Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

Wow. Who knew? The big guy is human. He just knows how to hide it.

By the time we make it down to the bottom, the medics are already zipping up Mrs. O’Malley’s body bag.

A nurse of some sort-she’s dressed in those cartoon cat-and-dog scrubs pediatric nurses wear so kids don’t bawl their eyes out when they see a needle-is bracing Mary O’Malley by the elbow. Must be her full-time caregiver except for when Mary is asked to pose in happy family portraits for PR purposes.

“Well done, men,” says Mayor Sinclair, striding over to me and Ceepak. “You two handled a very difficult situation extraordinarily well. I’ll be sure to put in a good word with Chief Baines.”

He winks. Ceepak nods.

The mayor folds a stick of gum into his mouth. “We’ll close down the ride for a week. Have the grand reopening next weekend when all this is behind us.”

He flips a hand toward the roller coaster cars.

By “all this” I guess he means Mrs. O’Malley dying.

“And,” says the mayor, lowering his voice, “let’s not talk to the media today. Fortunately, most of the folks in line were locals. This thing will blow over pretty quickly. Shouldn’t impact our summer season.”

The mayor smiles. Waiting for Ceepak and me to say, “Sir, yes, sir,” or lick his boots or something.

We just stand there. Kind of grim-faced.

Somebody died this morning.

“Okay. Glad we had this chat.” The mayor surveys the small crowd clustered near the exit ramp. “Cliff? Skeeter? Hey, buddy, got a second?”

He rushes over to the DJ, who twirls around and jabs a microphone in his face.

“Mayor Sinclair. You were up there with me on the roller coaster. How did it feel to be stranded like that?”

The mayor swats at the mic as if it were an annoying little gnat.

“Turn that goddamn thing off!”

Five seconds later, on the big outdoor speakers, I hear an echo of the mayor’s words, only the “goddamn” is gone. Thank goodness for the five-second delay. Something Cliff and I could’ve used back in high school when we ran our DJ business and I dropped an F-bomb at a birthday party when an amplifier unexpectedly shocked me. It was the kid’s sixth. We were supposed to be spinning discs so he and his buddies could dance the Hokey Pokey and play musical chairs. We had not been hired to give adult vocabulary lessons.

“We should head back to the house,” says Ceepak. “Write this up.”

He’s right. There’s no longer any need for crowd control. That long line? It’s gone. The ride is shut down. Those kids wore high heels and duct-taped sandals to their shoes in vain.

We wait for the paramedics to carry Mrs. O’Malley’s body down the exit ramp to the waiting ambulance. It looks like Mr. O’Malley will ride in the back with his wife.

I see Skippy take Mary’s other elbow as he helps the nurse escort her to a parked SUV for the ride home.

“Don’t worry-I’ll handle things here,” I hear Kevin O’Malley tell his dad as the paramedics close up the barn doors on the back of their vehicle.

Ceepak and I march down the exit ramp.

“Hola, babe!”

When we hit the boardwalk, we see Sean O’Malley swilling a beer out of a brown paper bag as a hot Hispanic chick in a skimpy black bikini sashays over to join him. Sean, who has the tightly bloated look of somebody who drinks beer for breakfast, tosses his empty can into a trash barrel and wraps his arm around his hot date so he can goose her booty.

“I got your text!” says the girl.

“Cool.”

The girl swirls her tongue around inside Sean’s ear.

He grins. Maybe belches.

Bikini Babe clutches Sean’s shirt with two greedy hands. “Ding dong, the witch is dead,” she purrs.

Sean’s grin grows wider.

“Totally.”

I’m figuring young Sean O’Malley has major mommy issues.

He and his date stroll across the boardwalk, hand on butt cheek instead of the more traditional hand in hand. They’re heading for a Fried Everything stand. Fried Twinkies, Fried Snickers, Fried Oreos. I think they’ll even batter and fry your flip-flops if you ask ’em to.

To my surprise, Ceepak is following the sashaying couple-and it’s not because he enjoys watching bikini bottom grip-and-gropes.

“Excuse me? Mr. O’Malley? Miss?”

Sean and his hot date turn around. He’s wearing a Donegal Tweed flat cap that he must think makes him look cool. I think it makes him look like a cab driver. Maybe a newspaper boy from 1932.

“Yo, po-po. What up?” says Sean.

“My name is Ceepak. Officer John Ceepak.”

“I remember you, dude. From up on the roller coaster of death!”

“I’d like to have a word with you and your lady friend.”

“’Bout what?”

“Disrespecting the dead.”

“Huh?”

I jump in and help out: “Ding dong, the witch is dead?”

“Whoa. You dudes have us under surveillance or sumptin’?

“Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, “your mother just died.”

He shrugs. Stuffs a cigarette in his mug. “So?”

His girlfriend shifts her weight to her left hip. “Yo-I’m the one who said it. You got some kind of issue with it, talk to me. Fo real. I’m serious.”

Now she pouts. She has the lips for it: glossy, puffy ones.

Meanwhile, Ceepak’s jaw joint is popping in and out under his ear. It does this from time to time, usually whenever he’d like to rip someone’s head off. You see people die like Ceepak did over in Iraq, or like I’ve seen on the job, it does something to you. They aren’t just bonus points on a game screen anymore.

“Ma’am,” says Ceepak, “it might be best for all concerned if you were to refrain from making any more derogatory comments regarding Mrs. O’Malley in public.”

Sean blows cigarette smoke out his nose holes like a cartoon bull.

“Why? Why can’t she say that? Hell, I’ll say it too. Ding dong, the witch is dead. How’s that?”

“Great,” I say. “Makes you sound like a total a-hole, Sean.”

Ceepak cocks an eyebrow.

He does not, however, chastise me for my poor word choice while in uniform. If the a-hole fits …

“Aw-ite, Danny Boy, ease up, foo. Is it against the law for us to speak true?”

“Of course not,” says Ceepak. “You are both well within your First Amendment rights to say anything, no matter how offensive I and others might find it. I am simply suggesting that, as a matter of respect, you both should exert some semblance of self-control.”

“Then, let me school ya, Officer John Ceepak: My moms was one fat, cold-hearted witch. Hell, I’m surprised she could even have a heart attack because that would mean she had a heart instead of a chunk of black ice rattlin’ around underneath all that whale blubber.”

Sean, thinking he was just pretty damn clever, gives his cigarette a self-satisfied smack.

“She never did like me,” says the girl with a head toss. “Didn’t think I was the right kind of people for her boy, you know?”

“It’s true,” says Sean. “My mom did not dig Daisy-because she’s from Puerto Rico and smokin’ hot.”

“Mrs. O’Malley?” says Daisy. “She was a racist. A bigot.”

“Homophobic, too,” adds Sean. Just ask my brother Peter, who was officially disinvited from this morning’s festivities. How twisted is that?”

Daisy zips her manicured hand back and forth in a flying Z formation. “You think about that, officers, aw-ite? We done here. I’m hungry, Sean. You said you were gonna buy me a Snickers bar, baby.”

“Yeah.” Sean winks at us. “Laters, po-po. Laters.”

They saunter up to the food stand.

I can hear a rush of bubbles popping around a candy bar recently dunked into a vat of boiling oil.