Carrie: The True
Story, Not What Stephen King Wrote
by William Kitcher
Carrie White,
as we all know, was an unusual girl, but she wasn’t
as she’s been portrayed. For one thing, her
ability to move things with her mind was
exaggerated. She was able to do that only when
she’d had a good breakfast.
Her mother was
not a religious fanatic. She truly loved Jesus,
but he was one of the janitors at the high school
where Carrie was to go to the prom.
I told Carrie
that proms, like cheerleaders, were archaic
institutions, so when she asked me to go to the
prom with her, I refused. I said I’d rather
go to a movie and, as this was the 1970s when
movies were good, I figured I’d have a
better chance of having a good time.
Carrie was
then asked to the prom by Tommy, or Bobby, or
Jimmy, or one of those names teenagers had before
they became Tom and Bob and Jim. No one was named
Seth or Carson or Kyle in those days.
Stephen, I
hope you’re happy with yourself. The novel,
OK. The first movie, with Sissy Spacek, very good.
The latest movie version, well, I hope you
donated your check to the Home For Wayward
Telekinetic Girls.
I was worried
about Carrie so, after I had a few chuckles
watching “Taxi Driver”, I rolled by the
high school to check out the prom. I snuck in the
back door of the gym with the help of Judy Greer,
who didn’t have much to do after the early
scenes.
Carrie and
Tommy/Bobby/Jimmy had just been voted Queen and
King of the Prom, an accolade on a par with
Minister of the Environment. Carrie should have
known the election was rigged. But she was a 16-year-old
girl, and there aren’t many 16-year-old
girls who can compose themselves well enough to
understand what’s really happening, with the
exception of my neighbour Alice who taught me a
lot.
They went up
on stage, and Darrell the MC (who was there only
because he was President of the AV Club) crowned
them with papier-mache crowns, and gave them
unwanted flowers and gift certificates from the
local franchise of Rats-Disguised-As-Chicken.
I think it was
Amy Irving who gave it away for me. She was
looking up above the stage as Carrie and Dougie/Johnny/Teddy
accepted the crowd’s applause. I looked up
and saw a bucket hanging from the rafters. It was
completely beyond me how a bunch of morons
failing science could rig up a bucket designed to
tip over, but there you are.
It wasn’t
pig’s blood that fell on Carrie but instead
red-dyed goop. Carrie wasn’t happy and didn’t
react well. She stretched her arms out in front
of her, which didn’t seem to me to be a
particularly logical response considering she was
telekinetic.
The results,
though, were what she wanted. The place went up
in flames, the floor collapsed, and the roof fell
in, killing 800 kids, teachers, and chaperones,
most of whom liked Carrie.
Brucie/Mikey/Paulie
got a concussion from a falling disco ball, but
he was OK.
Carrie walked
home and I followed her. She passed several
garden hoses but didn’t bother to wash
herself off.
When she got
home, Mama was sitting on the porch. “Carrie,”
she said, “did you know your father is
coming home next week?”
“Mama! I’m
covered in goop!”
“That’s
what you get for going to a prom,” said Mama.
They went into
the house so I couldn’t hear what they said
after that, but I could see through the window
that they were screaming at each other, probably
about the best detergent to get goop out of
chiffon, but possibly about the differences
between Methodism and Presbyterianism.
Mama put her
hands around Carrie’s throat, which struck
me as a really stupid thing to do to someone who’s
telekinetic.
Carrie was
pissed off, and there’s nothing scarier than
a pissed-off 16-year-old girl.
Knives flew
off the kitchen counter at Mama, and a couple of
them caught Mama in her hands as she stretched
her arms out, thus capturing her in a crucifixion-like
pose. I told Carrie later that was kind of
cliched but she said she didn’t really have
any control over art direction.
Carrie was
distraught as you can imagine when you’ve
just killed your mother. She staggered out the
front door and saw me. She was crying, she
grabbed me, and wrapped herself around me. She
didn’t let go.
At this point,
I didn’t know if I was in an Ernest
Hemingway novel or a Stephen King novel. Both
possibilities scared me.
I told Carrie
she had to think really carefully about what she
should do now. I suggested she get some clothes
and money, but her decision was to burn the house
down.
That wouldn’t
have been my choice, but what can you do? At
least I convinced her to not go back inside. I
mean, who did she think she was? Camille? Madame
Bovary? Anna Karenina? No, she was just Carrie
from small-town America, not a European tragic
heroine, let alone Garbo, Jones, or Leigh.
Carrie and I
walked away from the blazing inferno. I tried to
take her hand and she slapped me. At one point,
she went into the woods to have a pee. I never
saw her again but I’ve heard stories about a
waitress in the next town down the road who does
some amazing tricks with flaming knives.
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