coming out in the rain,” smiles the author, 67, reaching out for a grab.

Gray-white hair and eyebrows to match, with long fingers and delicate hands, Kings puts his head back down and continues writing his name carefully on every title page – in the space between author and book moniker. No other of his works are eligible for inking on this cold Austin Saturday.

“Honor to see you too,” he warms to an older fan in a wheelchair.

Sometimes a fan’s aural offering arrives almost whispered, as if to a confidante, while the answer booms for those who’ve made it up the stairs from the second floor into the bare, square signing room:

“My son is a slut for cheesecake!” exclaims the guest of honor.

To the verging on standoffish man who leaves him a story, there’s begrudging acquiescence (“I’ll probably read it, thanks”), but the guy that hands over his first novel receives empathy. “More than 50 books” into a career (as Revival’s dust jacket author bio tallies) since Carrie in 1974, Stephen King still writes one page at a time like any novelist. Sometimes he makes a presentation but only sells pre-signed copies, so not every stop of this six-city book tour includes a sign-and-greet, says Katherine Monaghan, onsite Deputy Director of Publicity at publisher Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster.

“My dad was a Methodist teacher,” trumpets someone waving Revival.

“I miss your column in Entertainment Weekly,” offers another.

That one hits.

“Me too,” acknowledges King. “It was one thing too many. It went overboard.”

From the author’s home state of Maine to Mexico, readers have made this pilgrimage. Couples young and old, parents and children, rock & roll-looking groupies all snap photos while waiting their turn. T-shirts have been carefully chosen, from the “I’d rather be reading Stephen King” to a Christine film tie-in and a Ramones seal.

“Thanks for wearing a Ramones shirt,” brightens the guitarist, whose local roadie has perhaps made this event possible. “Gabba gabba hey.”

Elvis Presley gets his attention.

“He was a king,” says King.

Scrawling since 4:30pm, he gets up to stretch at 5:15, citing television immortal Mr. Rogers.

“Did you see that Richard Simmons has gone into total seclusion?” he asks one fellow on the subject of elasticity, adding something about the fitness guru’s relationship to surgery. “Hey, if it’s in Inside Edition, it must be true.”

Seated again, he motions to one young woman’s burnt orange jersey.

“What are the longhorns, because everyone’s got them?” he inquires.

Involving a fallen New England minister and an estranged protégé – a strung-out guitarist working the Southwest – Revival looks to indulge its creator’s musical jones. In the background, the Jackson 5’s “ABC” plays. King stops a man in the armed services who’s already walking away.

“When are you going back? Take care of yourself.”

Presidents (Carter, Clinton), Supreme Court justice (Sotomayor), a former Secretary of State (Clinton) – all have signed at BookPeople. Tori Amos, according to one employee, showed most of them up with her followers’ emotional outpouring. Stephen King’s flock is simply in awe.

“It’s so quiet in here,” whispers one BookPerson. “Should I turn up the music?”

At 5:45pm, only staff remains, a small line forming for a few additional signatures.

“One of the best behaved lines I’ve seen,” says one to King about the previous queue.

When a staffer in front of my fly-on-the-wall spot literally pushes her co-worker to get Revival autographed, I wonder, “Should I?” Having read King’s first dozen books, I haven’t picked one up since I finished Needful Things the year I arrived in Texas. Having witnessed hundreds of people speak their piece, I’m not unprepared for the moment that follows.

“I enjoyed your recent interview in Rolling Stone,” I venture, King’s curiosity perhaps piqued when I’m introduced as a music editor.

“Thanks,” he says squinting up at me.

“I like that you said Springsteen is the best show you ever saw.”

“The Ice Arena in Lewiston, Maine,” he replies, already engaging with another Springsteen fan. “They had to put gypsum on the ice.”

After me, he signs 10 more copies for BookPeople. At 5:49, he puts up his hands, claps them together, then shows empty palms to the room of employees. Everyone claps.

“Thank you all,” says Stephen King gratefully, exiting through a side door. “Hook ’em horns.”