He waved a hand at the park with its landmarks rising against the blameless blue sky the Thunderball, the Delirium Shaker, the convoluted twists and turns of Captain Nemos water slide, andof coursethe Carolina Spin. Who knows, this place might be your future. Maybe, I said, although I already knew what my future was going to be writing novels and the kind of short stories they publish in The New Yorker. I had it all planned out. Of course, I also had marriage to Wendy Keegan all planned out, and how wed wait until we were in our thirties to have a couple of kids. When youre twentyone, life is a roadmap. Its only when you get to be twentyfive or so that you begin to suspect youve been looking at the map upside down, and not until youre forty are you entirely sure. By the time youre sixty, take it from me, youre fucking lost. Did Rozzie Gold give you her usual bundle of Fortuna horseshit? Um . . . Lane chuckled. Why do I even ask? Just remember, kid, that ninety percent of everything she says really is horseshit. The other ten . . . lets just say shes told folks some stuff that rocked them back on their heels. What about you? I asked. Any revelations that rocked you back on your heels? He grinned. The day I let Rozzie read my palm is the day I go back on the road, ridejocking the tornadoandchittlins circuit. Mrs. Hardys boy doesnt mess with Ouija boards and crystal balls. Do you see a beautiful woman with dark hair in my future? Id asked. No. She is in your past. He was looking at me closely. Whats up? You swallow a fly? Its nothing, I said. Come on, son. Did she feed you truth or horseshit? Live or Memorex? Tell your daddy. Definitely horseshit. I looked at my watch. Ive got a bus to catch at five, if Im going to make the train to Boston at seven. I better get moving. Ah, you got plenty of time. Where you staying this summer? I hadnt even thought about it. You might want to stop at Mrs. Shoplaws on your way to the bus station. Plenty of people in Heavens Bay rent to summer help, but shes the best. Shes housed a lot of Happy Helpers over the years. Her place is easy to find; its where Main Street ends at the beach. Great big rambler painted gray. Youll see the sign hanging from the porch. Cant miss it, because its made out of shells and somere always falling off. MRS. SHOPLAWS BEACHSIDE ACCOMMODATIONS. Tell her I sent you. Okay, I will. Thanks. If you rent there, you can walk down here on the beach if you want to save your gas money for something more important, like stepping out on your day off. That beach walk makes a pretty way to start the morning. Good luck, kid. Look forward to working with you. He held out his hand. I shook it and thanked him again. Since hed put the idea in my head, I decided to take the beach walk back to town. It would save me twenty minutes waiting for a taxi I couldnt really afford. I had almost reached the wooden stairs going down to the sand when he called after me. Hey, Jonesy! Want to know something Rozzie wont tell you? Sure, I said. Weve got a spook palace called Horror House. The old Rozola wont go within fifty yards of it. She hates the popups and the torture chamber and the recorded voices, but the real reason is that shes afraid it really might be haunted. Yeah? Yeah. And she aint the only one. Half a dozen folks who work here claim to have seen her. Are you serious? But this was just one of the questions you ask when youre flabbergasted. I could see he was. Id tell you the story, but breaktimes over for me. Ive got some powerpoles to replace on the Devil Wagons, and the safety inspection guys are coming to look at the Thunderball around three. What a pain in the ass those guys are. Ask Shoplaw. When it comes to Joyland, Emmalina Shoplaw knows more than I do. You could say shes a student of the place. Compared to her, Im a newbie. This isnt a joke? A little rubber chicken you toss at all the new hires? Do I look like Im joking? He didnt, but he did look like he was having a good time. He even dropped me a wink. Whats a selfrespecting amusement park without a ghost? Maybe youll see her yourself. The rubes never do, thats for sure. Now hurry along, kiddo. Nail down a room before you catch the bus back to Wilmington. Youll thank me later. With a name like Emmalina Shoplaw, it was hard not to picture a rosycheeked landlady out of a Charles Dickens novel, one who went everywhere at a bosomy bustle and said things like Lor save us. Shed serve tea and scones while a supporting cast of kindhearted eccentrics looked on approvingly; she might even pinch my cheek as we sat roasting chestnuts over a crackling fire. But we rarely get what we imagine in this world, and the gal who answered my ring was tall, fiftyish, flatchested, and as pale as a frosted windowpane. She carried an oldfashioned beanbag ashtray in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. Her mousy brown hair had been done up in fat coils that covered her ears. They made her look like an aging version of a princess in a Grimms fairy tale. I explained why I was there. Going to work at Joyland, huh? Well, I guess you better come in. Do you have references? Not apartment references, noI live in a dorm. But Ive got a work reference from my boss at the Commons. The Commons is the foodservice cafeteria at UNH where I I know what a Commons is. I was born at night, but it wasnt last night. She showed me into the front parlor, a houselong room stuffed with mismatched furniture and dominated by a big tablemodel TV. She pointed at it. Color. My renters are welcome to use itand the parloruntil ten on weeknights and midnight on the weekends. Sometimes I join the kids for a movie or the Saturday afternoon baseball. We have pizza or I make popcorn. Its jolly. Jolly, I thought. As in jolly good. And it sounded jolly good. Tell me, Mr. Jones, do you drink and get noisy? I consider that sort of behavior antisocial, although many dont. No, maam. I drank a little, but rarely got noisy. Usually after a beer or two, I just got sleepy. Asking if you use drugs would be pointless, youd say no whether you do or not, wouldnt you? But of course that sort of thing always reveals itself in time, and when it does, I invite my renters to find fresh accommos. Not even pot, are we clear on that? Yes. She peered at me. You dont look like a pothead. Im not. I have space for four boarders, and only one of those places is currently taken. Miss Ackerley. Shes a librarian. All my rents are single rooms, but theyre far nicer than what youd find at a motel. The one Im thinking of for you is on the second floor. It has its own bathroom and shower, which those on the third floor do not. Theres an outside staircase, too, which is convenient if you have a ladyfriend. I have nothing against ladyfriends, being both a lady and quite friendly myself. Do you have a ladyfriend, Mr. Jones? Yes, but shes working in Boston this summer. Well, perhaps youll meet someone. You know what the song sayslove is all around. I only smiled at that. In the spring of 73, the concept of loving anyone other than Wendy Keegan seemed utterly foreign to me. Youll have a car, I imagine. There are just two parking spaces out back for four tenants, so every summer its first come, first served. Youre first come, and I think youll do. If I find you dont, its down the road youll go. Does that strike you as fair? Yes, maam. Good, because thats the way it is. Ill need the usual first month, last month, damage deposit. She named a figure that also seemed fair. Nevertheless, it was going to make a shambles of my First New Hampshire Trust account. Will you take a check? Will it bounce? No, maam, not quite. She threw back her head and laughed. Then Ill take it, assuming you still want the room once youve seen it. She stubbed out her cigarette and rose. By the way, no smoking upstairsits a matter of insurance. And no smoking in here, once there are tenants in residence. Thats a matter of common politeness. Do you know that old man Easterbrook is instituting a nosmoking policy at the park? I heard that. Hell probably lose business. He might at first. Then he might gain some. Id put my money on Brad. Hes a shrewd guy, carnyfromcarny. I thought to ask her what that meant, exactly, but she had already moved on. Shall we have a peek at the room? A peek at the second floor room was enough to convince me it would be fine. The bed was big, which was good, and the window looked out on the ocean, which was even better. The bathroom was something of a joke, so tiny that when I sat on the commode my feet would be in the shower, but college students with only crumbs in their financial cupboards cant be too picky. And the view was the clincher. I doubted if the rich folks had a better one from their summer places along Heavens Row. I pictured bringing Wendy here, the two of us admiring the view, and then . . . in that big bed with the steady, sleepy beat of the surf outside . . . It. Finally, it. I want it, I said, and felt my cheeks heat up. It wasnt just the room I was talking about. I know you do. Its all over your darn face. As if she knew what I was thinking, and maybe she did. She grinneda big wide one that made her almost Dickensian in spite of her flat bosom and pale skin. Your own little nest. Not the Palace of Versailles, but your own. Not like having a dorm room, is it? Even a single? No, I admitted. I was thinking Id have to talk my dad into putting another five hundred bucks into my bank account, to keep me covered until I started getting paychecks. Hed grouse but come through. I just hoped I wouldnt have to play the Dead Mom card. She had been gone almost four years, but Dad carried half a dozen pictures of her in his wallet, and still wore his wedding ring. Your own job and your own place, she said, sounding a bit dreamy. Thats good stuff, Devin. Do you mind me calling you Devin? Make it Dev. All right, I will. She looked around the little room with its sharply sloping roofit was under an eaveand sighed. The thrill doesnt last long, but while it does, its a fine thing. That sense of independence. I think youll fit in here. Youve got a carny look about you. Youre the second person to tell me that. Then I thought of my conversation with Lane Hardy in the parking lot. Third, actually. And I bet I know who the other two were. Anything else I can show you? The bathrooms not much, I know, but it beats having to take a dump in a dormitory bathroom while a couple of guys at the sinks fart and tell lies about the girls they made out with last night. I burst into roars of laughter, and Mrs. Emmalina Shoplaw joined me. We descended by way of the outside stairs. Hows Lane Hardy? she asked when we got to the bottom. Still wearing that stupid beanie of his? It looked like a derby to me. She shrugged. Beanie, derby, whats the diff? Hes fine, but he told me something . . . She was giving me a headcocked look. Almost smiling, but not quite. He told me the Joyland funhouseHorror House, he called itis haunted. I asked him if he was pulling my leg, and he said he wasnt. He said you knew about it. Did he, now. Yes. He says that when it comes to Joyland, you know more than he does. Well, she said, reaching into the pocket of her slacks and bringing out a pack of Winstons, I know a fair amount. My husband was chief of engineering down there until he took a heart attack and died. When it turned out his life insurance was lousyand borrowed against to the hilt in the bargainI started renting out the top two stories of this place. What else was I going to do? We just had the one kid, and now shes up in New York, working for an ad agency. She lit her cigarette, inhaled, and chuffed it back out as laughter. Working on losing her southern accent, too, but thats another story. This overgrown monstrosity of a house was Howies playtoy, and I never begrudged him. At least its paid off. And I like staying connected to the park, because it makes me feel like Im still connected