Styrofoam Throne

by David Bone

  I went up and down the neck like I was wiping it off.

  “No. Arch your fingers more. Like spider legs. Yeah, bro, now do it all together.”

  I began to pick it up.

  “Hey, Tony,” Renaldo yelled. “I want a half Coke, quarter 7up, half Dr Pepper, and the rest Cactus Cooler soda,” Renaldo yelled.

  “You skipped too many math classes. I’m not pouring that shit all day.”

  “Check it out, though. Donovan, shred, dude.”

  I pointed a ripping solo and heavy metal frown at Tony.

  “Ha! Not bad! You’re a natural, Dono.”

  I didn’t want to be a natural at cardboard pizza guitar.

  “Keep yelling, though,” Tony said, nodding to the pizza. “This shit’s been on the rack for, like, two days.”

  It didn’t matter to me how old the pizza was or that I properly played the cardboard guitar. It couldn’t have been any less Castle-y. Wait, no. The Roost was less Castle-y. When based on distance away from Janice and proximity to the Castle, pizza was the clear winner. And I kept reminding myself.

  Renaldo leaned up against the railing opposite the pizza and watched me relaunch into advertising.

  “Hot ’n Ready!” I yelled.

  I found a groove with Tony and Renaldo’s approval and widened my perimeter a little as the pier started to fill up that afternoon. Some girls walked past me a few times, giggling, and I could never figure out if it was the good or bad kind.

  Jack walked past me in the thick of the afternoon and gave me an approving nod. I still felt suckered.

  Renaldo stepped in.

  “Dude, you’ve got some hot licks down now but you’re boring me to death. You need some moves, man!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like shake it up, bro. Do a sprinkler head.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dude!”

  Renaldo air guitared as he swept the tip of the guitar across a 180-degree angle, then reset from the beginning to start the 180 over at the same spot.

  “It’s like the tip of your guitar is spraying the arena with fucking metal power.”

  “I’ll try it.”

  “Dude, you don’t ‘try’ this shit—you fuckin’ fuck it. Get out there and spray them down!”

  I attempted my first sprinkler head move. But went from left to right and right to left in a smooth direction.

  “No, no, no.”

  “What?”

  “Dude, that looks weak.”

  “But this is what you said.”

  “You gotta do it like a sprinkler. Reset back to the beginning when you get to the end. No back and forth.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is rad versus fucking lame.”

  “Dude, are you fucking with me?”

  “Hey, you wanted it, suit yourself,” Renaldo shrugged. “If you need me, I’ll be under the pier smoking weed with my boss.”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly.”

  He disappeared in the crowd and I returned to my pizza guitar.

  “Hot ’n Ready!” I cried out.

  I played that cardboard guitar into the night, ’til my fingers bled, like they say in rock songs. Only these were paper cuts. Finally, Tony called the day and told me to eat. I sat down behind the Castle Pizza counter and had a slice. Tony squinted at me.

  “Whoa, buddy. Did you put any sunscreen on today? You look like a lobster.”

  I went to check my reflection in the mirror. My pale skin had turned bright red and I suddenly began to feel my face throb. I was supposed to be inside the Castle and hadn’t thought of sunscreen the whole day. I’d gotten too occupied with embarrassment and pizza guitar techniques.

  “I’ve never been this sunburned in my life! What am I gonna do tomorrow?”

  “Wear sunscreen I hope, ha!”

  “Seriously, Tony.”

  “I don’t know, but this pizza sure as shit doesn’t sell itself.”

  The next morning, I passed the screams coming from the Castle and shuffled in sunburned pain down the pier to Castle Pizza.

  Tony erupted in laughter when he saw me.

  “Holy shit, kid! You look like a cartoon character that got angry.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should do something else today?”

  “Nah. I’ll set up the picnic parasol and you’ll be good.”

  “I don’t know if I can move a lot.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s attention we want and that face is gonna get it.”

  I stood in place, hardly opening my mouth as people repeatedly came by to make comments.

