Stephen King - Joyland

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

I nodded. “Also an extra shirt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Lane. That was tasty.”

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

I handed over the box. “How’s the ride?”

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

“Sure.”

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

“Thanks, but I’m okay for now.”

“I know you are. I’ve been watching how you handle yourself, and I’m impressed. But Eddie’s not your average bear.”

“He’s a bully,” I said.

“Yeah, but here’s the good news: like with most bullies, you scratch the surface and find pure chickenshit underneath. Usually not very far underneath, either. There are people on the show he’s afraid of, and I happen to be one of them. I’ve whacked his nose before and I don’t mind whacking it again. All I’m saying is that if the day comes when you want a little breathing room, I’ll see that you get it.”

“Can I ask you a question about him?”

“Shoot.”

“Why does he always wear those gloves?”

Lane laughed, stuck his derby on his head, and gave it the correct tilt. “Psoriasis. His hands are scaly with it, or so he says—I can’t tell you the last time I actually saw them. He says without the gloves, he scratches them until they bleed.”

“Maybe that’s what makes him so bad-tempered.”

“I think it’s more likely the other way around—the bad temper made the bad skin.” He tapped his temple. “Head controls body, that’s what I believe. Come on, Jonesy, let’s get to work.”

We finished putting the Spin right for its long winter’s nap, then moved on to the irrigation system. By the time the pipes were blown out with compressed air and the drains had swallowed several gallons of antifreeze, the sun was lowering toward the trees west of the park and the shadows were lengthening.

“That’s enough for today,” Lane said. “More than enough. Bring me your card and I’ll sign it.”

I tapped my watch, showing him it was only quarter past five.

He shook his head, smiling. “I’ve got no problem writing six on the card. You did twelve hours’ worth today, kiddo. Twelve easy.”

“Okay,” I said, “but don’t call me kiddo. That’s what he calls me.” I jerked my head toward Horror House.

“I’ll make a note of it. Now bring me your card and buzz off.”

The wind had died a little during the afternoon, but it was still warm and breezy when I set off down the beach. On many of those walks back to town I liked to watch my long shadow on the waves, but that evening I mostly watched my feet. I was tired out. What I wanted was a ham and cheese sandwich from Betty’s Bakery and a couple of beers from the 7-Eleven next door. I’d go back to my room, settle into my chair by the window, and read me some Tolkien as I ate. I was deep into The Two Towers.

What made me look up was the boy’s voice. The breeze was in my favor, and I could hear him clearly. “ Faster ; Mom! You’ve almost g —” He was temporarily stopped by a coughing fit. Then: “You’ve almost got it !”

Mike’s mother was on the beach tonight instead of beneath her umbrella. She was running toward me but didn’t see me, because she was looking at the kite she was holding over her head. The string ran back to the boy, seated in his wheelchair at the end of the boardwalk.

Wrong direction, Mom, I thought.

She released the kite. It rose a foot or two, wagged naughtily from side to side, then took a dive into the sand. The breeze kicked up and it went skittering. She had to chase it down.

“Once more!” Mike called. “That time—” Cough-cough-cough, harsh and bronchial. “That time you almost had it!”

“No, I didn’t.” She sounded tired and pissed off. “Goddamned thing hates me. Let’s go in and get some sup—”

Milo was sitting beside Mike’s wheelchair, watching the evening’s activities with bright eyes. When he saw me, he was off like a shot, barking. As I watched him come, I remembered Madame Fortuna’s pronouncement on the day I first met her: In your future is a little girl and a little boy. The boy has a dog.

“Milo, come back!” Mom shouted. Her hair had probably started that evening tied up, but after several experiments in aviation, it hung around her face in strings. She pushed it away wearily with the backs of her hands.

Milo paid no attention. He skidded to a stop in front of me with his front paws spraying sand, and did his sitting-up thing. I laughed and patted his head. “That’s all you get, pal—no croissants tonight.”

He barked at me once, then trotted back to Mom, who was standing ankle-deep in the sand, breathing hard and eyeing me with mistrust. The captured kite hung down by her leg.

See? she said. “That’s why I didn’t want you to feed him. He’s a terrible beggar, and he thinks anybody who gives him a scrap is his friend.”

“Well, I’m a friendly sort of guy.”

“Good to know,” she said. “Just don’t feed our dog anymore.” She was wearing pedal pushers and an old blue tee-shirt with faded printing on the front. Judging from the sweat-stains on it, she had been trying to get the kite airborne for quite some time. Trying hard, and why not? If I had a kid stuck in a wheelchair, I’d probably want to give him something that would fly, too.