to him. Can you understand that? Sure. She considered me through a rising raft of cigarette smoke, smiled, and shook her head. Nahyoure being kind, but youre a little too young. I lost my Mom four years ago. My dads still grieving. He says theres a reason wife and life sound almost the same. Ive got school, at least, and my girlfriend. Dads knocking around a house just north of Kittery thats way too big for him. He knows he should sell it and get a smaller one closer to where he workswe both knowbut he stays. So yeah, I know what you mean. Im sorry for your loss, Mrs. Shoplaw said. Some day Ill open my mouth too wide and fall right in. That bus of yours, is it the fiveten? Yes. Well, come on in the kitchen. Ill make you a toasted cheese and microwave you a bowl of tomato soup. Youve got time. And Ill tell you the sad story of the Joyland ghost while you eat, if you want to hear it. Is it really a ghost story? Ive never been in that damn funhouse, so I dont know for sure. But its a murder story. That much I am sure of. The soup was just Campbells out of the can, but the toasted cheese was Muenstermy favoriteand tasted heavenly. She poured me a glass of milk and insisted I drink it. I was, Mrs. Shoplaw said, a growing boy. She sat down opposite me with her own bowl of soup but no sandwich (I have to watch my girlish figure) and told me the tale. Some of it shed gotten from the newspapers and TV reports. The juicier bits came from her Joyland contacts, of whom she had many. It was four years ago, which I guess would make it around the same time your mother died. Do you know what always comes first to my mind when I think about it? The guys shirt. And the gloves. Thinking about those things gives me the creeps. Because it means he planned it. You might be kind of starting in the middle, I said. Mrs. Shoplaw laughed. Yeah, I suppose I am. The name of your supposed ghost is Linda Gray, and she was from Florence. Thats over South Carolina way. She and her boyfriendif thats what he was; the cops checked her background pretty closely and found no trace of himspent her last night on earth at the Luna Inn, half a mile south of here along the beach. They entered Joyland around eleven oclock the next day. He bought them day passes, using cash. They rode some rides and then had a late lunch at Rock Lobster, the seafood place down by the concert hall. That was just past one oclock. As for the time of death, you probably know how they establish it . . . contents of the stomach and so on . . . Yeah. My sandwich was gone, and I turned my attention to the soup. The story wasnt hurting my appetite any. I was twentyone, remember, and although I would have told you different, down deep I was convinced I was never going to die. Not even my mothers death had been able to shake that core belief. He fed her, then he took her on the Carolina Spina slow ride, you know, easy on the digestionand then he took her into Horror House. They went in together, but only he came out. About halfway along the course of the ride, which takes about nine minutes, he cut her throat and threw her out beside the monorail track the cars run on. Threw her out like a piece of trash. He must have known thered be a mess, because he was wearing two shirts, and hed put on a pair of yellow workgloves. They found the top shirtthe one that would have caught most of the bloodabout a hundred yards farther along from the body. The gloves a little farther along still. I could see it first the body, still warm and pulsing, then the shirt, then the gloves. The killer, meanwhile, sits tight and finishes the ride. Mrs. Shoplaw was right, it was creepy. When the ride ended, the son of a bee just got out and walked away. He mopped up the carthat shirt they found was soakingbut he didnt get quite all of the blood. One of the Helpers spotted some on the seat before the next ride started and cleaned it up. Didnt think twice about it, either. Blood on amusement park rides isnt unusual; mostly its some kid who gets overexcited and has a nosegusher. Youll find out for yourself. Just make sure you wear your own gloves when you do the cleanup, in case of diseases. They have em at all the firstaid stations, and there are firstaid stations all over the park. Nobody noticed that he got off the ride without his date? Nope. This was midJuly, the very height of the season, and the place was a swarming madhouse. They didnt find the body until one oclock the next morning, long after the park was closed and the Horror House worklights were turned on. For the graveyard shift, you know. Youll get your chance to experience that; all the Happy Helper crews get cleanup duty one week a month, and you want to catch up on your sleep ahead of time, because that swingshifts a booger. People rode past her until the park closed and didnt see her? If they did, they thought it was just part of the show. But probably the body went unnoticed. Remember, Horror House is a dark ride. The only one in Joyland, as it happens. Other parks have more. A dark ride. That struck a shivery chord, but it wasnt strong enough to keep me from finishing my soup. What about a description of him? Maybe from whoever served them at the restaurant? They had better than that. They had pictures. You want to believe the police made sure they got on TV and printed in the newspapers. How did that happen? The Hollywood Girls, Mrs. Shoplaw said. There are always half a dozen working the park when its going fullblast. Theres never been anything close to a cooch joint at joyland, but old man Easterbrook didnt spend all those years in rolling carnies for nothing. He knows people like a little dash of sex appeal to go with the rides and the corndogs. Theres one Hollywood Girl on each Helper team. Youll get yours, and you and the rest of the guys on your team will be expected to keep a bigbrotherly eye out in case anyone bothers her. They run around in these short green dresses and green high heels and cutiepie green hats that always make me think of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Only theyre the Merry Chicks. They tote Speed Graphic cameras, like the kind you see in old movies, and they take pictures of the rubes. She paused. Although Id advise you against calling the customers that yourself. Already been warned by Mr. Dean, I said. Figures. Anyhow, the Hollywood Girls are told to concentrate on family groups and dating couples who look over twentyone. Kids younger than that usually arent interested in souvenir photos; theyd rather spend their money on food and arcade games. So the deal is, the girls snap first, then approach. She did a breathy little Marilyn Monroe voice.  Hello, welcome to Joyland, Im Karen! If youd like a copy of the picture I just took, give me your name and check at the Hollywood Photo Booth on Hound Dog Way as you exit the park. Like that. One of them took a picture of Linda Gray and her boyfriend at the Annie Oakley Shootin Gallery, but when she approached, the guy gave her the brushoff. A hard brushoff. She told the cops later that he looked like he wouldve taken her camera and broken it, if he thought he could get away with it. Said his eyes gave her chills. Hard and gray, she said. Mrs. Shoplaw smiled and shrugged. Only it turned out he was wearing sunglasses. You know how some girls like to dramatize. As a matter of fact, I did. Wendys friend Renee could turn a routine trip to the dentist into a horrormovie scenario. That was the best picture, but not the only one. The cops went through all the Hollywood Girl snaps from that day and found the Gray girl and her friend in the background of at least four others. In the best of those, theyre standing in line for the Whirly Cups, and hes got his hand on her keister. Pretty chummy for someone none of her family or friends had ever seen before. Too bad there arent closedcircuit TV cameras, I said. My ladyfriend got a job at Filenes in Boston this summer, and she says theyve got a few of those cameras, and are putting in more. To foil shoplifters. A day will come when they have em everywhere, she said. Just like in that science fiction book about the Thought Police. I dont look forward to it, either. But theyll never have them in rides like Horror House. Not even infrared ones that see in the dark. No? Nope. Theres no Tunnel of Love at Joyland, but Horror House is most definitely the Tunnel of Grope. My husband told me once that a day when the graveyard shift cleanup crew didnt find at least three pairs of panties beside the track was a slow day, indeed. But they did have that one great photo of the guy at the shooting gallery. A portrait, almost. It ran in the papers and on TV for a week. Him snuggled up to her hip to hip, showing her how to hold the rifle, the way the guys always do. Everyone in both Carolinas must have seen it. Shes smiling, but he looks dead serious. With his gloves and knife in his pockets the whole time, I said. Marveling at the idea. Razor. Huh? He used a straight razor or something like it, thats what the medical examiner figured. Anyway, they had those photos, including the one great one, and you know what? You cant make his face out in any of them. Because of the sunglasses. For starters. Also a goatee that covered his chin, and a baseball cap, the kind with a long bill, that shaded what little of his face the sunglasses and goatee didnt cover. Could have been anyone. Could have been you, except youre darkhaired instead of blond and dont have a birds head tattooed on one of your hands. This guy did. An eagle or maybe a hawk. It showed up very clearly in the Shootin Gallery pic. They ran a blowup of the tat in the paper for five days running, hoping someone would recognize it. Nobody did. No leads at the inn where they stayed the night before? Uhuh. He showed a South Carolina drivers license when he checked in, but it was stolen a year before. No one even saw her. She must have waited in the car. She was a Jane Doe for almost a week, but the police released a fullface sketch. Made her look like she was just sleeping, not dead with her throat cut. Someonea friend she went to nursing school with, I think it wassaw it and recognized it. She told the girls parents. I cant imagine how they must have felt, coming up here in their car and hoping against hope that when they got to the morgue, it would turn out to be someone elses wellloved child. She shook her head slowly. Kids are such a risk, Dev. Did that ever cross your mind? I guess so. Which means it hasnt. Me . . . I think if they turned back that sheet and it was my daughter lying there, Id lose my mind. You dont think Linda Gray really haunts the funhouse, do you? I cant answer that, because I hold no opinion on the afterlife, pro or con. My feeling is Ill find that stuff out when I get there, and thats good enough for me. All I know is that lots of people who work at Joyland claim to have seen her standing beside the track, wearing what she had on when they found her blue skirt and blue sleeveless blouse. None of them would have seen those colors in the photos they released to the public, because the Speed Graphics the Hollywood Girls use only shoot blackandwhite. Easier and cheaper to develop, I guess. Maybe the color of her clothes was mentioned in the articles. She shrugged. Might have been; I dont remember. But several people have also mentioned that the girl they saw standing by the track was wearing a blue Alice band, and that wasnt in the news stories. They held it back for almost a year, hoping to use it on a likely suspect if they came up with one. Lane said the rubes never see her. No, she only shows up after hours. Its mostly Happy Helpers on the graveyard shift who see her, but I know at least one safety inspector from Raleigh who claims he did, because I had a drink with him at the Sand Dollar. Guy said she was just standing there on his ridethrough. He thought it was a new popup until she raised her hands to