Stephen King - Joyland

“You sound like a Jewish mother joke,” I said.

“I am a Jewish mother, and believe me, it’s no joke.”

“I’m the joke,” I said. “I think about her all the time.”

“That you can’t help, at least for now. But you must turn your back on the other thoughts that sometimes come to you.”

I think my mouth dropped open. I’m not sure. I know I stared. People who’ve been in the business as long as Rozzie Gold had been back then—they are called mitts in the Talk, for their palmistry skills—have their ways of picking your brains so that what they say sounds like the result of telepathy, but usually it’s just close observation.

Not always, though.

“I don’t understand.”

“Give those morbid records a rest, do you understand that?” She looked grimly into my face, then laughed at the surprise she saw there. “Rozzie Gold may be just a Jewish mother and grandmother, but Madame Fortuna sees much.”

So did my landlady, and I found out later—after seeing Rozzie and Mrs. Shoplaw having lunch together in Heavens Bay on one of Madame Fortuna’s rare days off—that they were close friends who had known each other for years. Mrs. Shoplaw dusted my room and vacuumed the floor once a week; she would have seen my records. As for the rest—those famous suicidal ideations that sometimes came to me—might not a woman who had spent most of her life observing human nature and watching for psychological clues (called tells both in the Talk and big-league poker) guess that a sensitive young man, freshly dumped, might entertain thoughts of pills and ropes and riptide undertows?

“I’ll eat,” I promised. I had a thousand things to do before Early Gate, but mostly I was just anxious to be away from her before she said something totally outrageous like Her name is Vendy, and you still think of her ven you mess-turbate.

“Also, drink big glass of milk before you go to bed.” She raised an admonitory finger. “No coffee; milk. Vill help you sleep.”

“Worth a try,” I said.

She went back to Roz again. “The day we met, you asked if I saw a beautiful woman with dark hair in your future. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“What did I say?”

“That she was in my past.”

Rozzie gave a single nod, hard and imperious. “So she is. And when you want to call her and beg for a second chance—you will, you will—show a little spine. Have a little self-respect. Also remember that the long-distance is expensive.”

Tell me something I don’t know, I thought. “Listen, I really have to get going, Roz. Lots to do.”

“Yes, a busy day for all of us. But before you go, Jonesy—have you met the boy yet? The one with the dog? Or the girl who wears the red hat and carries the doll? I told you about them, too, when we met.”

“Roz, I’ve met a billion kids in the last—”

“You haven’t, then. Okay. You will.” She stuck out her lower lip and blew, stirring the fringe of hair that stuck out from beneath her scarf. Then she seized my wrist. “I see danger for you, Jonesy. Sorrow and danger.”

I thought for a moment she was going to whisper something like Beware the dark stranger! He rides a unicycle! Instead, she let go of me and pointed at Horror House. “Which team turns that unpleasant hole? Not yours, is it?”

“No, Team Doberman.” The Dobies were also responsible for the adjacent attractions; Mysterio’s Mirror Mansion and the Wax Museum. Taken together, these three were Joyland’s half-hearted nod to the old carny spook-shows.

“Good. Stay out of it. It’s haunted, and a boy with bad thoughts needs to be visiting a haunted house like he needs arsenic in his mouthwash. Kapish ?”

“Yeah.” I looked at my watch.

She got the point and stepped back. “Watch for those kids. And watch your step, boychick. There’s a shadow over you.”

Lane and Rozzie gave me a pretty good jolt, I’ll admit it. I didn’t stop listening to my Doors records—not immediately, at least—but I made myself eat more, and started sucking down three milkshakes a day. I could feel fresh energy pouring into my body as if someone had turned on a tap, and I was very grateful for that on the afternoon of July Fourth. Joyland was tipsed and I was down to wear the fur ten times, an all-time record.

Fred Dean himself came down to give me the schedule, and to hand me a note from old Mr. Easterbrook. If it becomes too much, stop at once and tell your team leader to find a sub.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“Maybe, but make sure Pop sees this memo.”

“Okay.”

“Brad likes you, Jonesy. That’s rare. He hardly ever notices the greenies unless he sees one of them screw up.”

I liked him, too, but didn’t say so to Fred. I thought it would have sounded suck-assy.

All my July Fourth shifts were tenners, not bad even though most ten-minute shifts actually turned out to be fifteenies, but the heat was crushing. Ninety-five in the shade , Rozzie had said, but by noon that day it was a hundred and two by the thermometer that hung outside the Park Ops trailer. Luckily for me, Dottie Lassen had repaired the other XL Howie suit and I could swap between the two. While I was wearing one, Dottie would have the other turned as inside-out as it would go and hung in front of three fans, drying the sweat-soaked interior.

At least I could remove the fur by myself; by then I’d discovered the secret. Howie’s right paw was actually a glove, and when you knew the trick, pulling down the zipper to the neck of the costume was a cinch. Once you had the head off, the rest was cake. This was good, because I could change by myself behind a pull-curtain. No more displaying my sweaty, semi-transparent undershorts to the costume ladies.

As the bunting-draped afternoon of July Fourth wore on, I was excused from all other duties. I’d do my capering, then retreat to Joyland Under and collapse on the ratty old couch in the boneyard for a while, soaking up the air conditioning. When I felt revived, I’d use the alleys to get to the costume shop and swap one fur for the other. Between shifts I guzzled pints of water and quarts of unsweetened iced tea. You won’t believe I was having fun, but I was. Even the brats were loving me that day.

So: quarter to four in the afternoon. I’m jiving down Joyland Avenue—our midway—while the overhead speakers blast out Daddy Dewdrop’s “Chick-A-Boom, Chick-A-Boom, Don’tcha Just Love It.” I’m giving out hugs to the kiddies and Awesome August coupons to the adults, because Joyland’s business always dropped off as the summer wound down. I’m posing for pictures (some taken by Hollywood Girls, most by hordes of sweat-soaked, sunburned Parent Paparazzi), and trailing adoring kids after me in cometary splendor. I’m also looking for the nearest door to Joyland Under, because I’m pretty well done up. I have just one more turn as Howie scheduled today, because Howie the Happy Hound never shows his blue eyes and cocked ears after sundown. I don’t know why; it was just a show tradition.

Did I notice the little girl in the red hat before she fell down on the baking pavement of Joyland Avenue, writhing and jerking? I think so but can’t say for sure, because passing time adds false memories and modifies real ones. I surely wouldn’t have noticed the Pup-A-Licious she was waving around, or her bright red Howie dogtop; a kid at an amusement park with a hotdog is hardly a unique sighting, and we must have sold a thousand red Howie hats that day. If I did notice her, it was because of the doll she held curled to her chest in the hand not holding her mustard-smeared Pup. It was a big old Raggedy Ann. Madame Fortuna had suggested I be on the lookout for a little girl with a doll only two days before, so maybe I did notice her. Or maybe I was only thinking of getting off the midway before I fell down in a faint. Anyway, her doll wasn’t the problem. The Pup-A-Licious she was eating— that was the problem.