The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

  By Bruce Edwards

  To Geppetto . . .

  and all of the other fathers of mischievous children.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  1. The Lake

  2. Brain Games

  3. Crush

  4. Cousin Nell

  5. Lunch Counter

  6. Star Bright

  7. Missing Pieces

  8. Night Spy

  9. My Jimmie

  10. Dream Park

  11. Donkey

  12. Hacked!

  13. Belly of the Whale

  14. The Code

  15. A Real Boy

  About the Author

  Credits

  Book #3

  Book #2

  Book #1

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  The Lake

  Fred was afraid of water. Even boating over a surface as smooth as glass, his fear of capsizing kept him on edge. There wasn’t a ripple in the calm waters of Summit Lake, yet he gripped the sides of our paddle boat firmly with both hands.

  “Maybe we should put on these life jackets, Amy,” said Fred, as we pedaled leisurely to the middle of the tranquil lake.

  “Relax,” I said. “This boat’s as sound as the Queen Mary. Still, you do know how to swim, don’t you?”

  “What am I, an infant?” Fred looked down into the cold, dark, and very deep water. “Of course I can s-swim.”

  Fred was also terrified of snakes, fearful of spiders, and afraid of heights. Odd, because his ancestors were known for performing fearless acts of bravery. His father rescued a family of five from a burning building just before it collapsed; his grandfather dove into an icy river to save a drowning baby; his great-grandfather fought for the European Resistance in World War II. For sure, Fred wasn’t living up to those proud standards, but he was the kindest, sincerest, and most trustworthy person I ever met.

  Fred was my close high school friend. I should be calling him my boyfriend, but I hate using that word. The mere sound of it suggests that your friend is just a “boy,” and therefore something less than manly. Partner is a popular substitute. Some women like to use the term significant other, but that’s just plain silly.

  There was another reason why boyfriend didn’t fit Fred’s description. For sure, a 16-year-old girl like me couldn’t ask for a more devoted pal, but he was a little funny when it came to intimacy. A girl likes to be romanced by a boy before she considers him a true soulmate. Fred was like Pinocchio, the little wooden boy who only becomes real after demonstrating his love for Geppetto. Fred had to prove himself worthy of my affections before being a real companion to me.

  Poor little woodenhead. All he needed was a cricket on his shoulder to give him self-confidence, and directions to find the courage of his forefathers.

  “Shouldn’t we head back now?” said Fred, reading his waterproof wristwatch. “We only rented this boat for an hour, and we’ve been out here forty-five minutes already.”

  “Ol’ Gus won’t mind if we come in a little late,” I said. “He’s been renting boats out here for thirty years, and he doesn’t quite have all his marbles. If it becomes an issue, we’ll just tell him that your watch stopped.”

  “We won’t do any such thing!” demanded Fred.

  “We’ll pay whatever overtime we owe him.”

  That was another thing about Fred. He had a deep sense of ethics. I respected that. He never demanded that I adopt his principles, and I, in turn, never forced him to bow to my will. Girls my age don’t know the importance of give-and-take in a relationship. I see a lot of them treating their boyfriends like pets, parading them around like trained monkeys.

  Not like that’s anything new. Women have been manipulating men since before the invention of the wheel. We take advantage of their natural animal urges to get them to do whatever we want. Teenage boys are particularly vulnerable. Their raging hormones kick in well before they are capable of rational thought.

  Fred and I were different. Our friendship was more like a partnership. We shared equally in everything we did, splitting gas money, breaking cookies into equal halves. My mom says that relationships only work if you treat them like a business: be fair, open, and above board, and you’ll reap great dividends of happiness. I always wondered if that was true. Now I was giving it a trial run.

  Summit Lake was nestled high in the hills above Shankstonville, the farming community where Fred and I lived. Savoring the fresh air and the scent of pine needles offered townsfolk a welcome break from pig farming and crop dusting.

  The lake’s historic past was legendary. For thousands of years it was home to wild animals and native Americans. All of that changed in the 1920s, when the automobile made its natural splendor accessible to everyone.

  It was the age of the Model T and Babe Ruth. Checkered blankets and wicker baskets, bulging with egg salad sandwiches and watermelon dotted the shoreline. Women sat daintily in the shade in long dresses. Men faced off in a fierce game of tug-of-war. Children fell to their knees in laughter at the finish of a 3-legged race.

  Warm summer evenings found families huddled around campfires, telling ghost stories and roasting marshmallows. For teenagers, clever enough to elude their elders, there were plenty of hideaways to engage in a little late-night smooching.

  The romance of that age of innocence still lingered in the air, like the sweet perfume of a long-lost love.

  “If only these shores could talk,” I said. “Think of all the promises of love this place has seen.”

  “And the scandals,” said Fred. “There’s a famous one from the ‘30s. Some poor chump found his true love making out with his best friend behind a tree. The next morning the couple was found floating face down in the lake.”

  “Actually, I was picturing lazy afternoons, and young lovers canoeing on the lake—the girl under a parasol, while her sweetheart sings love songs on his ukulele.”

  Fred chuckled. “Ukulele?”