him, like this. Mrs. Shoplaw held her hands out with the palms upturned, a supplicatory gesture. He said it felt like the temperature dropped twenty degrees. A cold pocket, he called it. When he turned and looked back, she was gone. I thought of Lane, in his tight jeans, scuffed boots, and tilted tuffboy derby. Truth or horseshit? hed asked. Live or Memorex? I thought the ghost of Linda Gray was almost certainly horseshit, but I hoped it wasnt. I hoped I would see her. It would be a great story to tell Wendy, and in those days, all my thoughts led back to her. If I bought this shirt, would Wendy like it? If I wrote a story about a young girl getting her first kiss while on a horseback ride, would Wendy enjoy it? If I saw the ghost of a murdered girl, would Wendy be fascinated? Maybe enough to want to come down and see for herself? There was a followup story in the Charleston News and Courier about six months after the murder, Mrs. Shoplaw said. Turns out that since 1961, there have been four similar murders in Georgia and the Carolinas. All young girls. One stabbed, three others with their throats cut. The reporter dug up at least one cop who said all of them could have been killed by the guy who murdered Linda Gray. Beware the Funhouse Killer! I said in a deep announcertype voice. Thats exactly what the paper called him. Hungry, werent you? You ate everything but the bowl. Now I think youd better write me that check and beat feet to the bus station, or youre apt to be spending the night on my sofa. Which looked comfortable enough, but I was anxious to get back north. Two days left in spring break, and then Id be back at school with my arm around Wendy Keegans waist. I took out my checkbook, scribbled, and by so doing rented a oneroom apartment with a charming ocean view that Wendy Keeganmy ladyfriendnever got a chance to sample. That room was where I sat up some nights with my stereo turned down low, playing Jimi Hendrix and the Doors, having those occasional thoughts of suicide. They were sophomoric rather than serious, just the fantasies of an overimaginative young man with a heart condition . . . or so I tell myself now, all these years later, but who really knows? When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction. I tried to reach Wendy from the bus station, but her stepmom said she was out with Renee. When the bus got to Wilmington I tried again, but she was still out with Renee. I asked Nadinethe stepmomif she had any idea where they might have gone. Nadine said she didnt. She sounded as if I were the most uninteresting caller shed gotten all day. Maybe all year. Maybe in her life. I got along well enough with Wendys dad, but Nadine Keegan was never one of my biggest fans. FinallyI was in Boston by thenI got Wendy. She sounded sleepy, although it was only eleven oclock, which is the shank of the evening to most college students on spring break. I told her I got the job. Hooray for you, she said. Are you on your way home? Yes, as soon as I get my car. And if it didnt have a flat tire. In those days I was always running on baldies and it seemed one of them was always going flat. A spare, you ask? Pretty funny, seor. I could spend the night in Portsmouth instead of going straight home and see you tomorrow, if Wouldnt be a good idea. Renees staying over, and thats about all the company Nadine can take. You know how sensitive she is about company. Some company, maybe, but I thought Nadine and Renee had always gotten on like a house afire, drinking endless cups of coffee and gossiping about their favorite movie stars as if they were personal friends, but this didnt seem like the time to say so. Ordinarily Id love to talk to you, Dev, but I was getting ready to turn in. Me n Ren had a busy day. Shopping and . . . things. She didnt elaborate on the things part, and I found I didnt care to ask about them. Another warning sign. Love you, Wendy. Love you, too. That sounded perfunctory rather than fervent. Shes just tired, I told myself. I rolled north out of Boston with a distinct feeling of unease. Something about the way she had sounded? That lack of enthusiasm? I didnt know. I wasnt sure I wanted to know. But I wondered. Sometimes even now, all these years later, I wonder. Shes nothing to me these days but a scar and a memory, someone who hurt me as young women will hurt young men from time to time. A young woman from another life. Still I cant help wondering where she was that day. What those things were. And if it was really Renee St. Clair she was with. We could argue about what constitutes the creepiest line in pop music, but for me its early BeatlesJohn Lennon, actuallysinging Id rather see you dead, little girl, than to be with another man. I could tell you I never felt that way about Wendy in the aftermath of the breakup, but it would be a lie. It was never a constant thing, but did I think of her with a certain malevolence in the aftermath of the breakup? Yes. There were long and sleepless nights when I thought she deserved something badmaybe really badto happen to her for the way she hurt me. It dismayed me to think that way, but sometimes I did. And then I would think about the man who went into Horror House with his arm around Linda Gray and wearing two shirts. The man with the bird on his hand and a straight razor in his pocket. In the spring of 1973the last year of my childhood, when I look back on itI saw a future in which Wendy Keegan was Wendy Jones . . . or perhaps Wendy KeeganJones, if she wanted to be modern and keep her maiden name in the mix. There would be a house on a lake in Maine or New Hampshire (maybe western Massachusetts) filled with the clatterandyell of a couple of little KeeganJoneses, a house where I wrote books that werent exactly bestsellers but popular enough to keep us comfortably and werevery importantwell reviewed. Wendy would pursue her dream of opening a small clothing boutique (also well reviewed), and I would teach a few creative writing seminars, the kind gifted students vie to get into. None of this ever happened, of course, so it was fitting that the last time we were together as a couple was in the office of Professor George B. Nako, a man who never was. In the fall of 1968, returning University of New Hampshire students discovered Professor Nakos office under the stairs in the basement of Hamilton Smith Hall. The space was papered with fake diplomas, peculiar watercolors labeled Albanian Art, and seating plans with such names as Elizabeth Taylor, Robert Zimmerman, and Lyndon Beans Johnson penciled into the squares. There were also posted themes from students who never existed. One, I remember, was titled Sex Stars of the Orient. Another was called The Early Poetry of Cthulhu An Analysis. There were three standing ashtrays. A sign taped to the underside of the stairs read PROFESSOR NAKO SEZ THE SMOKING LAMP IS ALWAYS LIT! There were a couple of ratty easy chairs and an equally ratty sofa, very handy for students in search of a comfy makeout spot. The Wednesday before my last final was unseasonably hot and humid. Around one in the afternoon, thunderheads began to build up, and around four, when Wendy had agreed to meet me in George B. Nakos underground office, the skies opened and it began to pour. I got there first. Wendy showed up five minutes later, soaked to the skin but in high good humor. Droplets of water sparkled in her hair. She threw herself into my arms and wriggled against me, laughing. Thunder boomed; the few hanging lights in the gloomy basement hallway flickered. Hug me hug me hug me, she said. That rain is so cold. I warmed her up and she warmed me up. Pretty soon we were tangled together on the ratty sofa, my left hand curled around her and cupping her braless breast, my right far enough up her skirt to brush against silk and lace. She let that one stay there for a minute or two, then sat up, moved away from me, and fluffed her hair. Enough of that, she said primly.


What if Professor Nako came in? I dont think thats likely, do you? I was smiling, but below the belt I was feeling a familiar throb. Sometimes Wendy would relieve that throbshe had become quite expert at what we used to call a throughthepants jobbut I didnt think this was going to be one of those days. One of his students, then, she said. Begging for a lastchance passing grade. Please, Professor Nako, pleasepleaseplease, Ill do anything.  That wasnt likely, either, but the chances of being interrupted were good, she was right about that. Students were always dropping by to put up new bogus themes or fresh works of Albanian art. The sofa was makeout friendly, but the locale wasnt. Once, maybe, but not since the understairs nook had become a kind of mythic referencepoint for students in the College of Liberal Arts. How was your sociology final? I asked her. Okay. I doubt if I aced it, but I know I passed it and thats good enough for me. Especially since its the last one. She stretched, fingers touching the zigzag of the stairs above us and lifting her breasts most entrancingly. Im out of here in . . . She looked at her watch. . . .exactly one hour and ten minutes. You and Renee? I had no great liking for Wendys roommate, but knew better than to say so. The one time I had, Wendy and I had had a brief, bitter argument in which she accused me of trying to manage her life. That is correct, sir. Shell drop me at my dad and stepmoms. And in one week, were official Filenes employees! She made it sound as if the two of them had landed jobs as pages at the White House, but I held my peace on that, too. I had other concerns. Youre still coming up to Berwick on Saturday, right? The plan was for her to arrive in the morning, spend the day, and stay over. Shed be in the guest bedroom, of course, but that was only a dozen steps down the hall. Given the fact that we might not see each other again until fall, I thought the possibility of it happening was very strong. Of course, little children believe in Santa Claus, and UNH freshmen sometimes went a whole semester believing that George B. Nako was a real professor, teaching real English courses. Absoloodle. She looked around, saw no one, and slipped a hand up my thigh. When it reached the crotch of my jeans, she tugged gently on what she found there. Come here, you. So I got my throughthepants job after all. It was one of her better efforts, slow and rhythmic. The thunder rolled, and at some point the sigh of the pouring rain became a hard, hollow rattle as it turned to hail. At the end she squeezed, heightening and prolonging the pleasure of my orgasm. Make sure to get good and wet when you go back to your dorm, or the whole world will know exactly what we were doing down here. She bounced to her feet. I have to go, Dev. Ive still got some things to pack. Ill pick you up at noon on Saturday. My dads making his famous chicken casserole for supper. She once more said absoloodle; like standing on her tiptoes to kiss me, it was a Wendy Keegan trademark. Only on Friday night I got a call from her saying that Renees plans had changed and they were leaving for Boston two days early. Im sorry, Dev, but shes my ride. Theres always the bus, I said, already knowing that wasnt going to work. I promised, honey. And we have tickets for Pippin, at the Imperial. Renees dad got them for us, as a surprise. She paused. Be happy for me. Youre going all the way to North Carolina, and Im happy for you. Happy, I said. Rogerwilco. Thats better. Her voice dropped, became confidential. Next time were together, Ill make it up to you. Promise. That was a promise she never kept but one she never had to break, either, because I never saw Wendy Keegan after that day in Professor Nakos office. There wasnt even a final phone call filled with tears and accusations. That was on Tom Kennedys advice (well get to him shortly), and it was probably a good thing. Wendy might have been expecting such a call, maybe even wished