The Age of Amy: Behind the Fun Zone

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Mr. Lewis stepped into frame and covered the mic with his hand.

  “You can’t say that word!” he whispered. “You’re violating FCC regulations.”

  I shoved him away and continued:

  “People have been afraid to speak that word, but those times are over. Manipulitis has controlled our behavior long enough. It’s time we stood together to defeat it. What do ya say? Let’s climb out from under our shells and take back our independence.”

  Mr. Lewis finally took charge of the mic, and spoke to the camera:

  “As you can see, this disaster has brought terror and confusion to this quiet community.”

  I poked my head over his shoulder. “And one other thing: Don’t get too freaked out when your toilet water starts glowing tomorrow morning.”

  Lewis rolled his eyes. “Back to you in the studio.”

  “Clear!” yelled the cameraman.

  Mr. Lewis stormed up to me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Someone who isn’t afraid to speak out,” I said, “and someone who just gave you the highest ratings you’ll see all year. By this time tomorrow, we will have been viewed by millions on social media, and replayed on every news program around the world.”

  The grumpy news director marched back to his news van. He wasn’t too happy with me. But as the van sped down the hill, Mr. Lewis gave me a thumbs-up out the window.

  The honking horn of the last bus was directed at me. I was the only teenager left, and the driver was anxious to get back to his breakfast.

  I took one last look at the Fun Zone.

  There wasn’t much left to see, of course. The rides, the food stands, the boardwalk attractions now lay buried under tons of earth.

  Many thought that the Fun Zone should lay buried in memory, too. For me, I kinda hope that a new park would one day take its place—one that celebrates life’s simple pleasures.

  As I climbed aboard the bus, the driver stared out at the remains of the old park.

  “They should have torn that thing down years ago,” he said. “It’s been an eyesore ever since the day it closed.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said. “But maybe we need to keep some old things around, to remind us that newer isn’t always better. That’s a lesson we never seem to learn.”

  Chapter 15

  A Real Boy

  Yellow police tape encircled the Fun Zone—or what was left of it. Digging for evidence under the rubble had been on going ever since the cave-in. The FBI, the CIA, and the DEA were all brought in to see if any federal crimes had been committed.

  News of the Fun Zone disaster and Toby’s undoing made headlines around the world. The remnants of the old park had become a curiosity, and before long, our simple farming community had become a thriving tourist destination. Local hotels and vacation rentals were booked year-round. Restaurants served hungry travelers 24 hours a day.

  But with the park having been declared a crime scene, no one was allowed near the site. Anyone caught viewing it from the road was immediately turned back. The only way to see it was from a boat on Summit Lake.

  This was all good news for ol’ Gus, whose little boat rental operation flourished into a sightseeing enterprise. To serve the growing demand, he expanded his fleet of paddle boats. Pleasure craft and sailboats were added. He even bought a 40-foot ferry and conducted guided tours—for a fee, of course.

  The boat dock was widened to make room for a new gift shop. Visitors to the “Secret of Summit Lake” simply couldn’t leave without buying a souvenir. To help with the busy weekends, Gus offered me a job. I happily accepted.

  Driving into town for supplies took me through a city I barely recognized. The sign on our Happy Fun Mart now read Lucky Shopper’s Warehouse. With the demise of Monstro Industries, a bankruptcy court had awarded some sly investors the entire chain of Superstores.

  The Jimmie Joint, where I had suffered such appalling service, was renovated into a Donny Boy Burgers. The new owners adapted the kitchen to meet their needs, but had no use for the robot waiters. The androids were donated to the public library, and assigned the backbreaking chore of stocking bookshelves.

  Obsolete Jimmie Cruisers filled the auto junkyard. Stacked ten cars high, these marvels of computer engineering were all tagged to be stripped and scrapped.

  The public’s view of Shankstonville wasn’t all positive. Not everyone was thrilled about having their Jimmies liquefied. To them, we were known as the town that killed the Jimmie. By law, developing brain-invasive devices was now a federal offense, but that didn’t stop diehard Jimmieheads from protesting against it. They marched outside the now defunct Jimmie Stores, and even organized mini JimmieCon conventions, though few ever attended.

  Gus came out to meet me as I returned to the boat shack. While unloading his delivery truck, he began jumping up and down, like a child on Christmas morning.

  “You’re in a good mood,” I said. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Those boxes,” said Gus. “The custom-ordered souvenirs I’ve been waiting for are in there.”

  He couldn’t wait to open the cartons to show me the novelties. There were miniature lighthouses with flashing LED lanterns, clear plastic brains with an actual Jimmie pill inside, and books titled Behind the Fun Zone by local author Bruce Edwards.

  “How go the boat rentals today?” I asked Gus.

  “Have a look,” he said.

  Not a single boat was left at the dock.

  Boating out to the Fun Zone was also a great way to commune with nature. It gave folks a chance to slow down, and recharge their mental batteries. But while many came to gain a fresh perspective on life, what they really wanted was a selfie with the lighthouse. For them, the towering structure was an inspiration. Coming to see it was a kind of spiritual pilgrimage. For the lighthouse to have survived in the wake of such devastation was considered a miracle. Its resilience shined as a beacon of hope to all the world—or so they believed.