  I spotted Todd, one of the jock assholes from high school, and then he saw me. I clutched my cardboard guitar and looked away.

  “Hot ’n Ready,” I muttered.

  Just then, Todd clipped me with his shoulder.

  “What the fuck!” he said, acting like it was my fault. “Hey, guys, check it out. The Prince of Dorkness.”

  “Yeah! Look at that fucking dork!” said another jock as Todd pushed me into the sun.

  “Ow!”

  “Holy shit, you are fucking burned,” Todd said, grabbing my arm. “That feel good?”

  I collapsed under the grip.

  “You guys, come on. I’m working.”

  “A fucking pizza guitar?” Todd said while giving it a punch.

  “Come on, guys. Please.”

  Tony interrupted the scene.

  “Donovan, stop socializing and sell some fucking pizza.” Tony’s attention went back to filling orders.

  “Just leave me alone, seriously.”

  “Or what?”

  “Yeah! Or what?” the other jock said.

  “Hot ’n Ready! Hot ’n Ready!!” It seemed like a good defense in the moment. This time, I hoped drawing attention to myself would keep me out of trouble.

  “This fuckin’ guy. You gave my girlfriend nightmares for weeks with that shit you pulled at the talent show.”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “Uh . . .”

  Tony butted in. “Donovan, if I have to tell you one more time!”

  “Hotnreadyhotnreadyhotnready!” Why didn’t Tony know this was code for “Help!”?

  I scurried out from the shade, away from the jocks and into the sun. It burned and made me think of Dracula’s famous sensitivity to daylight.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Dude, seriously. I’m fucking working.” Maybe a little bark back would get me out of this. It didn’t.

  “Oh, that’s it. Boys, let’s show him how to surf.”

  I might have been taller, but these guys’ low gravity was dangerous for my stilt-like legs.

  The jocks all grabbed me and tossed me off the pier while passersby just laughed. Whose side should they have been on? The letterman jackets, or the sunburned freak, playing a cardboard pizza guitar? Tony was too busy to cast a vote.

  The jocks looked down on me as I plummeted. They high-fived and yelled, “Shoot the pier, bro! Hahahaha!”

  I hit the water with the pizza guitar still in hand. I thought my skin was going to melt off from the pain of the water contact. If it had been low tide, I would have broken my neck. Instead, I was swept among the barnacle-covered pillars holding up the pier. Above me, clusters of sleeping bats covered the bottom of the pier.

  The waves continued to push me against the pillars. One finally got me good across my arm when I braced myself for the blow. The only thing more painful than an extreme sunburn was a gash across it with saltwater pouring in.

  After what seemed like eternity in tumult lost at sea, I crawled onto the shore, dripping blood and tangled in seaweed.

  “Holy shit, bro!” It was Renaldo, running toward me from his usual post at the bottom of the employee ramp. “That was badass! I’ve never had the balls to jump off the pier.”

  Renaldo saw my arm.

  “Oh fuck, the pier too
k a bite out of you. Damn.”

  I tried to catch my breath.

  “Dude, you’re hero of the day, man,” he said.

  “They . . . threw . . . me . . . off,” I managed to say.

  “Fuckin’ who?”

  “Jocks.”

  “Fucking jocks, man! The same ones from . . .”

  I shook my head.

  “Jesus, they’re everywhere. Dude, we gotta stop that bleeding.”

  Renaldo tore the centerpiece heavy metal patch off the back of his jacket.

  “Here, dude. Hold this over it.”

  Renaldo wrapped the patch around the wound and squeezed.

  “Owww!”

  “I know, bro. But this’ll have to do.”

  I looked down at the patch. It was for a singer named King and featured a medieval knight battling a dragon.

  “Hold that tight.”

  “I gotta go back to work.”

  “Dude, you’re a mess. Fuck it.”

  “No, I gotta.”

  “Dude, your arm looks like a slice of pizza, and your face is fucked,” Renaldo said.