for it. If so, she was disappointed. I hope she was. All these years later, with those old fevers and deliriums long in my past, I still hope she was. Love leaves scars. I never produced the books I dreamed of, those wellreviewed almostbestsellers, but I do make a pretty good living as a writer, and I count my blessings; thousands are not so lucky. Ive moved steadily up the income ladder to where I am now, working at Commercial Flight, a periodical youve probably never heard of. A year after I took over as editorinchief, I found myself back on the UNH campus. I was there to attend a twoday symposium on the future of trade magazines in the twentyfirst century. During a break on the second day, I strolled over to Hamilton Smith Hall on a whim and peeked under the basement stairs. The themes, celebritystudded seating charts, and Albanian artwork were gone. So were the chairs, the sofa, and the standing ashtrays. And yet someone remembered. Scotchtaped to the underside of the stairs, where there had once been a sign proclaiming that the smoking lamp was always lit, I saw a sheet of paper with a single typed line in print so small I had to lean close and stand on tiptoe in order to read it Professor Nako now teaches at the Hogwarts Sohool of Witchcraft and Wizardry Well, why not? Why the fuck not? As for Wendy, your guess is as good as mine. I suppose I could use Google, that twentyfirst century Magic 8Ball, to chase her down and find out if she ever realized her dream, the one of owning the exclusive little boutique, but to what purpose? Gone is gone. Over is over. And after my stint in Joyland (just down the beach from a town called Heavens Bay, lets not forget that), my broken heart seemed a lot less important. Mike and Annie Ross had a lot to do with that. My dad and I ended up eating his famous chicken casserole with no third party in attendance, which was probably all right with Timothy Jones; although he tried to hide it out of respect for me, I knew his feelings about Wendy were about the same as mine about Wendys friend Renee. At the time, I thought it was because he was a bit jealous of Wendys place in my life. Now I think he saw her more clearly than I could. I cant say for sure; we never talked about it. Im not sure men know how to talk about women in any meaningful way. After the meal was eaten and the dishes washed, we sat on the couch, drinking beer, eating popcorn, and watching a movie starring Gene Hackman as a tough cop with a foot fetish. I missed Wendyprobably at that moment listening to the Pippin company sing Spread a Little Sunshinebut there are advantages to the twoguy scenario, such as being able to belch and fart without trying to cover it up. The next daymy last at homewe went for a walk along the disused railroad tracks that passed through the woods behind the house where I grew up. Moms hard and fast rule had been that my friends and I had to stay away from those tracks. The last GSWM freight had passed along them ten years before, and weeds were growing up between the rusty ties, but that made no difference to Mom. She was convinced that if we played there, one last train (call it the KidEating Special) would go bulleting through and turn us all to paste. Only she was the one who got hit by an unscheduled trainmetastatic breast cancer at the age of fortyseven. One mean fucking express. Ill miss having you around this summer, my dad said. Ill miss you, too. Oh! Before I forget. He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a check. Be sure to open an account and deposit it first thing. Ask them to speed the clearance, if they can. I looked at the amount not the five hundred Id asked for, but a thousand. Dad, can you afford this? Yes. Mostly because you held onto your Commons job, and that saved me having to try and make up the difference. Think of it as a bonus. I kissed his cheek, which was scratchy. He hadnt shaved that morning. Thanks. Kid, youre more welcome than you know. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes matteroffactly, without embarrassment. Sorry about the waterworks. Its hard when your kids go away. Someday youll find that out for yourself, but hopefully youll have a good woman to keep you company after theyre gone. I thought of Mrs. Shoplaw saying Kids are such a risk. Dad, are you going to be okay? He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and gave me a grin, sunny and unforced. Call me once in a while, and I will be. Also, dont let them put you to work climbing all over one of their damned roller coasters. That actually sounded sort of exciting, but I told him I wouldnt. And But I never heard what he meant to say next, advice or admonition. He pointed. Will you look at that! Fifty yards ahead of us, a doe had come out of the woods. She stepped delicately over one rusty GSWM track and onto the railbed, where the weeds and goldenrod were so high they brushed against her sides. She paused there, looking at us calmly, ears cocked forward. What I remember about that moment was the silence. No bird sang, no plane went droning overhead. If my mother had been with us, shed have had her camera and would have been taking pictures like mad. Thinking of that made me miss her in a way I hadnt in years. I gave my father a quick, fierce hug. I love you, Dad. I know, he said. I know. When I looked back, the deer was gone. A day later, so was I. When I got back to the big gray house at the end of Main Street in Heavens Bay, the sign made of shells had been taken down and put in storage, because Mrs. Shoplaw had a full house for the summer. I blessed Lane Hardy for telling me to nail down a place to live. Joylands summer troops had arrived, and every rooming house in town was full. I shared the second floor with Tina Ackerley, the librarian. Mrs. Shoplaw had rented the accommodations on the third floor to a willowy redheaded art major named Erin Cook and a stocky undergrad from Rutgers named Tom Kennedy. Erin, who had taken photography courses both in high school and at Bard, had been hired as a Hollywood Girl. As for Tom and me . . . Happy Helpers, he said. General employment, in other words. Thats what that guy Fred Dean checked on my application. You? The same, I said. I think it means were janitors. I doubt it. Really? Why? Because were white, he said, and although we did our share of cleanup chores, he turned out to be largely correct. The custodial crewtwenty men and over thirty women who dressed in coveralls with Howie the Happy Hound patches sewn on the breast pocketswere all Haitians and Dominicans, and almost surely undocumented. They lived in their own little village ten miles inland and were shuttled back and forth in a pair of retired school buses. Tom and I were making four dollars an hour; Erin a little more. God knows what the cleaners were making. They were exploited, of course, and saying that there were undocumented workers all over the south who had it far worse doesnt excuse it, nor does pointing out that it was forty years ago. Although there was this they never had to put on the fur. Neither did Erin. Tom and I did. On the night before our first day at work, the three of us were sitting in the parlor of Maison Shoplaw, getting to know each other and speculating on the summer ahead. As we talked, the moon rose over the Atlantic, as calmly beautiful as the doe my father and I had seen standing on the old railroad tracks. Its an amusement park, for Gods sake, Erin said. How tough can it be? Easy for you to say, Tom told her. No ones going to expect you to hose down the Whirly Cups after every brat in Cub Scout Pack 18 loses his lunch halfway through the ride. Ill pitch in where I have to, she said. If it includes mopping up vomit as well as snapping pictures, so be it. I need this job. Ive got grad school staring me in the face next year, and Im exactly two steps from broke. We all ought to try and get on the same team, Tom saidand, as it turned out, we did. All the work teams at Joyland had doggy names, and ours was Team Beagle. Just then Emmalina Shoplaw entered the parlor, carrying a tray with five champagne flutes on it. Miss Ackerley, a beanpole with huge bespectacled eyes that gave her a Joyce Carol Oatesian look, walked beside her, bottle in hand. Tom Kennedy brightened. Do I spy French ginger ale? That looks just a Ieetle too elegant to be supermarket plonk. Champagne it is, Mrs. Shoplaw said, although if youre expecting Moet et Chandon, young Mr. Kennedy, youre in for a disappointment. This isnt Cold Duck, but its not the highpriced spread, either. I cant speak for my new coworkers, Tom said, but as someone who educated his palate on Apple Zapple, I dont think Ill be disappointed. Mrs. Shoplaw smiled. I always mark the beginning of summer this way, for good luck. It seems to work. I havent lost a seasonal hire yet. Each of you take a glass, please. We did as we were told. Tina, will you pour? When the flutes were full, Mrs. Shoplaw raised hers and we raised ours. Here is to Erin, Tom, and Devin, she said. May they have a wonderful summer, and wear the fur only when the temperature is below eighty degrees. We clinked glasses and drank. Maybe not the highpriced spread, but pretty damned good, and with enough left for us all to have another swallow. This time it was Tom who offered the toast. Heres to Mrs. Shoplaw, who gives us shelter from the storm! Why, thank you, Tom, thats lovely. It wont get you a discount on the rent, though. We drank. I set my glass down feeling just the tiniest bit buzzy. What is this about wearing the fur? I asked. Mrs. Shoplaw and Miss Ackerley looked at each other and smiled. It was the librarian who answered, although it wasnt really an answer at all. Youll find out, she said. Dont stay up late, children, Mrs. Shoplaw advised. Youve got an early call. Your career in show business awaits. The call was early seven AM, two hours before the park opened its doors on another summer. The three of us walked down the beach together. Tom talked most of the way. He always talked. It would have been wearisome if he hadnt been so amusing and relentlessly cheerful. I could see from the way Erin (walking in the surf with her sneakers dangling from the fingers of her left hand) looked at him that she was charmed and fascinated. I envied Tom his ability to do that. He was heavyset and at least three doors down from handsome, but he was energetic and possessed of the gift of gab I sadly lacked. Remember the old joke about the starlet who was so clueless she fucked the writer? Man, how much do you think the people who own those places are worth? he asked, waving an arm at the houses on Beach Row. We were just passing the big green one that looked like a castle, but there was no sign of the woman and the boy in the wheelchair that day. Annie and Mike Ross came later. Millions, probably, Erin said. It aint the Hamptons, but as my dad would say, it aint cheeseburgers. The amusement park probably brings the property values down a little, I said. I was looking at Joylands three most distinctive landmarks, silhouetted against the blue morning sky Thunderball, Delirium Shaker, Carolina Spin. Nah, you dont understand the richguy mindset, Tom said. Its like when they pass bums looking for handouts on the street. They just erase em from their field of vision. Bums? What bums? And that park, same dealwhat park? People who own these houses live, like, on another plane of existence. He stopped, shading his eyes and looking at the green Victorian that was going to play such a large part in my life that fall, after Erin Cook and Tom Kennedy, by then a couple, had gone back to school. That ones gonna be mine. Ill be expecting to take possession on . . . mmm . . . June first, 1987. Ill bring the champagne, Erin said, and we all laughed. I saw Joylands entire crew of summer hires in one place for the first and last time that morning. We gathered in Surf Auditorium, the concert hall