Joyland

  Annie and Mike were like that; one day they just became a real part of my world. I always waved, the kid in the wheelchair always waved back, and the dog sat watching me with his ears cocked and the wind ruffling his fur. The woman was blonde and beautiful--high cheekbones, wide-set blue eyes, and full lips, the kind that always look a little bruised. The boy in the wheelchair wore a White Sox cap that came down over his ears. He looked very sick. His smile was healthy enough, though. Whether I was going or coming, he always flashed it. Once or twice he even flashed me the peace sign, and I sent it right back. I had become part of his landscape, just as he had become part of mine. I think even Milo, the Jack Russell, came to recognize me as part of the landscape. Only Mom held herself apart. Often when I passed, she never even looked up from whatever book she was reading. When she did she didn't wave, and she certainly never flashed the peace sign.

  I had plenty to occupy my time at Joyland, and if the work wasn't as interesting and varied as it had been during the summer, it was steadier and less exhausting. I even got a chance to reprise my award-winning role as Howie, and to sing a few more choruses of "Happy Birthday to You" in the Wiggle-Waggle Village, because Joyland was open to the public for the first three weekends in September. Attendance was way down, though, and I didn't jock a single tipsed ride. Not even the Carolina Spin, which was second only to the merry-go-round as our most popular attraction.

  "Up north in New England, most parks stay open weekends until Halloween," Fred Dean told me one day. We were sitting on a bench and eating a nourishing, vitamin-rich lunch of chili burgers and pork rinds. "Down south in Florida, they run year-round. We're in a kind of gray zone. Mr. Easterbrook tried pushing for a fall season back in the sixties--spent a bundle on a big advertising blitz--but it didn't work very well. By the time the nights start getting nippy, people around here start thinking about county fairs and such. Also, a lot of our vets head south or out west for the winter." He looked down the empty expanse of Hound Dog Way and sighed. "This place gets kind of lonely this time of year."

  "I like it," I said, and I did. That was my year to embrace loneliness. I sometimes went to the movies in Lumberton or Myrtle Beach with Mrs. Shoplaw and Tina Ackerley, the librarian with the goo-goo-googly eyes, but I spent most evenings in my room, re-reading The Lord of the Rings and writing letters to Erin, Tom, and my dad. I also wrote a fair amount of poetry, which I am now embarrassed even to think about. Thank God I burned it. I added a new and satisfyingly grim record to my small collection--The Dark Side of the Moon. In the Book of Proverbs we are advised that "as a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly." That autumn I returned to Dark Side again and again, only giving Floyd the occasional rest so I could listen to Jim Morrison once more intone, "This is the end, beautiful friend." Such a really bad case of the twenty-ones--I know, I know.

  At least there was plenty at Joyland to occupy my days. The first couple of weeks, while the park was still running part-time, were devoted to fall cleaning. Fred Dean put me in charge of a small crew of gazoonies, and by the time the CLOSED FOR THE SEASON sign went up out front, we had raked and cut every lawn, prepared every flowerbed for winter, and scrubbed down every joint and shy. We slapped together a prefab corrugated metal shed in the backyard and stored the food carts (called grub-rollers in the Talk) there for the winter, each popcorn wagon, Sno-Cone wagon, and Pup-A-Licious wagon snugged under its own green tarp.

  When the gazoonies headed north to pick apples, I started the winterizing process with Lane Hardy and Eddie Parks, the ill-tempered vet who ran Horror House (and Team Doberman) during the season. We drained the fountain at the intersection of Joyland Avenue and Hound Dog Way, and had moved on to Captain Nemo's Splash & Crash--a much bigger job--when Bradley Easterbrook, dressed for traveling in his black suit, came by.

  "I'm off to Sarasota this evening," he told us. "Brenda Rafferty will be with me, as usual." He smiled, showing those horse teeth of his. "I'm touring the park and saying my thank-yous. To those who are left, that is."

  "Have a wonderful winter, Mr. Easterbrook," Lane said.

  Eddie muttered something that sounded to me like eat a wooden ship, but was probably have a good trip.

  "Thanks for everything," I said.

  He shook hands with the three of us, coming to me last. "I hope to see you again next year, Jonesy. I think you're a young man with more than a little carny in his soul."

