Joyland(27)
I ride-jockeyed. I flashed the shys in the mornings-meaning I restocked them with prizes-and ran some of them in the afternoons. I untangled Devil Wagons by the dozen, learned how to fry dough without burning my fingers off, and worked on my pitch for the Carolina Spin. I danced and sang with the 92
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other greenies on the Wiggle-Waggle Village's Story Stage.
Several times Fred Dean sent me to scratch the midway, a true sign of trust because it meant picking up the noon or five PM
take from the various concessions. I made runs to Heaven's B ay or Wilmington when some piece of machinery broke down and stayed late on Wednesday nights-usually along with Tom , George Preston, and Ronnie Houston-to lube the Whirly Cups and a vicious, neck-snapping ride called the Zipper. Both of those babies drank oil the way camels drink water when they get to the next oasis. And, of course, I wore the fur.
In spite of all this, I wasn't sleeping for shit. Sometimes I'd lie on my bed, clap my elderly, taped-up headphones over my ears, and listen to my Doors records. (I was particularly partial to such cheerful tunes as "Cars Hiss By My Window," "Riders on the Storm," and-of course-''The End.") When Jim Morrison's voice and Ray Manzarek's mystic, chiming organ weren't enough to sedate me, I'd creep down the outside staircase and walk on the beach. Once or twice I slept on the beach. At least there were no bad dreams when I did manage to get under for a little while. I don't remember dreaming that summer at all.
I could see bags under my eyes when I shaved in the morning, and sometimes I'd feel lightheaded after a particularly strenuous turn as Howie (birthday parties in the overheated bedlam of Howdy House were the worst), but that was normal; Mr.
Easterbrook had told me so. A little rest in the boneyard always put me right again. On the whole, I thought I was representing, as they say nowadays. I learned different on the first Monday in July, two days before the Glorious Fourth .
?
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My team-Beagle-reported to Pop Allen's shy first thing, as always, and he gave us our assignments as he laid out the popguns. Usually our early chores involved toting boxes of prizes (MADE IN TAIWAN stamped on most of them) and flashing shys until Early Gate, which was what we called opening. That morning, however, Pop told me that Lane Hardy wanted me. This was a surprise; Lane rarely showed his face outside the boneyard until twenty minutes or so before Early Gate. I started that way, but Pop yelled at me.
"Nah, nah, he's at the simp-hoister." This was a derogatory term for the Ferris wheel he would have known better than to use if Lane had actually been there. "Beat feet, Jonesy. Got a lot to do today."
I beat feet, but saw no one at the Spin, which stood tall, still, and silent, waiting for the day's first customers.
"Over here," a woman called. I turned to my left and saw Rozzie Gold standing outside her star-studded fortune-telling shy, all kitted out in one of her gauzy Madame Fortuna rigs. On her head was an electric blue scarf, the knotted tail of which fell almost to the small of her back. Lane was standing beside her in his usual rig: faded straight-leg jeans and a skin-tight strappy tee-shirt perfect for showing off his fully loaded guns. His derby was tilted at the proper wiseguy angle. Looking at him, you'd believe he didn't have a brain in his head, but he had plenty.
Both dressed for show, and both wearing bad-news faces. I ran quickly through the last few days, trying to think of anything I'd done that might account for those faces. It crossed my mind that Lane might have orders to lay me off. . . or even fire me.
But at the height of the summer? And wouldn't that be Fred Dean's or Brenda Rafferty's job? Also, why was Rozzie here?
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"Who died, guys?" I asked.
"Just as long as it isn't you," Rozzie said. She was getting into character for the day and sounded funny: half Brooklyn and half Carpathian Mountains.
"Huh?"
"Walk with us, Jonesy," Lane said, and immediately started down the midway, which was largely deserted ninety minutes before Early Gate; no one around but a few members of the janitorial staff-gazoonies, in the Talk, and probably not a green card among them-sweeping up around the concessions: work that should have been done the night before. Rozzie made room for me between them when I caught up. I felt like a crook being escorted to the pokey by a couple of cops.
"What's this about?"
"You'll see," Rozzie/Fortuna said ominously, and pretty soon I did. Next to Horror House-the two connected, actuallywas Mysterio's Mirror Mansion. Next to the agent's booth was a regular mirror with a sign over it reading so YOU woN'T
FORGET HOW YOU REALLY LOOK. Lane took me by one arm, Rozzie by the other. Now I really did feel like a perp being brought in for booking. They placed me in front of the mirror.
"What do you see?" Lane asked.
"Me," I said, and then, because that didn't seem to be the answer they wanted: "Me needing a haircut."
"Look at your clothes, silly boy," Rozzie said, pronouncing the last two words seely poy.
I looked. Above my yellow workboots I saw jeans (with the recommended brand of rawhide gloves sticking out of the back pocket), and above my jeans was a blue chambray workshirt, faded but reasonably clean. On my head was an admirably joyland
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battered H owie dogtop, the finishing touch that means so much.