where all those Blist country acts and aging rockers performed. There were almost two hundred of us. Most, like Tom, Erin, and me, were college students willing to work for peanuts. Some of the fulltimers were there, as well. I saw Rozzie Gold, today dressed for work in her gypsy duds and dangly earrings. Lane Hardy was up on stage, placing a mike at the podium and then checking it with a series of thudding fingertaps. His derby was present and accounted for, cocked at its usual justso angle. I dont know how he picked me out in all those milling kids, but he did, and sketched a little salute off the tilted brim of his lid. I sent him one right back. He finished his work, nodded, jumped off the stage, and took the seat Rozzie had been saving for him. Fred Dean walked briskly out from the wings. Be seated, please, all of you be seated. Before you get your team assignments, the owner of Joylandand your employerwould like to say a few words. Please give a hand to Mr. Bradley Easterbrook. We did as we were told, and an old man emerged from the wings, walking with the careful, highstepping strides of someone with bad hips, a bad back, or both. He was tall and amazingly thin, dressed in a black suit that made him look more like an undertaker than a man who owned an amusement park. His face was long, pale, covered with bumps and moles. Shaving must have been torture for him, but he had a clean one. Ebony hair that had surely come out of a bottle was swept back from his deeply lined brow. He stood beside the podium, his enormous handsthey seemed to be nothing but knucklesclasped before him. His eyes were set deep in pouched sockets. Age looked at youth, and youths applause first weakened, then died. Im not sure what we expected; possibly a mournful foghorn voice telling us that the Red Death would soon hold sway over all. Then he smiled, and it lit him up like a jukebox. You could almost hear a sigh of relief rustle through the summer hires. I found out later that was the summer Bradley Easterbrook turned ninetythree. You guys, he said, welcome to Joyland. And then, before stepping behind the podium, he actually bowed to us. He took several seconds adjusting the mike, which produced a series of amplified screeks and scronks. He never took his sunken eyes from us as he did it. I see many returning faces, a thing that always makes me happy. For you greenies, I hope this will be the best summer of your lives, the yardstick by which you judge all your future employment. That is no doubt an extravagant wish, but anyone who runs a place like this year in and year out must have a wide streak of extravagance. For certain youll never have another job like it. He surveyed us, giving the poor mikes articulated neck another twist as he did so. In a few moments, Mr. Dean and Mrs. Brenda Rafferty, who is queen of the front office, will give you your team assignments. There will be seven of you to a team, and you will be expected to act as a team and work as a team. Your teams tasks will be assigned by your team leader and will vary from week to week, sometimes from day to day. If variety is the spice of life, you will find the next three months very spicy, indeed. I hope you will keep one thought foremost in your mind, young ladies and gentlemen. Will you do that? He paused as if expecting us to answer, but nobody made a sound. We only looked at him, a very old man in a black suit and a white shirt open at the collar. When he spoke again, it might have been himself he was talking to, at least to begin with. This is a badly broken world, full of wars and cruelty and senseless tragedy. Every human being who inhabits it is served his or her portion of unhappiness and wakeful nights. Those of you who dont already know that will come to know it. Given such sad but undeniable facts of the human condition, you have been given a priceless gift this summer you are here to sell fun. In exchange for the hardearned dollars of your customers, you will parcel out happiness. Children will go home and dream of what they saw here and what they did here. I hope you will remember that when the work is hard, as it sometimes will be, or when people are rude, as they often will be, or when you feel your best efforts have gone unappreciated. This is a different world, one that has its own customs and its own language, which we simply call the Talk. Youll begin learning it today. As you learn to talk the Talk, youll learn to walk the walk. Im not going to explain that, because it cant be explained; it can only be learned. Tom leaned close to me and whispered, Talk the talk? Walk the walk? Did we just wander into an AA meeting? I hushed him. I had come in expecting to get a list of commandments, mostly thou shalt nots; instead I had gotten a kind of rough poetry, and I was delighted. Bradley Easterbrook surveyed us, then suddenly displayed those horsey teeth in another grin. This one looked big enough to eat the world. Erin Cook was staring at him raptly. So were most of the new summer hires. It was the way students stare at a teacher who offers a new and possibly wonderful way of looking at reality. I hope youll enjoy your work here, but when you dontwhen, for instance, its your turn to wear the furtry to remember how privileged you are. In a sad and dark world, we are a little island of happiness. Many of you already have plans for your livesyou hope to become doctors, lawyers, I dont know, politicians OHGODNO! someone shouted, to general laughter. I would have said Easterbrooks grin could not possibly have widened, but it did. Tom was shaking his head, but he had also given in. Okay, now I get it, he whispered in my ear. This guy is the Jesus of Fun. Youll have interesting, fruitful lives, my young friends. Youll do many good things and have many remarkable experiences. But I hope youll always look back on your time in Joyland as something special. We dont sell furniture. We dont sell cars. We dont sell land or houses or retirement funds. We have no political agenda. We sell fun. Never forget that. Thank you for your attention. Now go forth. He stepped away from the podium, gave another bow, and left the stage in that same painful, highstepping stride. He was gone almost before the applause began. It was one of the best speeches I ever heard, because it was truth rather than horseshit. I mean, listen how many rubes can put sold fun for three months in 1973 on their resumes? All the team leaders were longtime Joyland employees who worked the carny circuit as showies in the offseason. Most were also on the Park Services Committee, which meant they had to deal with state and federal regulations (both very loose in 1973), and field customer complaints. That summer most of the complaints were about the new nosmoking policy. Our team leader was a peppy little guy named Gary Allen, a seventysomething who ran the Annie Oakley Shootin Gallery. Only none of us called it that after the first day. In the Talk, a shooting gallery was a bangshy and Gary was the bangshy agent. The seven of us on Team Beagle met him at his joint, where he was setting out rifles on chains. My first official Joyland jobalong with Erin, Tom, and the other four guys on the teamwas putting the prizes on the shelves. The ones that got pride of place were the big fuzzy stuffed animals that hardly anyone ever won . . . although, Gary said, he was careful to give out at least one every evening when the tip was hot. I like the marks, he said. Yes I do. And the marks I like the best are the points, by which I mean the purty girls, and the points I like the best are the ones who wear the lowcut tops and bend forrad to shoot like this. He snatched up a .22 modified to shoot BBs (it had also been modified to make a loud and satisfying bang with each triggerpull) and leaned forward to demonstrate. When a guy does that, I notify em that theyre foulin the line. The points? Never. Ronnie Houston, a bespectacled, anxiouslooking young man wearing a Florida State University cap, said I dont see any foulline, Mr. Allen. Gary looked at him, hands fisted on nonexistent hips. His jeans seemed to be staying up in defiance of gravity. Listen up, son, I got three things for you. Ready? Ronnie nodded. He looked like he wanted to take notes. He also looked like he wanted to hide behind the rest of us. First thing. You can call me Gary or Pops or come here you old sonofabitch, but I aint no schoolteacher, so can the mister. Second thing. I never want to see that fucking schoolboy hat on your head again. Third thing. The foul line is wherever I say the foul line is on any given night. I can do that because its in my myyyyynd. He tapped one sunken, veingnarled temple to make this point perfectly clear, then waved at the prizes, the targets, and the counter where the coniesthe rubeslaid down their mooch. This is all in my myyyyynd. The shy is mental. Geddit? Ronnie didnt, but he nodded vigorously. Now whip off that turdishlooking schoolboy hat. Get you a Joyland visor or a Howie the Happy Hound dogtop. Make it Job One. Ronnie whipped off his FSU lid with alacrity, and stuck it in his back pocket. Later that dayI believe within the hourhe replaced it with a Howie cap, known in the Talk as a dogtop. After three days of ribbing and being called greenie, he took his new dogtop out to the parking lot, found a nice greasy spot, and trompled it for a while. When he put it back on, it had the right look. Or almost. Ronnie Houston never got the complete right look; some people were just destined to be greenies forever. I remember Tom sidling up to him one day and suggesting that he needed to piss on it a little to give it that final touch that means so much. When he saw Ronnie was on the verge of taking him seriously, Tom backpedaled and said just soaking it in the Atlantic would achieve the same effect. Meanwhile, Pops was surveying us. Speaking of goodlooking ladies, I perceive we have one among us. Erin smiled modestly. Hollywood Girl, darlin? Thats what Mr. Dean said Id be doing, yes. Then you want to go see Brenda Rafferty. Shes secondincommand around here, and shes also the park Girl Mom. Shell get you fitted up with one of those cute green dresses. Tell her you want yours extrashort. The hell I will, you old lecher, Erin said, and promptly joined him when he threw back his head and bellowed laughter. Pert! Sassy! Do I like it? I do! When youre not snappin pix of the conies, you come on back to your Pops and Ill find you something to do . . . but change out of the dress first. You dont get grease or sawdust on it. Kapish? Yes, Erin said. She was all business again. Pops Allen looked at his watch. Park opens in one hour, kiddies, then youll learn while you earn. Start with the rides. He pointed to us one by one, naming rides. I got the Carolina Spin, which pleased me. Got time for a question or two, but no moren that. Anybody got one or are you good to go? I raised my hand. He nodded at me and asked my name. Devin Jones, sir. Call me sir again and youre fired, lad. Devin Jones, Pops. I certainly wasnt going to call him come here you old sonofoabitch, at least not yet. Maybe when we knew each other better. There you go, he said, nodding. Whats on your mind, Jonesy? Besides that foine head of red hair? Whats carnyfromcarny mean? Means youre like old man Easterbrook. His father worked the carny circuit back in the Dust Bowl days, and his grandfather worked it back when they had a fake Indian show featuring Big Chief Yowlatcha.  