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which was called The Little School； describing the basic conflict between
Denker； a gifted student who had failed into being the brutal and brutalizing
headmaster of a turn…of…the…century New England prep school； and Gary Benson；
the student he sees as a younger version of himself。 Phyllis had written back
expressing interest and admonishing him to read O'Casey before sitting down to
it。 She had written again earlier that year asking where the hell was the play？
He had written back wryly that The Little School had been indefinitely — and
perhaps infinitely — delayed between hand and page 〃in that interesting
intellectual Gobi known as the writer's block。〃 Now it looked as if she might
actually get the play。 Whether or not it was any good or if it would ever see
actual production was another matter。 And he didn't seem to care a great deal
about those things。 He felt in a way that the play itself； the whole thing； was
the roadblock； a colossal symbol of the bad years at Stovington Prep； the
marriage he had almost totaled like a nutty kid behind the wheel of an old
jalopy； the monstrous assault on his son； the incident in the parking lot with
George Hatfield； an incident he could no longer view as just another sudden and
destructive flare of temper。 He now thought that part of his drinking problem
had stemmed from an unconscious desire to be free of Stovington and the security
he felt was stifling whatever creative urge he had。 He had stopped drinking； but
the need to be free had been just as great。 Hence George Hatfield。 Now all that
remained of those days was the play on the desk in his and Wendy's bedroom； and
when it was done and sent off to Phyllis's hole…in…the…wall New York agency； he
could turn to other things。 Not a novel； he was not ready to stumble into the
swamp of another three…year undertaking； but surely more short stories。 Perhaps
a book of them。
Moving warily； he scrambled back down the slope of the roof on his hands and
knees past the line of demarcation where the fresh green Bird shingles gave way
to the section of roof he had just finished clearing。 He came to the edge on the
left of the wasps' nest he had uncovered and moved gingerly toward it； ready to
backtrack and bolt down his ladder to the ground if things looked too hot。
He leaned over the section of pulled…out flashing and looked in。
The nest was in there； tucked into the space between the old flashing and the
final roof undercoating of three…by…fives。 It was a damn big one。 The grayish
paper ball looked to Jack as if it might be nearly two feet through the center。
Its shape was not perfect because the space between the flashing and the boards
was too narrow； but he thought the little buggers had still done a pretty
respectable job。 The surface of the nest was acrawl with the lumbering； slow…
moving insects。 They were the big mean ones； not yellow jackets； which are
smaller and calmer； but wall wasps。 They had been rendered sludgy and stupid by
the fall temperatures； but Jack； who knew about wasps from his childhood；
counted himself lucky that he had been stung only once。 And； he thought； if
Ullman had hired the job done in the height of summer； the workman who tore up
that particular section of the flashing would have gotten one hell of a
surprise。 Yes indeedy。 When a dozen wall wasps land on you all at once and start
stinging your face and hands and arms； stinging your legs right through your
pants； it would be entirely possible to forget you were seventy feet up。 You
might just charge right off the edge of the roof while you were trying to get
away from them。 All from those little things； the biggest of them only half the
length of a pencil stub。
He had read someplace — in a Sunday supplement piece or a back…of…the…book
newsmagazine article — that 7 per cent of all automobile fatalities go
unexplained。 No mechanical failure； no excessive speed； no booze； no bad
weather。 Simply one…car crashes on deserted sections of road； one dead occupant；
the driver； unable to explain what had happened to him。 The article had included
an interview with a state trooper who theorized that many of these so…called
〃foo crashes〃 resulted from insects in the car。 Wasps； a bee； possibly even a
spider or moth。 The driver gets panicky； tries to swat it or unroll a window to
let it out。 Possibly the insect stings him。 Maybe the driver just loses control。
Either way it's bang！ 。。。 all over。 And the insect； usually pletely
unharmed； would buzz merrily out of the smoking wreck； looking for greener
pastures。 The trooper had been in favor of having pathologists look for insect
venom while autopsying such victims； Jack recalled。
Now； looking down into the nest； it seemed to him that it could serve as both
a workable symbol for what he had been through （and what he had dragged his
hostages to fortune through） and an omen for a better future。 How else could you
explain the things that had happened to him？ For he still felt that the whole
range of unhappy Stovington experiences had to be looked at with Jack Torrance
in the passive mode。 He had not done things； things had been done to him。 He had
known plenty of people on the Stovington faculty； two of them right in the
English Department； who were hard drinkers。 Zack Tunney was in the habit of
picking up a full keg of beer on Saturday afternoon； plonking it in a backyard
snowbank overnight； and then killing damn near all of it on Sunday watching
football games and old movies。 Yet through the week Zack was as sober as a
judge — a weak cocktail with lunch was an occasion。
He and Al Shockley had been alcoholics。 They had sought each other out like
two castoffs who were still social enough to prefer drowning together to doing
it alone。 The sea had been whole…grain instead of salt； that was all。 Looking
down at the wasps； as they slowly went about their instinctual business before
winter closed down to kill all but their hibernating queen； he would go further。
He was still an alcoholic； always would be； perhaps had been since Sophomore
Class Night in high school when he had taken his first drink。 It had nothing to
do with willpower； or the morality of drinking； or the weakness or strength of
his own character。 There was a broken switch somewhere inside； or a circuit
breaker that didn't work； and he had been propelled down the chute willynilly；
slowly at first； then accelerating as Stovington applied its pressures on him。 A