  But he didn't see me the following year, and nobody saw him. Mr. Easterbrook died on New Year's Day, in a condo on John Ringling Boulevard, less than half a mile from where the famous circus winters.

  "Crazy old bastid," Parks said, watching Easterbrook walk to his car, where Brenda was waiting to receive him and help him in.

  Lane gave him a long, steady look, then said: "Shut it, Eddie."

  Eddie did. Which was probably wise.

  One morning, as I walked to Joyland with my croissants, the Jack Russell finally trotted down the beach to investigate me.

  "Milo, come back!" the woman called.

  Milo turned to look at her, then looked back at me with his bright black eyes. On impulse, I tore a piece from one of my pastries, squatted, and held it out to him. Milo came like a shot.

  "Don't you feed him!" the woman called sharply.

  "Aw, Mom, get over it," the boy said.

  Milo heard her and didn't take the shred of croissant...but he did sit up before me with his front paws held out. I gave him the bite.

  "I won't do it again," I said, getting up, "but I couldn't let a good trick go to waste."

  The woman snorted and went back to her book, which was thick and looked arduous. The boy called, "We feed him all the time. He never puts on weight, just runs it off."

  Without looking up from her book, Mom said: "What do we know about talking to strangers, Mike-O?"

  "He's not exactly a stranger when we see him every day," the boy pointed out. Reasonably enough, at least from my point of view.

  "I'm Devin Jones," I said. "From down the beach. I work at Joyland."

  "Then you won't want to be late." Still not looking up.

  The boy shrugged at me--whattaya gonna do, it said. He was pale and as bent-over as an old man, but I thought there was a lively sense of humor in that shrug and the look that went with it. I returned the shrug and walked on. The next morning I took care to finish my croissants before I got to the big green Victorian so Milo wouldn't be tempted, but I waved. The kid, Mike, waved back. The woman was in her usual place under the green umbrella, and she had no book, but--as per usual--she didn't wave to me. Her lovely face was closed. There is nothing here for you, it said. Go on down to your trumpery amusement park and leave us alone.

  So that was what I did. But I continued to wave, and the kid waved back. Morning and night, the kid waved back.

  The Monday after Gary "Pop" Allen left for Florida--bound for Alston's All-Star Carnival in Jacksonville, where he had a job waiting as shy-boss--I arrived at Joyland and found Eddie Parks, my least favorite old-timer, sitting in front of Horror House on an apple-box. Smoking was verboten in the park, but with Mr. Easterbrook gone and Fred Dean nowhere in evidence, Eddie seemed to feel it safe to flout the rule. He was smoking with his gloves on, which would have struck me as strange if he ever took them off, but he never seemed to.

  "There you are, kiddo, and only five minutes late." Everyone else called me either Dev or Jonesy, but to Eddie I was just kiddo, and always would be.

  "I've got seven-thirty on the nose," I said, tapping my watch.

  "Then you're slow. Why don't you drive from town, like everybody else? You could be here in five minutes."

  "I like the beach."

  "I don't give a tin shit what you like, kiddo, just get here on time. This isn't like one of your college classes, when you can duck in and out anytime you want to. This is a job, and now that the Head Beagle is gone, you're gonna work like it's a job."

  I could have pointed out that Pop had told me Lane Hardy would b
e in charge of my schedule after he, Pop, was gone, but kept my lip zipped. No sense making a bad situation worse. As to why Eddie had taken a dislike to me, that was obvious. Eddie was an equal-opportunity disliker. I'd go to Lane if life with Eddie got too hard, but only as a last resort. My father had taught me--mostly by example--that if a man wanted to be in charge of his life, he had to be in charge of his problems.

  "What have you got for me, Mr. Parks?"

  "Plenty. I want you to get a tub of Turtle Wax from the supply shed to start with, and don't be lingerin down there to shoot the shit with any of your pals, either. Then I want you to go on in Horra and wax all them cars." Except, of course, he said it caaas. "You know we wax em once the season's over, don't you?"

  "Actually I didn't."

  "Jesus Christ, you kids." He stomped on his cigarette butt, then lifted the apple-box he was sitting on enough to toss it under. As if that would make it gone. "You want to really put some elbow-grease into it, kiddo, or I'll send you back in to do it again. You got that?"