You got to be kidding! Tom exclaimed, almost exultantly. Pops gave him a cool stare that settled Tom downa thing not always easy to do. Son, do you know what history is? Uh . . . stuff that happened in the past? Nope, he said, tying on his canvas changebelt. History is the collective and ancestral shit of the human race, a great big and evergrowin pile of crap. Right now were standin at the top of it, but pretty soon well be buried under the doodoo of generations yet to come. Thats why your folks clothes look so funny in old photographs, to name but a single example. And, as someone whos destined to be buried beneath the shit of your children and grandchildren, I think you should be just a leetle more forgiving. Tom opened his mouth, probably to make a smart comeback, then wisely closed it again. George Preston, another member of Team Beagle, spoke up. Are you carnyfromcarny? Nope. My daddy was a cattle rancher in Oregon; now my brothers run the spread. Im the black sheep of the family, and damn proud of it. Okay, if theres nothing else, its time to quit the foolishness and get down to business. Can I ask one thing more? Erin asked. Only because youre purty. What does wearing the fur mean? Pops Allen smiled. He placed his hands on the moochcounter of his shy. Tell me, little lady, do you have an idea what it might mean? Well . . . yes. The smile widened into a grin that showed every yellowing fang in our new team leaders mouth. Then youre probably right. What did I do at Joyland that summer? Everything. Sold tickets. Pushed a popcorn wagon. Sold funnel cakes, cotton candy, and a zillion hot dogs (which we called Hound Dogsyou probably knew that). It was a Hound Dog that got my picture in the paper, as a matter of fact, although I wasnt the guy who sold that unlucky pup; George Preston did. I worked as a lifeguard, both on the beach and at Happy Lake, the indoor pool where the Splash  Crash water slide ended. I linedanced in the WiggleWaggle Village with the other members of Team Beagle to Bird Dance Beat, Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight, RippyRappy, ZippyZappy, and a dozen other nonsense songs. I also did timemost of it happyas an unlicensed childminder. In the WiggleWaggle, the approved rallying cry when faced with a bawling kiddie was Lets turn that frown upsidedown! and I not only liked it, I got good at it. It was in the WiggleWaggle that I decided having kids at some point in the future was an actual Good Idea rather than a Wendyflavored daydream. Iand all the other Happy Helperslearned to race from one side of Joyland to the other in nothing flat, using either the alleys behind the shys, joints, rides, and concessions or one of three servicetunnels known as Joyland Under, Hound Dog Under, and the Boulevard. I hauled trash by the ton, usually driving it in an electric cart down the Boulevard, a shadowy and sinister thoroughfare lit by ancient fluorescent barlights that stuttered and buzzed. I even worked a few times as a roadie, hauling amps and monitors when one of the acts showed up late and unsupported. I learned to talk the Talk. Some of itlike bally for a free show, or gone larry for a ride that had broken downwas pure carny, and as old as the hills. Other termslike points for purty girls and fumps for the chronic complainerswere strictly Joyland lingo. I suppose other parks have their own version of the Talk, but underneath its always carnyfromcarny. A hammersquash is a cony (usually a fump) who bitches about having to wait in line. The last hour of the day (at Joyland, that was ten PM to eleven) was the blowoff. A cony who loses at some shy and wants his mooch back is a moochhammer. The donniker is the bathroom, as in Hey Jonesy, hustle down to the donniker by the Moon Rocketsome dumb fump just puked in one of the sinks. Running the concessions (known as joints) came easy to most of us, and really, anyone who can make change is qualified to push the popcorn wagon or work the counter of a souvenir shop. Learning to ridejock wasnt much more difficult, but it was scary at first, because there were lives in your hands, many those of little children. Here for your lesson? Lane Hardy asked me when I joined him at the Carolina Spin. Good. Just in time. Park opens in twenty minutes. We do it the way they do in the navysee one, do one, teach one. Right now that heavyset kid you were standing next to Tom Kennedy. Okay. Right now Toms over learning the Devil Wagons.


At some pointprobably this very dayhes gonna teach you how to run the ride, and youll teach him how to run the Spin. Which, by the way, is an Aussie Wheel, meaning it runs counterclockwise. Is that important? Nope, he said, but I think its interesting. There are only a few in the States. It has two speeds slow and really slow. Because its a grandma ride. Correctamundo. He demonstrated with the long stick shift Id seen him operating on the day I got my job, then made me take over the stick with the bicycle handgrip at the top. Feel it click when its in gear? Yes. Heres stop. He put his hand over mine and pulled the lever all the way up. This time the click was harder, and the enormous wheel stopped at once, the cars rocking gently. With me so far? I guess so. Listen, dont I need a permit or a license or something to run this thing? You got a license, dont you? Sure, a Maine drivers license, but In South Carolina, a valid DLs all you need. Theyll get around to additional regulations in timethey always dobut for this year, at least, youre good to go. Now pay attention, because this is the most important part. Do you see that yellow stripe on the side of the housing? I did. It was just to the right of the ramp leading up to the ride. Each car has a Happy Hound decal on the door. When you see the Hound lining up with the yellow stripe, you pull stop, and therell be a car right where the folks get on. He yanked the lever forward again. See? I said I did. Until the wheels tipsed What? Loaded. Tipsed means loaded. Dont ask me why. Until the wheels tipsed, you just alternate between superslow and stop. Once youve got a full loadwhich youll have most of the time, if we have a good seasonyou go to the normal slow speed. They get four minutes. He pointed to his suitcase radio. Its my boomie, but the rule is when you run the ride, you control the tunes. Just no real blasting rock and rollWho, Zep, Stones, stuff like thatuntil after the sun goes down. Got it? Yeah. What about letting them off? Exactly the same. Superslow, stop. Superslow, stop. Always line up the yellow stripe with the Happy Hound, and youll always have a car right at the ramp. You should be able to get ten spins an hour. If the wheels loaded each time, thats over seven hundred customers, which comes to almost a dnote. Which is what, in English? Five hundred. I looked at him uncertainly. I wont really have to do this, will I? I mean, its your ride. Its Brad Easterbrooks ride, kiddo. They all are. Im just another employee, although Ive been here a few years. Ill run the hoister most of the time, but not all of the time. And hey, stop sweating. There are carnies where halfdrunk bikers covered with tattoos do this, and if they can, you can. If you say so. Lane pointed. Gatesre open and here come the conies, rolling down Joyland Avenue. Youre going to stick with me for the first three rides. Later on you teach the rest of your team, and that includes your Hollywood Girl. Okay? It wasnt even close to okayI was supposed to send people a hundred and seventy feet in the air after a fiveminute tutorial? It was insane. He gripped my shoulder. You can do this, Jonesy. So never mind if you say so. Tell me its okay. Its okay, I said. Good boy. He turned on his radio, now hooked to a speaker high on the Spins frame. The Hollies began to sing Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress as Lane took a pair of rawhide gloves from the back pocket of his jeans. And get you a pair of theseyoure going to need them. Also, you better start learning how to pitch. He bent down, grabbed a handheld mike from the everpresent orange crate, put one foot up, and began to work the crowd. Hey folks welcome in, time to take a little spin, hurry hurry, summer wont last forever, take a ride upstairs where the air is rare, this is where the fun begins, step over here and ride the Spin. He lowered the mike and gave me a wink. Thats my pitch, more or less; give me a drink or three and it gets a lot better. You work out your own. The first time I ran the Spin by myself, my hands were shaking with terror, but by the end of that first week I was running it like a pro (although Lane said my pitch needed a lot of work). I was also capable of running the Whirly Cups and the Devil Wagons . . . although ridejocking the latter came down to little more than pushing the green START button, the red STOP button, and getting the cars untangled when the rubes got them stuck together against the rubber bumpers, which was at least four times during each fourminute ride. Only when you were running the Devil Wagons, you didnt call them rides; each run was a spree. I learned the Talk; I learned the geography, both above and below ground; I learned how to run a joint, take over a shy, and award plushies to goodlooking points. It took a week or so to get most of it down, and it was two weeks before I started getting comfortable. Wearing the fur, however, I understood by twelvethirty on my first day, and it was just my luckgood or badthat Bradley Easterbrook happened to be in WiggleWaggle Village at the time, sitting on a bench and eating his usual lunch of bean sprouts and tofuhardly amusement park chow, but lets keep in mind that the mans foodprocessing system hadnt been new since the days of bathtub gin and flappers. After my first impromptu performance as Howie the Happy Hound, I wore the fur a lot. Because I was good at it, you see. And Mr. Easterbrook knew I was good at it. I was wearing it a month or so later, when I met the little girl in the red hat on Joyland Avenue. That first day was a madhouse, all right. I ran the Carolina Spin with Lane until ten oclock, then alone for the next ninety minutes while he rushed around the park putting out opening day fires. By then I no longer believed the wheel was going to malfunction and start running out of control, like the merrygoround in that old Alfred Hitchcock movie. The most terrifying thing was how trusting people were. Not a single dad with kids in tow detoured to my pitch to ask if I knew what I was doing. I didnt get as many spins as I should haveI was concentrating so hard on that damn yellow stripe that I gave myself a headachebut every spin I did get was tipsed. Erin came by once, pretty as a picture in her green Hollywood Girl dress, and took pictures of some of the family groups waiting to get on. She took one of me, tooI still have it somewhere. When the wheel was turning again, she gripped me by the arm, little beads of sweat standing out on her forehead, her lips parted in a smile, her eyes shining. Is this great, or what? she asked. As long as I dont kill anybody, yeah, I said. If some little kid falls out of a car, just make sure you catch him. Then, having given me something new to obsess about, she jogged off in search of new photo subjects. There was no shortage of people willing to pose for a gorgeous redhead on a summer morning. And she was right, actually. It was pretty great. Around eleventhirty, Lane came back. By that point, I was comfortable enough ridejocking the Spin to turn the rudimentary controls over to him with some reluctance. Whos your team leader, Jonesy? Gary Allen? Thats right. Well, go on over to his bangshy and see what hes got for you. If youre lucky, hell send you down to the boneyard for lunch. Whats the boneyard? Where the help goes when theyve got time off. Most carnies, its the parking lot or out behind the trucks, but Joylands lux. Theres a nice breakroom where the Boulevard and Hound Dog Under connect. Take the stairs between the balloonpitch and the knifeshow. Youll like it, but you only eat if Pop says its okay. I aint getting in dutch with that old bastard. His team is his team; I got my own. You got a dinner bucket? Didnt know I was supposed to bring one. He grinned. Youll learn. For today, stop at Ernies jointthe fried chicken place with the big plastic rooster on top. Show him your Joyland ID card and