big grease& slide and at the bottom had been a shattered； ownerless bicycle and
a son with a broken arm。 Jack Torrance in the passive mode。 And his temper； same
thing。 All his life he had been trying unsuccessfully to control it。 He could
remember himself at seven； spanked by a neighbor lady for playing with matches。
He had gone out and hurled a rock at a passing car。 His father had seen that；
and he had descended on little Jacky； roaring。 He had reddened Jack's behind 。。。 and then blacked his
eye。 And when his father had gone into the house；
muttering； to see what was on television； Jack had e upon a stray dog and had
kicked it into the gutter。 There had been two dozen fights in grammar school；
even more of them in high school； warranting two suspensions and uncounted
detentions in spite of his good grades。 Football had provided a partial safety
valve； although he remembered perfectly well that he had spent almost every
minute of every game in a state of high piss…off； taking every opposing block
and tackle personally。 He had been a fine player； making All…Conference in his
junior and senior years； and he knew perfectly well that he had his own bad
temper to thank 。。。 or to blame。 He had not enjoyed football。 Every game was a
grudge match。
And yet； through it all； he hadn't felt like a son of a bitch。 He hadn't felt
mean。 He had always regarded himself as Jack Torrance； a really nice guy who was
just going to have to learn how to cope with his temper someday before it got
him in trouble。 The same way he was going to have to learn how to cope with his
drinking。 But he had been an emotional alcoholic just as surely as he had been a
physical one the two of them were no doubt tied together somewhere deep inside
him； where you'd just as soon not look。 But it didn't much matter to him if the
root causes were interrelated or separate； sociological or psychological or
physiological。 He had had to deal with the results： the spankings； the beatings
from his old man； the suspensions； with trying to explain the school clothes
torn in playground brawls； and later the hangovers； the slowly dissolving glue
of his marriage； the single bicycle wheel with its bent spokes pointing into the
sky； Danny's broken arm。 And George Hatfield； of course。
He felt that he had unwittingly stuck his hand into The Great Wasps' Nest of
Life。 As an image it stank。 As a cameo of reality； he felt it was serviceable。
He had stuck his hand through some rotted flashing in high summer and that hand
and his whole arm had been consumed in holy； righteous fire； destroying
conscious thought； making the concept of civilized behavior obsolete。 Could you
be expected to behave as a thinking human being when your hand was being impaled
on red…hot darning needles？ Could you be expected to live in the love of your
nearest and dearest when the brown； furious cloud rose out of the hole in the
fabric of things （the fabric you thought was so innocent） and arrowed straight
at you？ Could you be held responsible for your own actions as you ran crazily
about on the sloping roof seventy feet above the ground； not knowing where you
were going； not remembering that your panicky； stumbling feet could lead you
crashing and blundering right over the rain gutter and down to your death on the
concrete seventy feet below？ Jack didn't think you could。 When you unwittingly
stuck your hand into the wasps' nest； you hadn't made a covenant with the devil
to give up your civilized self with its trappings of love and respect and honor。
It just happened to you。 Passively； with no say； you ceased to be a creature of
the mind and became a creature of the nerve endings； from college…educated man
to wailing ape in five easy seconds。
He thought about George Hatfield。
Tall and shaggily blond； George had been an almost insolently beautiful boy。
In his tight faded jeans and Stovington sweatshirt with the sleeves carelessly
pushed up to the elbows to disclose his tanned forearms； he had reminded Jack of
a young Robert Redford； and he doubted that George had much trouble scoring — no
more than that young footballplaying devil Jack Torrance had ten years earlier。
He could say that he honestly didn't feel jealous of George； or envy him his
good looks； in fact； he had almost unconsciously begun to visualize George as
the physical incarnation of his play hero； Gary Benson — the perfect foil for the
dark； slumped； and aging Denker； who grew to hate Gary so much。 But he； Jack
Torrance； had never felt that way about George。 If he had； he would have known
it。 He was quite sure of that。
George had floated through his classes at Stovington。 A soccer and baseball
star； his academic program had been fairly undemanding and he had been content
with C's and an occasional B in history or botany。 He was a fierce field
contender but a lackadaisical； amused sort of student in the classrooms。 Jack was
familiar with the type； more from his own days as a high school and college
student than from his teaching experience； which was at second hand。 George
Hatfield was a jock。 He could be a calm； undemanding figure in the classroom；
but when the right set of petitive stimuli was applied （like electrodes to
the temples of Frankenstein's monster； Jack thought wryly）； he could bee a
juggernaut。
In January； George had tried out with two dozen others for the debate team。 He
had been quite frank with Jack。 His father was a corporation lawyer； and he
wanted his son to follow in his footsteps。 George； who felt no burning call to
do anything else； was willing。 His grades were not top end； but this was； after
all； only prep school and it was still early times。 If should be came to must
be； his father could pull some strings。 George's own athletic ability would open
still other doors。 But Brian Hatfield thought his son should get on the debate
team。 It was good practice； and it was something that law…school admissions
boards always looked for。 So George went out for debate； and in late March Jack
cut him from the team。
The late winter inter…squad debates had fired George Hatfield's petitive
soul。 He became a grimly determined debater； prepping his pro or con position
fiercely。 It didn't matter if the subject was legalization of marijuana；
reinstating the death penalty； or the oil…depletion allowance。 George became
conversant； and he was just jingoist enough to honestly not care which side he
was on—a rare and valuable trait； even in high…level debaters； Jack knew。 The
souls of a true carpetbagger and a true debater were not far removed from each
other