  "I got it."

  "Good for you." He stuck another cigarette in his gob, then fumbled in his pants pocket for his lighter. With the gloves on, it took him a while. He finally got it, flicked back the lid, then stopped. "What are you looking at?"

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Then get going. Flip on the house lights so you can see what the fuck you're doing. You know where the switches are, don't you?"

  I didn't, but I'd find them without his help. "Sure."

  He eyed me sourly. "Ain't you the smart one." Smaaat.

  I found a metal box marked LTS on the wall between the Wax Museum and the Barrel and Bridge Room. I opened it and flipped up all the switches with the heel of my hand. Horror House should have lost all of its cheesy/sinister mystique with all the house lights on, but somehow didn't. There were still shadows in the corners, and I could hear the wind--quite strong that morning--blowing outside the joint's thin wooden walls and rattling a loose board somewhere. I made a mental note to track it down and fix it.

  I had a wire basket swinging from one hand. It was filled with clean rags and a giant economy-size can of Turtle Wax. I carried it through the Tilted Room--now frozen on a starboard slant--and into the arcade. I looked at the Skee-Ball machines and remembered Erin's disapproval: Don't they know that's a complete butcher's game? I smiled at the memory, but my heart was beating hard. I knew what I was going to do when I'd finished my chore, you see.

  The cars, twenty in all, were lined up at the loading point. Ahead, the tunnel leading into the bowels of Horror House was lit by a pair of bright white work lights instead of flashing strobes. It looked a lot more prosaic that way.

  I was pretty sure Eddie hadn't so much as swiped the little cars with a damp rag all summer long, and that meant I had to start by washing them down. Which also meant fetching soap powder from the supply shed and carrying buckets of water from the nearest working tap. By the time I had all twenty cars washed and rinsed off, it was break-time, but I decided to work right through instead of going out to the backyard or down to the boneyard for coffee. I might meet Eddie at either place, and I'd listened to enough of his grouchy bullshit for one morning. I set to work polishing instead, laying the Turtle Wax on thick and then buffing it off, moving from car to car, making them shine in the overhead lights until they looked new again. Not that the next crowd of thrill-seekers would notice as they crowded in for their nine-minute ride. My own gloves were ruined by the time I was finished. I'd have to buy a new pair at the hardware store in town, and good ones didn't come cheap. I amused myself briefly by imagining how Eddie would react if I asked him to pay for them.

  I stashed my basket of dirty rags and Turtle Wax (the can now mostly empty) by the exit door in the arcade. It was ten past noon, but right then food wasn't what I was hungry for. I tried to stretch the ache out of my arms and legs, then went back to the loading-point. I paused to admire the cars gleaming mellowly beneath the lights, then walked slowly along the track and into Horror House proper.

  I had to duck my head when I passed beneath the Screaming Skull, even though it was now pulled up and locked in its home position. Beyond it was the Dungeon, where the live talent from Eddie's Team Doberman had tried (and mostly succeeded) in scaring the crap out of children of all ages with their moans and howls. Here I could straighten up again, because it was a tall room. My footfalls echoed on a wooden floor painted to look like stone. I could hear my breathing. It sounded harsh and dry. I was scared, okay? Tom had told me to stay away from this place, but Tom didn't run my life any more than Eddie Parks did. I had the Doors, and I had Pink Floyd, but I wanted more. I wanted Linda Gray.

  Between the Dungeon and the Torture Chamber, the track descended and described a double-S curve where the cars picked up speed and whipped the riders back and forth. Horror House was a dark ride, but when it was in operation, this stretch was the only completely dark part. It had to be where the girl's killer had cut her throat and dumped her body. How quick he must have been, and how certain of exactly what he was going to do! Beyond the last curve, riders were dazzled by a mix of stuttering, multi-colored strobes. Although Tom had never said it in so many words, I was positive it was where he had seen what he'd seen.

  I walked slowly down the double-S, thinking it would not be beyond Eddie to hear me and shut off the overhead work-lights as a joke. To leave me in here to feel my way past the murder site with only the sound of the wind and that one slapping board to keep me company. And suppose...just suppose...a young girl's hand reached out in that darkness and took mine, the way Erin had taken my hand that last night on the beach?