hell give you the company discount. I did end up eating fried chicken at Ernies, but not until two that afternoon. Pop had other plans for me. Go by the costume shopits the trailer between Park Services and the carpentry shop. Tell Dottie Lassen I sent you. Damn womans busting her girdle. Want me to help you reload first? The Shootin Gallery was also tipsed, the counter crowded with high school kids anxious to win those elusive plushies. More rubes (so I was already thinking of them) were lined up three deep behind the current shooters. Pop Allens hands never stopped moving as he talked to me. What I want is for you to get on your pony and ride. I was doin this shit long before you were born. Which one are you, anyway, Jonesy or Kennedy? I know youre not the dingbat in the collegeboy hat, but beyond that I cant remember. Im Jonesy. Well, Jonesy, youre going to spend an edifying hour in the WiggleWaggle. Itll be edifying for the kiddies, anyhow. For you, maybe not so much. He bared his yellow fangs in a trademark Pop Allen grin, the one that made him look like an elderly shark. Enjoy that fur suit. The costume shop was also a madhouse, filled with women running every whichway. Dottie Lassen, a skinny lady who needed a girdle like I needed elevator shoes, fell on me the second I walked through the door. She hooked her longnailed fingers into my armpit and dragged me past clown costumes, cowboy costumes, a huge Uncle Sam suit (with stilts leaning beside it against the wall), a couple of princess outfits, a rack of Hollywood Girl dresses, and a rack of oldfashioned Gay Nineties bathing suits . . . which, I found out, we were condemned to wear when on lifeguard duty. At the very back of her crowded little empire were a dozen deflated dogs. Howies, in fact, complete with the Happy Hounds delighted stupidandlovingit grin, his big blue eyes, and his fuzzy cocked ears. Zippers ran down the backs of the suits from the neck to the base of the tail. Christ, youre a big one, Dottie said. Thank God I got the extralarge mended last week. The last kid who wore it ripped it out under both arms. There was a hole under the tail, too. He must have been eating Mexican food. She snatched the XL Howie off the rack and slammed it into my arms. The tail curled around my leg like a python. Youre going to the WiggleWaggle, and I mean chopfuckingchop. Butch Hadley was supposed to take care of that from Team Corgior so I thoughtbut he says his whole teams out with a key to the midway. I had no idea what that meant, and Dottie gave me no time to ask. She rolled her eyes in a way that indicated either good humor or the onset of madness, and continued. You say Whats the big deal? Ill tell you whats the big deal, greenie Mr. Easterbrook usually eats his lunch there, he always eats it there on the first day were running fullout, and if theres no Howie, hell be very disappointed. Like as in someone will get fired? No, as in very disappointed. Stick around awhile and youll know thats plenty bad enough. No one wants to disappoint him, because hes a great man. Which is nice, I suppose, but whats more important is hes a good guy. In this business, good guys are scarcer than hens teeth. She looked at me and made a sound like a small animal with its paw caught in a trap. Dear Christ, youre a big one. And green as grass. But it cant be helped. I had a billion questions, but my tongue was frozen. All I could do was stare at the deflated Howie. Who stared back at me. Do you know what I felt like just then? James Bond, in the movie where hes tied to some kind of crazy exercise gadget. Do you expect me to talk? he asks Goldfinger, and Goldfinger replies, with chilling good humor, No, Mr. Bond! I expect you to die! I was tied to a happiness machine instead of an exercise machine, but hey, same idea. No matter how hard I worked to keep up on that first day, the damn thing just kept going faster. Take it down to the boneyard, kid. Please tell me you know where that is. I do. Thank God Lane had told me. Well, thats one for the home team, anyway. When you get there, strip down to your undies. If you wear more than that while youre wearing the fur, youll roast. And . . . anybody ever tell you the First Rule of Carny, kid? I thought so, but it seemed safer to keep my mouth shut. Always know where your wallet is. This park isnt anywhere near as sleazy as some of the places I worked in the flower of my youththank Godbut thats still the First Rule. Give it to me, Ill keep it for you. I handed over my wallet without protest. Now go. But even before you strip down, drink a lot of water. I mean until your belly feels swollen. And dont eat anything, I dont care how hungry you are. Ive had kids get heatstroke and barf in Howie suits, and the results aint pretty. Suit almost always has to be thrown out. Drink, strip, put on the fur, get someone to zip you up, then hustle down the Boulevard to the WiggleWaggle. Theres a sign, you cant miss it. I looked doubtfully at Howies big blue eyes. Theyre screen mesh, she said. Dont worry, youll see fine. But what do I do? She looked at me, at first unsmiling. Then her facenot just her mouth and eyes but her whole facebroke into a grin. The laugh that accompanied it was this weird honk that seemed to come through her nose. Youll be fine, she said. People kept telling me that. Its method acting, kiddo. Just find your inner dog. There were over a dozen new hires and a handful of oldtimers having lunch in the boneyard when I arrived. Two of the greenies were Hollywood Girls, but I had no time to be modest. After gulping a bellyful from the drinking fountain, I shucked down to my Jockeys and sneakers. I shook out the Howie costume and stepped in, making sure to get my feet all the way down in the back paws. Fur! one of the oldtimers yelled, and slammed a fist down on the table. Fur! Fur! Fur! The others took it up, and the boneyard rang with the chant as I stood there in my underwear with a deflated Howie puddled around my shins. It was like being in the middle of a prison messhall riot. Rarely have I felt so exquisitely stupid . . . or so oddly heroic. It was showbiz, after all, and I was stepping into the breach. For a moment it didnt matter that I didnt know what the fuck I was doing. Fur! Fur! FUR! FUR! Somebody zip me the hell up! I shouted. I have to get down to the WiggleWaggle posthaste! One of the girls did the honors, and I immediately saw why wearing the fur was such a big deal. The boneyard was air conditionedall of Joyland Under wasbut I was already popping hard sweat. One of the oldtimers came over and gave me a kindly pat on my Howiehead. Ill give you a ride, son, he said. Carts right there. Jump in. Thanks. My voice was muffled. Woofwoof, Bowser! someone called, and they all cracked up. We rolled down the Boulevard with its spooky, stuttering fluorescent lights, a grizzled old guy in janitors greens with a giant blueeyed German Shepherd riding copilot. As he pulled up at the stairs marked with an arrow and the painted legend WIGWAG on the cinderblocks, he said Dont talk. Howie never talks, just gives hugs and pats em on the head. Good luck, and if you start feelin all swimmy, get the hell out. The kids dont want to see Howie flop over with heatstroke. I have no idea what Im supposed to do, I said. Nobodys told me. I dont know if that guy was carnyfromcarny or not, but he knew something about Joyland. It dont matter. The kids all love Howie. Theyll know what to do. I clambered out of the cart, almost tripped over my tail, then grasped the string in the left front paw and gave it a yank to get the damn thing out of my way. I staggered up the stairs and fumbled with the lever of the door at the top. I could hear music, something vaguely remembered from my early childhood. I finally got the lever to go down. The door opened and bright Junelight flooded through Howies screenmesh blue eyes, momentarily dazzling me. The music was louder now, being piped from overhead speakers, and I could put a name to it The Hokey Pokey, that alltime nursery school hit. I saw swings, slides, and teetertotters, an elaborate jungle gym, and a roundyround being pushed by a greenie wearing long fuzzy rabbit ears and a powderpuff tail stuck to the seat of his jeans. The ChooChoo Wiggle, a toy train capable of dazzling speeds approaching four miles an hour, steamed by, loaded with little kids dutifully waving to their cameratoting parents. About a gazillion kids were boiling around, watched over by plenty of summer hires, plus a couple of fulltime personnel who probably did have childcare licenses. These two, a man and a woman, were wearing sweatshirts that read WE LUV HAPPY KIDS. Dead ahead was the long daycare building called Howies Howdy House. I saw Mr. Easterbrook, too. He was sitting on a bench beneath a Joyland umbrella, dressed in his morticians suit and eating his lunch with chopsticks. He didnt see me at first; he was looking at a crocodile line of children being led toward the Howdy House by a couple of greenies. The kiddies could be parked there (I found this out later) for a maximum of two hours while the parents either took their older kids on the bigger rides or had lunch at Rock Lobster, the parks classA restaurant. I also found out later that the eligibility ages for Howdy House ran from three to six. Many of the children now approaching looked pretty mellow, probably because they were daycare vets from families where both parents worked. Others werent taking it so well. Maybe theyd managed to keep a stiff upper lip at first, hearing mommy and daddy say theyd all be back together in just an hour or two (as if a fouryearold has any real concept of what an hour is), but now they were on their own, in a noisy and confusing place filled with strangers and mommy and daddy nowhere in sight. Some of those were crying. Buried in the Howie costume, looking out through the screen mesh that served as eyeholes and already sweating like a pig, I thought I was witnessing an act of uniquely American child abuse. Why would you bring your kidyour toddler, for Christs saketo the jangling sprawl of an amusement park only to fob him or her off on a crew of strange babysitters, even for a little while? The greenies in charge could see the tears spreading (toddlerangst is just another childhood disease, really, like measles), but their faces said they had no idea what to do about it. Why would they? It was Day One, and they had been thrown into the mix with as little preparation as Id had when Lane Hardy walked away and left me in charge of a gigantic Ferris wheel. But at least kids under eight cant get on the Spin without an adult, I thought. These little buggers are pretty much on their own. I didnt know what to do either, but felt I had to try something. I walked toward the line of kids with my front paws up and wagging my tail like mad (I couldnt see it, but I could feel it). And just as the first two or three saw me and pointed me out, inspiration struck. It was the music. I stopped at the intersection of Jellybean Road and Candy Cane Avenue, which happened to be directly beneath two of the blaring speakers. Standing almost seven feet from paws to furry cocked ears, Im sure I was quite a presence. I bowed to the kids, who were now all staring with open mouths and wide eyes. As they watched, I began to do the Hokey Pokey. Sorrow and terror over lost parents were forgotten, at least for the time being. They laughed, some with tears still gleaming on their cheeks. They didnt quite dare approach, not while I was doing my clumsy little dance, but they crowded forward. There was wonder but no fear. They all knew Howie; those from the Carolinas had seen his afternoon TV show, and even those from farflung exotic locales like St. Louis and Omaha had seen brochures and advertisements on the Saturday morning cartoons. They understood that although Howie was a big dog, he was a good dog. Hed never bite. He was