  “Thanks, man. Seriously.”

  I dripped my way back to Castle Pizza.

  “Where the hell have you been? Why are you all wet? You’re not getting paid to fuckin’ swim,” Tony said.

  “I got thrown off.”

  Tony paused, closed his eyes, and nodded.

  “Shit, kid. I’m sorry. It happens, ya know?”

  No. I didn’t know.

  “Where’s the guitar?”

  “The ocean.”

  “Shit. No offense, but you’re more replaceable than the pizza guitar.”

  “None taken. It was true art.”

  “So it’s a good thing we’ve got this,” Tony said and pulled out a cardboard pizza saxophone.

  I was crushed. Now everyone walking by got a good laugh at the bleeding, wet kid blowing on a pizza sax. Everyone. It made me realize guitars are cooler than I thought.

  Finally, Jack walked up.

  “How’s it goin’ here?” he asked Tony.

  “Not too good, look at the kid.”

  “Damn. You got thrown off, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m surprised the lobsters didn’t take you in as one of their own.”

  Tony and Jack laughed. I could have used some sympathy. I was used to not getting any, but I’d hoped that could change.

  “I hit the pier.”

  I tried to peel back part of the patch covering the wound but it had already bonded to my flesh.

  “Gross, kid. You should go home and take care of that.”

  “No, I want to work.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow and nodded at me.

  “What do you want to do? Can’t sell food with a gaper like that.”

  “I got customers,” Tony said and ducked out.

  “I want to work in the Castle, people are crazy out here on the pier,” I told Jack.

  “The Castle, huh. Well, are you crazy?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Kid, I’m crazy. That’s why I’m here. So you must be crazy, too.”

  “I promise I’ll be good in there.”

  Jack squinted.

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “How much? I don’t have any money really.”

  “Price of admission is your mind.”

  “Please take it away from me. I don’t need it.”

  “Okay, kid. I’ll give you a Castle job, but it’s no safer in there than out here. It’s worse.”

  “I can take it.”

  “And it’s not going to be what you think. It’s a lot bigger drop from up there,” he said, pointing up at the Castle.

  “Just please give me a shot.”

  “Alright. I will. But it’s not ’cause you don’t need makeup to look like a weirdo,” Jack said, laughing.

  “I’m good with that.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if anyone asks, tell ’em you’re eighteen.”

  5

  Jack led me past the ghosts and ghouls smoking cigarettes in back of the Castle. The dude who played Satan stopped me.

  “Hey, can I get two slices?” he said in full makeup.

  “He’s busy,” Jack said.

  That’s right I’m fucking busy. I ignored him and followed the real boss of monsters.

  Jack opened the Castle door and held it for me.

  “Bet ya didn’t know Hell had a back door, huh? Leave it to me to make one!” Jack said as he backslapped me into the Castle. A blast of trapped heat escaped out the door as a variety of customers’ screams could be heard a few thin walls away.

  “I hope you like it hot, Dono!”

  Dono? Jack said it with ease, as though it had been my long-standing nickname. I couldn’t remember anyone giving me another name that wasn’t an insult.

  Jack took me down a dimly lit corridor. It wasn’t painted with bloody stone like the rest of the Castle I had seen. Instead, raw sheets of water-stained plywood were held in place by casually hammered nails. Local rock show and keg party flyers peeled off the walls. Wiring for the occasional light bulb was exposed along the ceiling and flickered every time a decent-sized wave hit the pier columns below. When I went through the castle as a plebe, I thought the dimming was part of the effect.

  We entered the makeup room, a low-ceilinged plywood room covered in graffiti, jokes about staff members, fake epitaphs, and heavy metal logos. Jack tossed me a dark-brown druid robe, the same that I had seen so many in the Castle wear.

  “Here’s your uniform. Keep this on the whole time you’re here so everyone knows you’re a part of the Castle and not some punk.”

  “A part of the Castle . . .” The phrase echoed in my head. It was really happening. An outsider on the inside.