  The lights stayed on. No bloody shirt and gloves appeared beside the track, glowing spectrally. And when I came to what I felt sure was the right spot, just before the entrance to the Torture Chamber, there was no ghost-girl holding her hands out to me.

  Yet something was there. I knew it then and I know it now. The air was colder. Not cold enough to see my breath, but yes, definitely colder. My arms and legs and groin all prickled with gooseflesh, and the hair at the nape of my neck stiffened.

  "Let me see you," I whispered, feeling foolish and terrified. Wanting it to happen, hoping it wouldn't.

  There was a sound. A long, slow sigh. Not a human sigh, not in the least. It was as if someone had opened an invisible steam-valve. Then it was gone. There was no more. Not that day.

  "Took you long enough," Eddie said when I finally reappeared at quarter to one. He was seated on the same apple-box, now with the remains of a BLT in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. I was filthy from the neck down. Eddie, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy.

  "The cars were pretty dirty. I had to wash them before I could wax them."

  Eddie hawked back phlegm, twisted his head, and spat. "If you want a medal, I'm fresh out. Go find Hardy. He says it's time to drain the irrygation system. That should keep a lag-ass like you busy until quittin time. If it don't, come see me and I'll find something else for you to do. I got a whole list, believe me."

  "Okay." I started off, glad to be going.

  "Kiddo!"

  I turned back reluctantly.

  "Did you see her in there?"

  "Huh?"

  He grinned unpleasantly. "Don't 'huh' me. I know what you were doin. You weren't the first, and you won't be the last. Did you see her?"

  "Have you ever seen her?"

  "Nope." He looked at me, sly little gimlet eyes peering out of a narrow sunburned face. How old was he? Thirty? Sixty? It was impossible to tell, just as it was impossible to tell if he was speaking the truth. I didn't care. I just wanted to be away from him. He gave me the creeps.

  Eddie raised his gloved hands. "The guy who did it wore a pair of these. Did you know that?"

  I nodded. "Also an extra shirt."

  "That's right." His grin widened. "To keep the blood off. And it worked, didn't it? They never caught him. Now get out of here."

  When I got to the
Spin, only Lane's shadow was there to greet me. The man it belonged to was halfway up the wheel, climbing the struts. He tested each steel crosspiece before he put his weight on it. A leather toolkit hung on one hip, and every now and then he reached into it for a socket wrench. Joyland only had a single dark ride, but almost a dozen so-called high rides, including the Spin, the Zipper, the Thunderball, and the Delirium Shaker. There was a three-man maintenance crew that checked them each day before Early Gate during the season, and of course there were visits (both announced and unannounced) from the North Carolina State Inspector of Amusements, but Lane said a ride-jock who didn't check his ride himself was both lazy and irresponsible. Which made me wonder when Eddie Parks had last ridden in one of his own caaas and safety-checked the baaas.

  Lane looked down, saw me, and shouted: "Did that ugly sonofabitch ever give you a lunch break?"

  "I worked through it," I called back. "Lost track of time." But now I was hungry.

  "There's some tuna-and-macaroni salad in my doghouse, if you want it. I made up way too much last night."

  I went into the little control shack, found a good-sized Tupperware container, and popped it open. By the time Lane was back on the ground, the tuna-and-macaroni was in my stomach and I was tamping it down with a couple of leftover Fig Newtons.

  "Thanks, Lane. That was tasty."

  "Yeah, I'll make some guy a good wife someday. Gimme some of those Newtons before they all go down your throat."

  I handed over the box. "How's the ride?"

  "The Spin is tight and the Spin is right. Want to help me work on the engine for a while after you've digested a little?"

  "Sure."

  He took off his derby and spun it on his finger. His hair was pulled back in a tight little ponytail, and I noticed a few threads of white in the black. They hadn't been there at the start of the summer--I was quite sure of it. "Listen, Jonesy, Eddie Parks is carny-from-carny, but that doesn't change the fact that he's one mean-ass sonofabitch. In his eyes, you got two strikes against you: you're young and you've been educated beyond the eighth grade. When you get tired of taking his shit, tell me and I'll get him to back off."