  As I stocked the gift shop with the new mementos, the little bell over the front door jingled. In walked Aunt Dolly.

  “Did you get my stuff?” she asked me.

  This wasn’t a social call. My aunt had joined the Shankstonville Historical Society, and volunteered to run the newly-built Fun Zone Museum. The nonprofit group acquired special permission to retrieve the park’s historical artifacts. Items on display included a section of the entryway arch, a curvy mirror from the Crazy House, and a fully-functioning bumper car.

  “I hope you remembered to pick up my cash register tape,” said Dolly.

  Retail sales transactions were mostly cash-and-carry these days. Former JimmiePal customers were still waiting for the banks to reissue their credit cards.

  I wheeled Aunt Dolly’s supplies to the museum stockroom, which was only a few steps from the gift shop.

  Inside, workers uncrated a newly-restored Fun Zone display.

  “Here’s something I think you’ll like,” my aunt said. “Visitors can sit down on this and have their picture taken. You want to try it?”

  It was the pink donkey from the merry-go-round.

  “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Is this the new exhibit everyone’s been talking about?”

  “No. That one is already out front. There’s going to be an official unveiling later today, but I’ll give you a sneak peek.”

  The highly anticipated addition lay hidden under a white sheet. Aunt Dolly pulled it back. It was Laughing Lucy! She had been found in the wreckage in extremely poor condition, but thanks to a successful fundraising campaign, the grand lady was lovingly restored to her original magnificence.

  Drop a token in a coin slot, and Lucy comes to life, laughing and convulsing like she did a hundred years ago.

  Museum visitors loved learning of the Fun Zone’s nostalgic past, but reliving its glory days only told half the story. A dark staircase led to the museum basement, where guests could experience its notorious side.

  Floo
r-to-ceiling photographs depicted the park’s underground workhouses. Recovered sweatshop workbenches and sewing machines were displayed. Rickety wooden bunks showed the worker’s crude sleeping quarters. And then there was the attraction everyone enjoyed: sitting in the captain’s chair from Toby’s fantasy starship.

  The exhibit ends by challenging guests to unravel an unsolved mystery: Where is Tobias Goodfellow?

  He hadn’t been seen since the park was destroyed. Everyone assumed that he had perished in the cave-in. But while the park’s excavation had uncovered his underground operations, Toby’s remains were never found.

  My guess was that he was sipping Mai Tais on some tropical island. Toby had escaped in the Beam Booth. I was sure of it. But when I told the authorities about that amazing transporter, they didn’t believe me. No matter. Besides, keeping Toby’s whereabouts a mystery was a great way to promote the museum.

  School.

  Needless to say, Jimmie-wiz apps were pretty useless without Jimmies to run them on. With that option no longer available, you got your education the old-fashioned way. You learned by reading textbooks. You used a pencil to take a test. A lot of teenage Jimmieheads grumbled at having to return to school, but educators were eager to teach them—and no downloading was required.

  The classrooms at Shankstonville High were full again, but not much else had changed. The hallways bustled with yawning teenagers. The cafeteria food was bland as always. You still needed a hall pass to go to the restroom.

  Principal Silver was back at his post. Having converted all of his retirement savings into shares of Monstro stock, which were now totally worthless, he needed the job.

  I was pleased to find that my locker combination still worked. Through force of habit, I held my hand under the door as I swung it open, expecting a love note or two to fall out, but none did. Zac hadn’t visited his locker once since school resumed.

  All of us who knew Zac’s true identity pledged to keep it a secret, allowing him to continue masquerading as an ordinary freshman. Maybe that wasn’t important to him now. When you think about it, why would a boy genius bother attending high school, anyway?

  The pirate skeleton that our principal had smashed welcomed me to Science class. Wooden rulers served as splints, while rubber cement healed its broken bones. We had considered hiding it in the closet in case Mr. Silver made a surprise appearance, but “Long John” never came by. Miss Jeffries had been rehired to teach our class, and he was still apologizing to her for getting her fired.

  It was Miss Jeffries’ first day back, and she began by addressing the class:

  “Now, as I was saying— ”

  That got a laugh.

  I raised my hand. “You were saying something about the spread of Manipulitis.”

  “Was I?” she said, giving me a wink and a smile.

  That was the last anyone spoke of the virus in Science class. The topic was now better suited for Social Studies. The M-word had finally found its way into the public conversation. People were no longer afraid to speak openly about it, even though no one was quite sure what it was.

  Numerous studies had been conducted in laboratories and universities around the world. Of course, the Manipulitis bug was never discovered. Miss Jeffries’ secret society had accomplished its goal: to challenge people to spot a flimflam when they see it.

  I headed toward the library, where Fred waited to escort me to my next class. It was an odd custom, but one I always looked forward to. The only thing different now was that Zac wasn’t walking in my shadow.

  Really? Then whose footsteps did I hear behind me? I turned around. It was Zac, but he wasn’t alone. Nell was with him—and they were holding hands!