  “Don’t laugh. I think it’s romantic. Doesn’t the idea stir some passion in you, even a little bit?”

  “I suppose. But I don’t think singing songs gets you the girl, these days.”

  “Ever try it?”

  “Hmm, let me see.”

  Then Fred sang to me in a sultry voice I didn’t know he had:

  “By the light of the silvery moon,

  I want to spoon,

  To my honey, I'll croon love's tune.

  How about this:

  Let me call you Sweetheart,

  I'm in love with you.

  Or, this:

  You made me love you,

  I didn't wanna do it,

  I didn't wanna do it.”

  As goofy as all this was, something about being serenaded melted my heart. I leaned over to kiss Fred, but he turned his head at the last second. My kiss landed on his cheek.

  Fred smacked his lips to show that he wasn’t as cold as the catfish swimming under our boat.

  “Is that the best you can do?” I asked.

  “What if somebody sees?” said Fred.

  “Out here? It’s the middle of the day, and we’re in the middle of a lake. Only a Peeping Tom with a telescope could possibly be interested in us.”

  Fred quickly changed the subject. “There it is!”

  He pointed to a relic from the lake’s golden age. On a narrow strip of land, jutting out into the water, was the jewel of Summit Lake: the Fun Zone!

  Sadly, the old amusement park had long since lost its sparkle. Condemned read the sign on the chain link fence surrounding the once popular playground.

  The rides and attractions that thrilled Jazz
Age guests were still there, though severely weather-beaten. A rickety Ferris wheel and a termite-infested wooden coaster stood like ruins of an ancient civilization. The old carousel was almost completely consumed by creeping vines.

  The park had been closed for nearly five decades. Lack of interest, and the Interstate had lured people to more exciting destinations. Soaring maintenance costs and ride safety issues eventually forced the Fun Zone into bankruptcy, leaving the vintage amusement park to die a slow death.

  Fred and I pedaled over to get a closer look.

  I shaded my eyes and imagined a moonlit summer’s night eighty years in the past: men in top hats and women in corsets eating hot dogs on a bench; youngsters testing their driving skills on the bumper cars; the screams of brave men riding the Loop-de-Loop for the first time.

  Now, only ghosts walked the park’s crumbling boardwalk. Rusty swings squealed in the night, rocked by the prairie wind. Night owls pierced the darkness in tattered sideshow tents, in search of field mice and rats.

  The only structure to have survived the elements was the 100-year-old lighthouse. Removed from the cliffs above San Francisco Bay, it had been reassembled, brick by brick, at the tip of the Fun Zone cape. Having once guided tall ships through treacherous waters, it now warned rowboat captains and fishermen to steer clear of the jagged rocks below it. Although its brilliant lantern hadn’t burned in ages, it stood proudly as a reminder of that carefree era.

  “Welcome back!” said ol’ Gus, as we pedaled up to the boat dock. “Y’all have a good time?”

  He took hold of Fred’s arm to help him out of the teetering boat.

  “Very much, sir,” said Fred, happy to have his wobbly legs back on dry land.

  I sat in my seat with my arms folded, waiting for some gentleman to offer me some assistance.

  “Oh!” said Fred. “You need help getting out?”

  He nervously reached out over the edge of the dock, his gaze focused on the water lapping against the wooden pilings below him.

  Then Gus stepped in and politely offered his hand to me. “There ya go, missy.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure, ma’am. Does my heart good to see young folks out enjoyin’ the lake. Had hundreds like you renting boats back in the day. Of course, they weren’t all using them for sightseeing, if ya know what I mean.”

  Gus nudged Fred’s ribs with his elbow.

  Fred held his side and smiled half-heartedly, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Where do we pay?”

  Gus pulled a receipt pad from his hip pocket, jotted down what we owed him, then handed Fred the sales slip.

  “Just through that door into the boat shack, folks,” said Gus. “Let me tie off ol’ Betsy here and I’ll meet you inside.”

  Assorted souvenirs and other knickknacks were for sale in the little shack. Sunglasses, key chains, and ballpoint pens imprinted with the Summit Lake logo sat on the checkout counter. Shot glasses and coffee mugs with the slogan, It’s a “Shore” Thing, gathered dust in the discount bin.

  I found a rack of postcards featuring old photos of the Fun Zone in its heyday. The lighthouse beacon glistened on the lake at night. Flashing light bulbs traced the twists and turns of the roller coaster.

  One showed a well-known park icon: Laughing Lucy. She was the life-sized, animated clown who chuckled at guests as they entered the Crazy House. Once inside, you walked through a huge revolving tube while trying not to fall on your fanny. Then you tried sitting on a giant spinning turntable without getting thrown off. A photo showed a girl’s skirt whirling upward from a blast of air from the floor, revealing her polka dot panties for all to see. Something tells me today’s feminists wouldn’t stand for that!

  I reached into the pocket of my jeans for some cash. “This one’s on me.”

  “That’s okay,” said Fred, “I’ll get it.” Then he walked through the exit doorway. A green light above the door flashed and beeped. “Done!”