  “Normally, you’re supposed to wear some black around your eyes and fill in the rest with white, but that sunburn looks scarier than anything in here,” Jack said with a laugh as big as his gut.

  Oh, yeah, the sunburn. I was too pumped to remember how much pain I was in.

  “I can handle it,” I said and threw the robe on. It was itchy and had a built-in stench of sweat, smoke, and beer.

  Jack pointed to the makeup table. Eight chairs sat in front of a wide mirror with light bulbs lining it.

  “Help yourself. Everyone does their own makeup.”

  I stepped up to the table and dug two fingers into a tin of Pure Black and circled my eyes. While I was working it in, Jack broke down the Castle’s ins and outs.

  “Couple things to know about working here,” he said, pulling up a chair and a drink. “Show up on time. If you’re sick, come to work. If you’re really sick, call me. Don’t fuck off too much, I’m not an idiot. I know what goes on here but just don’t take it too far.”

  I wanted to ask, “What really does go on here?” but pretended to know what he was talking about.

  “Also, you have to stay within the Castle walls and the break area right out back. No walking the pier in costume. You know the deal there. And I’m surprised how important I need to make this next one but some people . . . if you see any mushrooms in the Castle, do not eat them. They’re not the trippy kind. They’ll make you see God, you just won’t be coming back!” Jack let out another laugh. “But seriously. Don’t eat that shit.”

  “Got it,” I said, reaching for the tin of Clown White face paint, smearing it around the rest of my face.

  “Also, as you might have noticed, this place has seen better days. It’s not the monsters that’ll kill you here—it’s the building. If you’re not careful, it’s a death trap. Flights of stairs in dark, confusing twists and turns,” he said as the lights flickered. “The electrical. Everything.”

  I finished the makeup by adding a couple touches of black to make a downturned mouth. I looked in the mirror and smiled as much as the makeup was frowning.

  “Great job, here’s your mop,” Jack said, handing it over.

  �
�A mop? Shouldn’t I have a scythe or, like, an axe?”

  “You’re the new Castle custodian, Dono.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “You wanted a job in the Castle, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . .”

  “No, I’m in. I just thought—” I said when Jack cut me off.

  “Here’s your walkie-talkie. Strap it on your pants under your robe. Now, there are multiple codes we use to discreetly identify situations that need attention. It’s your job to respond to some of these codes.”

  “Codes?” Yeah, codes? Walkie-talkies? Mops? How is any of this spooky?

  “Codes, Dono. Still up for this?”

  “Yeah, totally.” It was more true than not.

  Jack went through all the various codes to know. Codes for hurt cast members, hurt customers, overly scared customers, and more.

  “Cast members get hurt?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, a lot of people’s reaction to a good scare is a punch in the face. Sometimes more.”

  “What do I do?”

  “I’ll take care of that. Just stay on your toes. But the next codes apply to you more directly than others.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re easy to remember. There’s Code Yellow, Green, and Brown. Code Yellow, this happens multiple times a day. Someone pissed in the Castle. The plebes are drunk and stuck in a forty-five-minute maze so they just piss in any dark corner. If there’s carpet, throw the cleaner down. If it’s not carpet, use the mop.”

  Jack picked up a plastic Castle Dunes cup, took a slug, and let out a “Woo!”

  “Now Code Green, that’s puke. Same people. Do about the same thing. Then there’s Code Brown.” Jack sighed. “Bummer, but it happens.”

  “Like, people shit in the Castle?”

  “There’s so many dark areas in the Castle, you can’t imagine what people do. A Brown? Two reasons. One, the food on the pier. Man, it’s gotten me a couple times.”

  Jack took another swig.

  “And two, you’ve heard the expression ‘scared shitless’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not just an expression. And if you shit your pants, you aren’t going to take them off in a horror maze. No, you’re going to shit-limp all the way out, leaving a trail that tumbled out your pant leg. Follow the trail.”