  “What’s up with this?” I said, indicating their interlocked fingers.

  Nell looked up at Zac with puppy love eyes. “Isn’t he the cutest thing?”

  She didn’t have to say another word. She was smitten.

  “And you, Zac, why haven’t you been at school?”

  Zac leaned over to Nell. “Will you excuse us a moment, please?” he asked her kindly.

  Zac took me aside.

  “I came to tell you that I won’t be coming here anymore,” he said. “I’m moving away.”

  He flipped open his phone and showed me a selfie with an adult couple standing behind him.

  “My mom and dad. They’re back together. Dad won his battle over PTSD, and I’m going to live with them.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said, “though I’m kinda sad to see you go. Funny, how you went from being an annoying pest to being a trusted friend. I guess I should thank those Jimmie hackers for that.”

  “Why don’t you just thank me?”

  It took me a second for that to sink in. “You’re the hacker!”

  “It was the only way I could infiltrate Toby’s inner circle.”

  I laughed. “And you told him that pointy-eared spacemen had done it.”

  Zac shrugged.

  “I’m sorry your invention didn’t turn out like you had hoped.”

  “Don’t be. Most great ideas get twisted sooner or later. The discovery of atomic power was supposed to benefit all mankind, but they couldn’t wait to make a bomb out of it. 3D printing is a technological marvel, and what do they print? Guns.”

  A commotion nearby drew our attention, then someone shouted, “Look out!”

  One of those small video drones fell from the sky, just missing a group of unsuspecting students.

  “The Multimedia Club,” I said. “They still haven’t learned to control that thing.”

  “There’s another cool innovation,” said Zac. “I can only imagine how Earthlings will screw that one up.”

  His last remark baffled me. “Did you just say, Earthlings?”

  “A slip of the tongue,” he said. “I meant to say, ah, people.”

  He moved closer to me. “There’s one last thing I have to tell you. While sharing a jail cell with Fred, I asked him why he had come to the Fun Zone.”

  “To realize some silly dream, like everyone else.”

  “Not entirely. His dream was to find the courage to express how he really feels about you. He was afraid that his wimpiness was sending you the wrong signals. Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he’s in love with you.”

  “You do—I mean—he does?”

  “He’s been wanting to tell you, but he was afraid you’d laugh at him. He doesn’t handle rejection very well. Getting the brush-off is a terrible feeling. I should know.”

  Zac couldn’t see it, but his remark had me beaming inside. My skin tingled all over.

  “That’s quite a piece of news,” I said. “What do I do now?”

  “Talk to him,” said Zac. “If you want to start believing in people again, this is the perfect place to start.”

  He reached his hand out to me. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

  I took his hand, then leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

  Zac drew back. “Amy, please! Not in front of Nell!”

  A shout came from the small group huddled around the grounded drone. The erratic aircraft was airborne again. It hovered for a moment, then zoomed over Zac’s head. Its spinning blades sent his long hair thrashing about.

  I gasped. The wild wind revealed a startling secret he had kept incredibly well-hidden.

  His ears were pointed!

  I approached Fred with a zillion thoughts racing through my mind.

  “What were you and Zac talking about?” asked Fred.

  “Oh, this and that,” I said. “You know, Fred, I never thanked you for what you did at the lighthouse. That must have been pretty scary up there, especially for someone who gets nauseous just climbing a tall ladder.”

  “The best way to conquer your fears is to face them.”

  “Does that work for the fear of water, too?”

  “It does. Paddle me out on the lake tomorrow and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “How about the fear of rejection?” />
  Fred hesitated in answering. It was a leading question, and I may have crossed the line by asking it.

  “You might have noticed that I’m not very good at sharing my feelings,” he said. “Those feelings include my deep fondness for you. I was hoping that my feat of daring at the Fun Zone would say what I couldn’t express in words. Ya know, Amy, Pinnochio had to perform an act of heroism before he could become a real boy. I think I’m ready now to be a real boy friend to you.”

  I stood toe-to-toe with Fred, then leaned forward to kiss him. To my astonishment, our lips actually met!

  Then, right there in full view of the entire Student Body, I wrapped my arms around his neck and laid one on him to shatter the record books.

  Let the rumors fly. Let the gossip spread. If our display of affection created a scandal, so be it. We didn’t care. The funny thing was, that should have been the least of our worries. Not a single student paid any attention to us.

  No heads turned.

  No eyes glared.

  For their gazes were firmly fixed . . .

  on their smartphones.

  About the Author

  Bruce Edwards was born in Marin County, California and raised on a tasty diet of jazz and Disney animation. He majored in Architecture in college, but switched to Music to join the burgeoning San Francisco music scene. As a composer and musician, he wrote rock tunes and radio jingles, and toured as a pop music artist between studio gigs. He tinkered with early computer animation which led to a career as a feature film character animator. His more unique vocational detours included a stint as a puppeteer and performing magic at Disneyland. As a writer, he wrote screenplays during his Hollywood years before finding an audience for his young-adult fiction. Mr. Edwards currently lives in Orange County, California.