  Like most businesses these days, the shop was equipped with the latest in sales transaction technology. Practically no one paid for things in cash, or with credit cards anymore. Instead, they employed a more convenient method: they used their “Jimmies.”

  A Jimmie was just like a charge card, only you didn’t have to carry it around in your wallet. A tiny microchip in your head now took care of everything. When you exit a store, sensors in the doorframe detect the amount of your purchase and automatically deduct it from your JimmiePal account.

  Jimmies not only made shopping more efficient, they eliminated the need for handheld mobile devices. They did everything a smartphone could do, only better and faster. Implanted in your brain, the minuscule device alleviated carrying a clunky phone around in your pocket. Make calls, text, and surf the web, by simply telling your Jimmie what you want it to do.

  While Fred was crazy about his Jimmie, it was a technological advance I didn’t care for. I was one of a small minority who objected to having her cranium turned into a mobile communications center.

  I wasn’t even a fan of handheld devices. I knew what it was to be spammed, scammed, hacked and cyber-attacked. I was well acquainted with spyware, malware, and viruses.

  But Jimmies were simply too cool for people to resist, and were quickly gobbled up by millions around the world.

  I didn’t like that Fred had one. For as much as he and I shared in common, his Jimmie was driving a virtual wedge between us.

  “How do you know ol’ Gus didn’t just rip you off?” I said. “There was a green flash of light and a loud beep. So what? He could have wiped out your whole bank account, for all you know.”

  “Impossible,” said Fred. “All sales are encrypted and password protected.”

  “Passwords have been known to get stolen.”

  “That was the old days. Jimmies are guaranteed 100% secure. Not a single one has ever been hacked.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Look, Amy, I know you don’t like me being a Jimmiehead, but Jimmies are here to stay. Get used to it.”

  The green light stayed dark as I left Gus’s boat shack, but I was totally fine with that. Turning on lights and setting off bells like a human pinball wasn’t something I yearned for. If not having a Jimmie meant living in the Dark Ages, I was fine with that, too. I just wish Fred hadn’t been so hasty in getting one. I liked Fred a lot, but if we weren’t going to live in the same century, our friendship had as much chance of staying afloat as a scuttled paddle boat.

  Chapter 2

  Brain Games

  Handheld mobile devices would soon be obsolete. Anyone with a Jimmie knew that. Why fumble with an awkward contraption in your hand when you can carry a micro-version of the same thing in your head? Text without using a keypad. Listen to music without headphones. No more watching video on a wallet-sized display. Images appear right before your eyes, as if floating in space. Jimmie Vision also allows you to snap photos, or record HD video of anything your eyes see. Files are wirelessly uploaded to a massive cloud storage server, with one billion lotza-bytes of free space.

  Getting a Jimmie is easy. Drop over to your local Jimmie Store and sign up for a two-year subscription. A gracious salesclerk then hands you a little blue box. Inside, on a small velvet pillow, rests a sugar-coated pill containing a teeny circuit board the size of a grain of rice. Take the pill with water, and it begins an amazing journey through your circulatory system. Thanks to micro-robotics, it finds its way to your brain and implants itself in the temporal lobe, where hearing, memory, and visual perception are controlled. After an hour or so, you’re part of a worldwide network of cutting-edge technology. And the best part: Jimmies are free, so long as you don’t mind viewing pop-up ads from time to time!

  Everyone agreed, the Jimmie was an incredible innovation, but was getting one worth having your noodle tampered with? Not to a techno-crazed public. All the hype surrounding the device, and the millions spent mass-marketing it brought the world to its knees. />
  Unfortunately, like all “connected” devices, Jimmies were not immune to the dark side of mobile communications. Having your personal data flung to the far reaches of cyberspace was an ongoing problem. GPS satellites tracked your every move. Before the Jimmie, you could toss your cell phone in a drawer and go about your day without fear of being watched. Now, cyber-prowlers followed you day and night, and there was no way to escape their scrutiny. For sure, reading Jimmie Books without having to look at a screen is pretty awesome, but when I take home a printed library book, no one’s looking over my shoulder while I’m reading it.

  Regardless, this was a product with coolness written all over it. In no time at all, it exploded into a global phenomenon.

  The announcement of each new Jimmie upgrade was a major media event. Techno gadget fanatics would form lines around the block at every Jimmie Store—like corralled sheep at a slaughter house. As the doors opened at the appointed hour, people trampled each other to be the first ones inside. It’s disgusting!

  Few people knew—or cared—how the Jimmie got its name. The ingenious device was so named for its creator, Dr. James Benton. Who this genius was and what he looked like was a much-debated mystery. There were no known photos of the reclusive inventor, and he had never been seen in public. But the bigger story was how he lost his patent rights to a corrupt and powerful corporation. Monstro-tronics Inc. asserted that its researchers had conceived the invention first. The courts agreed, and the multinational manufacturer was awarded exclusive ownership of the device. James “Jimmie” Benton was never heard from again.

  I waited by the curb for Fred to pick me up. He had offered to go shopping with me, but only if he could drive. Imagine my surprise when he pulled up in a brand new car!