their friend. I put my left foot in; I put my left foot out; I put my left foot in and I shook it all about. I did the Hokey Pokey and I turned myself around, becauseas almost every little kid in America knowsthats what its all about. I forgot about being hot and uncomfortable. I didnt think about how my undershorts were sticking in the crack of my ass. Later I would have a bitch of a heatheadache, but just then I felt okayreally good, in fact. And you know what? Wendy Keegan never once crossed my mind. When the music changed to the Sesame Street theme, I quit dancing, dropped to one padded knee, and held out my arms like Al Jolson. HOWWWIE! a little girl screamed, and all these years later I can still hear the perfect note of rapture in her voice. She ran forward, pink skirt swirling around her chubby knees. That did it. The orderly crocodile line dissolved. The kids will know what to do, the oldtimer had said, and how right he was. First they swarmed me, then they knocked me over, then they gathered around me, hugging and laughing. The little girl in the pink skirt kissed my snout repeatedly, shouting Howie, Howie, Howie! as she did it. Some of the parents who had ventured into the WiggleWaggle to snap pictures were approaching, equally fascinated. I paddled my paws to get some space, rolled over, and got up before they could crush me with their love. Although just then I was loving them right back. For such a hot day, it was pretty cool. I didnt notice Mr. Easterbrook reach into the jacket of his morticians suit, bring out a walkietalkie, and speak into it briefly. All I knew was that the Sesame Street music suddenly cut out and The Hokey Pokey started up again. I put my right paw in and my right paw out. The kids got into it right away, their eyes never leaving me, not wanting to miss the next move and be left behind. Pretty soon we were all doing the Hokey Pokey at the intersection of Jellybean and Candy Cane. The greenie minders joined in. Ill be goddamned if some of the parents didnt join in as well. I even put my long tail in and pulled my long tail out. Laughing madly, the kids turned around and did the same, only with invisible tails. As the song wound down, I made an extravagant Come on, kids! gesture with my left paw (inadvertently yanking my tail up so stringently I almost tore the troublesome fucker off) and led them toward Howdy House. They followed as willingly as the children of Hamelin followed the pied piper, and not one of them was crying. That actually wasnt the best day of my brilliant (if I do say so myself, and I do) career as Howie the Happy Hound, but it was right up there. When they were safely inside Howdy House (the little girl in the pink skirt stood in the door long enough to wave me a byebye), I turned around and the world seemed to keep right on turning when I stopped. Sweat sheeted into my eyes, doubling WiggleWaggle Village and everything in it. I wavered on my back paws. The entire performance, from my first Hokey Pokey moves to the little girl waving byebye, had only taken seven minutesnine, topsbut I was totally fried. I started trudging back the way I had come, not sure what to do next. Son, a voice said. Over here. It was Mr. Easterbrook. He was holding open a door in the back of the Wishing Well Snack Bar. It might have been the door Id come through, probably was, but then Id been too anxious and excited to notice. He ushered me inside, closed the door behind us, and pulled down the zipper at the back of the costume. Howies surprisingly heavy head fell off my own, and my damp skin drank up the blessed air conditioning. My skin, still winterwhite (it wouldnt stay that way for long), rashed out in goosebumps. I took big deep breaths. Sit down on the steps, he said. Ill call for a ride in a minute, but right now you need to get your wind back. The first few turns as Howie are always difficult, and the performance you just gave was particularly strenuous. It was also extraordinary. Thanks. It was all I could manage. Until I was back inside the cool quiet, I hadnt realized how close to my limit I was. Thanks very much. Head down if you feel faint. Not faint. Got a headache, though. I snaked one arm out of Howie and wiped my face, which was dripping. You kinda rescued me. Maximum time wearing Howie on a hot dayIm talking July and August, when the humidity is high and the temperature goes into the ninetiesis fifteen minutes, Mr. Easterbrook said. If someone tries to tell you different, send them directly to me. And youll be well advised to swallow a couple of salt pills. We want you summer kids to work hard, but we dont want to kill you. He took out his walkietalkie and spoke briefly and quietly. Five minutes later, the oldtimer showed up again in his cart, with a couple of Anacin and a bottle of blessedly cold water. In the meantime Mr. Easterbrook sat next to me, lowering himself to the top step leading down to the Boulevard with a glassy care that made me a trifle nervous. Whats your name, son? Devin Jones, sir. Do they call you Jonesy? He didnt wait for me to reply. Of course they do, its the carny way, and thats all Joyland is, reallya thinly disguised carny. Places like this wont last much longer. The Disneys and Knotts Berry Farms are going to rule the amusement world, except maybe down here in the midsouth. Tell me, aside from the heat, how did you enjoy your first turn wearing the fur? I liked it. Because? Because some of them were crying, I guess. He smiled. And? Pretty soon all of them would have been crying, but I stopped it. Yes. You did the Hokey Pokey. A splinter of genius. How did you know it would work? I didnt. But actually . . . I did. On some level, I did. He smiled. At Joyland, we throw our new hiresour greeniesinto the mix without much in the way of preparation, because in some people, some gifted people, it encourages a sort of spontaneity thats very special and valuable, both to us and to our patrons. Did you learn something about yourself just now? Jeez, I dont know. Maybe. But . . . can I say something, sir? Feel free. I hesitated, then decided to take him at his word. Sending those kids to daycaredaycare at an amusement parkthat seems, I dont know, kind of mean. I added hastily, Although the WiggleWaggle seems really good for little people. Really fun. You have to understand something, son. At Joyland, were in the black this much. He held a thumb and forefinger only a smidge apart. When parents know theres care for their wee oneseven for just a couple of hoursthey bring the whole family. If they needed to hire a babysitter at home, they might not come at all, and our profit margin would disappear. I take your point, but I have a point, too. Most of those little ones have never been to a place like this before. Theyll remember it the way theyll remember their first movie, or their first day at school. Because of you, they wont remember crying because they were abandoned by their parents for a little while; theyll remember doing the Hokey Pokey with Howie the Happy Hound, who appeared like magic. I guess. He reached out, not for me but for Howie. He stroked the fur with his gnarled fingers as he spoke. The Disney parks are scripted, and I hate that. Hate it. I think what theyre doing down there in Orlando is funpimping. Im a seatofthepants fan, and sometimes I see someone whos a seatofthepants genius. That could be you. Too early to tell for sure, but yes, it could be you. He put his hands to the small of his back and stretched. I heard an alarmingly loud series of cracking noises. Might I share your cart back to the boneyard? I think Ive had enough sun for one day. My cart is your cart. Since Joyland was his park, that was literally true. I think youll wear the fur a lot this summer. Most of the young people see that as a burden, or even a punishment. I dont believe that you will. Am I wrong? He wasnt. Ive done a lot of jobs in the years since then, and my current editorial gigprobably my last gig before retirement seizes me in its clawsis terrific, but I never felt so weirdly happy, so absolutely intherightplace, as I did when I was twentyone, wearing the fur and doing the Hokey Pokey on a hot day in June. Seat of the pants, baby. I stayed friends with Tom and Erin after that summer, and Im friends with Erin still, although these days were mostly email and Facebook buddies who sometimes get together for lunch in New York. Ive never met her second husband. She says hes a nice guy, and I believe her. Why would I not? After being married to Mr. Original Nice Guy for eighteen years and having that yardstick to measure by, shed hardly pick a loser. In the spring of 1992, Tom was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He was dead six months later. When he called and told me he was sick, his usual ratchetjaw delivery flowed by the wrecking ball swinging back and forth in his head, I was stunned and depressed, the way almost anyone would be, I suppose, when he hears that a guy who should be in the very prime of life is instead approaching the finish line. You want to ask how a thing like that can be fair. Werent there supposed to be a few more good things for Tom, like a couple of grandchildren and maybe that longdreamedof vacation in Maui? During my time at Joyland, I once heard Pops Allen talk about burning the lot. In the Talk, that means to blatantly cheat the rubes at whats supposed to be a straight game. I thought of that for the first time in years when Tom called with his bad news. But the mind defends itself as long as it can. After the first shock of such news dissipates, maybe you think, Okay, its bad, I get that, but its not the final word; there still might be a chance. Even if ninetyfive percent of the people who draw this particular card go down, theres still that lucky five percent. Also, doctors misdiagnose shit all the time. Barring those things, theres the occasional miracle. You think that, and then you get the followup call. The woman who makes the followup call was once a beautiful young girl who ran around Joyland in a flippy green dress and a silly Sherwood Forest hat, toting a big old Speed Graphic camera, and the conies she braced hardly ever said no. How could they say no to that blazing red hair and eager smile? How could anyone say no to Erin Cook? Well, God said no. God burned Tom Kennedys lot, and He burned hers in the process. When I picked up the phone at fivethirty on a gorgeous October afternoon in Westchester, that girl had become a woman whose voice, blurry with the tears, sounded old and tired to death. Tom died at two this afternoon. It was very peaceful. He couldnt talk, but he was aware. He . . . Dev, he squeezed my hand when I said goodbye. I said, I wish I could have been there. Yes. Her voice wavered, then firmed. Yes, that would have been good. You think Okay, I get it, Im prepared for the worst, but you hold out that small hope, see, and thats what fucks you up. Thats what kills you. I talked to her, I told her how much I loved her and how much I had loved Tom, I told her yes, Id be at the funeral, and if there was anything I could do before then, she should call. Day or night. Then I hung up the phone and lowered my head and bawled my goddam eyes out. The end of my first love doesnt measure up to the death of one old friend and the bereavement of the other, but it followed the same pattern. Exactly the same. And if it seemed like the end of the world to mefirst causing those suicidal ideations (silly and halfhearted though they may have been) and then a seismic shift in the previously unquestioned course of my lifeyou have to understand I had no scale by which to judge it. Thats called being young. As June wore on, I started to understand that my relationship with Wendy was as sick as William Blakes rose, but I refused to believe it was mortally sick, even when the signs became increasingly clear. Letters, for instance. During my first week at Mrs.