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The five Kings could set their castle anywhere, but Stephen refuses to leave familiar turf; even the family's lakeside summer place is in the state. "Maine is far and away better for a couple of hicks like us," he maintains. "And it's better for the kids." King enjoys the role of paterfamilias, scrubbing the indoor grill over the sink so that Tabby and the children can have an outing at the local shopping mall. Dinner is a family affair with everybody present. The conversation ranges from Little League to books and movies to local gossip. King can drive to New York City for meetings with his publishers in one of two Mercedes, or in a red Cadillac convertible or in a Chevy van, but once or twice a year he prefers to vroom south on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Neither of the Kings likes to fill up any of their vehicles. A brother-in-law who acts as handyman and caretaker attends to the cars and van, but rarely rides the Harley. So King has, on occasion, found himself stranded and called home for a pickup, just like a character in a movie. Conferences with editors frequently take place not in offices or restaurants but in the stands at Yankee Stadium. There King can talk between pitches, and hot dogs and beer.
The brew tends to be of the lite variety these days. In the past the author could do a pretty fair imitation of a character in Animal House, and remembers writing Cujo under the influence of malt and hops. Then two years ago, physicians picked up symptoms of heart arrhythmia, and these days King tends to watch his solids and liquids and waistline. But he still pays very little attention to externals. Two lawn chairs on the driveway is about as much luxury as he likes to display to the neighbors. "I guard against success," he says, "because you start to expect things, preferential treatment at hotels or concerts. I don't want that. I'm not any better than anyone else."