Stephen King - Joyland

He took out his walkie-talkie and spoke briefly and quietly. Five minutes later, the old-timer 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.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Devin Jones, sir.”

“Do they call you Jonesy?” He didn’t wait for me to reply. “Of course they do, it’s the carny way, and that’s all Joyland is, really—a thinly disguised carny. Places like this won’t last much longer. The Disneys and Knott’s 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 didn’t.” But actually… I did. On some level, I did.

He smiled. “At Joyland, we throw our new hires—our greenies—into the mix without much in the way of preparation, because in some people, some gifted people, it encourages a sort of spontaneity that’s very special and valuable, both to us and to our patrons. Did you learn something about yourself just now?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe. But… can I say something, sir?”

“Feel free.”

I hesitated, then decided to take him at his word. “Sending those kids to daycare—daycare at an amusement park—that seems, I don’t know, kind of mean.” I added hastily, “Although the Wiggle-Waggle seems really good for little people. Really fun.”

“You have to understand something, son. At Joyland, we’re in the black this much.” He held a thumb and forefinger only a smidge apart. “When parents know there’s care for their wee ones—even for just a couple of hours—they 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. They’ll remember it the way they’ll remember their first movie, or their first day at school. Because of you, they won’t remember crying because they were abandoned by their parents for a little while; they’ll 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 they’re doing down there in Orlando is fun-pimping. I’m a seat-of-the-pants fan, and sometimes I see someone who’s a seat-of-the-pants 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 I’ve had enough sun for one day.”

“My cart is your cart.” Since Joyland was his park, that was literally true.

“I think you’ll wear the fur a lot this summer. Most of the young people see that as a burden, or even a punishment. I don’t believe that you will. Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t. I’ve done a lot of jobs in the years since then, and my current editorial gig—probably my last gig before retirement seizes me in its claws—is terrific, but I never felt so weirdly happy, so absolutely in-the-right-place, as I did when I was twenty-one, 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 I’m friends with Erin still, although these days we’re mostly email and Facebook buddies who sometimes get together for lunch in New York. I’ve never met her second husband. She says he’s 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, she’d 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. Weren’t there supposed to be a few more good things for Tom, like a couple of grandchildren and maybe that long-dreamed-of 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 what’s 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, it’s bad, I get that, but it’s not the final word; there still might be a chance. Even if ninety-five percent of the people who draw this particular card go down, there’s still that lucky five percent. Also, doctors misdiagnose shit all the time. Barring those things, there’s the occasional miracle.

You think that, and then you get the follow-up call. The woman who makes the follow-up 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 Kennedy’s lot, and He burned hers in the process. When I picked up the phone at five-thirty 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 couldn’t 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, I’m prepared for the worst, but you hold out that small hope, see, and that’s what fucks you up. That’s 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, I’d 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 doesn’t 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 me—first causing those suicidal ideations (silly and halfhearted though they may have been) and then a seismic shift in the previously unquestioned course of my life—you have to understand I had no scale by which to judge it. That’s called being young.

As June wore on, I started to understand that my relationship with Wendy was as sick as William Blake’s 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. Shoplaw’s, I wrote Wendy four long ones, even though I was run off my feet at Joyland and came drag-assing into my second-floor room each night with my head full of new information and new experiences, feeling like a kid dropped into a challenging college course (call it The Advanced Physics of Fun) halfway through the semester. What I got in return was a single postcard with Boston Common on the front and a very peculiar collaborative message on the back. At the top, written in a hand I didn’t recognize, was this: Wenny writes the card while Rennie drives the bus! Below in a hand I did recognize, Wendy—or Wenny, if you like; I hated it, myself—had written breezily: Whee! We is salesgirls off on a venture to Cape Cod! It’s a party! Hoopsie muzik! Don’t worry I held the wheel while Ren wrote her part. Hope your good. W.