Dunk

by Lubar, David

  “Maybe, but it’s still pretty rough by the third or fourth pint,” Jason said.

  “How about fixing clogged toilets?” Corey asked. “That can’t be fun.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Mike told him. “It’s not like you do it with your bare hands. My neighbor’s a plumber. He makes good money. Now, sitting in an office somewhere . . . the same place all day every day—that’s got to suck.”

  “Depends what you do,” Corey said. “I can spend the whole day on my computer. No problem.”

  “Basically, working sucks,” Mike said. “That’s why I’m joining the army. You know exactly what’s going to happen, and they won’t fire you if business gets slow. No matter what, you get your check and you get your meals.” He plopped back on his towel. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but I could tell from the way his head moved that he was watching every girl who walked by. Even without the glasses, the girls wouldn’t have noticed what he was doing because they were all too busy checking out Jason.

  “Agreed,” Corey said. “Working sucks.”

  I hoped they were wrong. Two more years of school, and then I’d be doing some kind of work. Maybe I’d really get to own an arcade. Or maybe I’d be the guy sticking his arm in a cloud of mosquitoes. I didn’t have a clue where I’d end up. It didn’t seem like I had any control over that right now. Or maybe ever. And even after all these years of school, I hadn’t found anything I thought I’d be good at. Until now.

  Jason stood up and stretched. “Swim?” he asked.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  He jogged to the edge of the water and stuck a toe into the surf as it lapped toward him. After a moment he backed up a couple steps, then ran straight ahead, letting out a shout when the water reached his waist. He leaped up and dove under a wave as it broke in front of him.

  “He never stops,” Corey said.

  “Why don’t you join him?” I asked. The whole time I’d known Corey, I hadn’t ever seen him go into the water. He claimed he was allergic to salt.

  “No, thanks.” He grabbed his bottle of sunscreen and started applying another layer.

  I glanced at Wild Willy’s Pier, which jutted toward the ocean on our right. The Green Tarantula, one of the largest inverted coasters in the East, towered over the water. I loved watching the cars when they wen^ through the first loop, throwing the riders’ feet straight up as the track shot past under their heads. Seconds later, they blew through a double corkscrew. We were too far away to hear the screams.

  “What do you think it would cost to build a dunk tank?” I asked.

  “Two or three hundred, at least,” Mike said. “Lumber’s pretty expensive, but you could use scrap iron for the bars.”

  “Maybe another eighty for cheap speakers and a microphone,” Corey said. “Wait, you’d need an amplifier, too. Make it one twenty.”

  “That’s still not too bad.” I imagined having my own tank on the boardwalk, near a busy pier or next to one of the major coasters. I’d hire my friends to work the front. Pay them good money. I’d work the tank, of course. Maybe put the earnings into building a second tank. Train some other Bozos. Build up a whole business.

  “Don’t forget, you need a place to put it,” Mike told me. “Rent’s not cheap around here. My boss always complains about that when he’s explaining why I can’t get a raise. You gotta pay for water and electricity, of course.”

  “And there’s insurance,” Corey said. “Workmen’s comp, taxes, Social Security. There’s probably some sort of licensing fee from the township. Maybe you even have to a post a liability bond.”

  Man, I didn’t know the first thing about that kind of stuff. How did anyone ever start a business when there was so much nonsense to deal with? I sighed and turned my attention back to the ocean.

  I watched Jason for a while, then went to join him. I didn’t like to dive in. I waded, standing on my toes each time a swell threatened to reach a dry part of my body. But after getting smacked with a couple high waves, I was as wet as Jason.

  “Feels great,” he said.

  He was right. I think there’s something in salt water that can heal just about anything. My muscles felt better. All of me felt better.

  Jason pointed toward the beach. “People dream all year of a week at the shore. And we live here.”

  “Pretty good deal,” I said. I stood for a while, letting the motion of the water bury my feet beneath the sand. I floated and I swam a bit, then climbed out and plopped down on my towel. But something caught my attention.

  A large group of guys was tossing around a couple Frisbees near the water off to our left. “Hey,” I asked, sitting up, “speaking of biting insects, isn’t that Stinger?”

  Mike turned his head briefly away from two girls passing near us in bikinis. “Sure is.”

  I didn’t recognize the other guys with Stinger. But I had a suspicion who they might be, and with that suspicion came a thought that made me grin. If I was right, I was facing an irresistible opportunity.

  “What are you so happy about?” Jason asked as he came up from the water. He ran both hands through his hair, pushing off a shower of drops.

  “The chance of a lifetime,” I said. “I’ll be back.” I jogged over to say hi to Stinger. He’d just graduated, and was sort of a school hero. I knew him from study hall and we got along okay. About half the guys in his group wore orange T-shirts with CAMP SIZZLE printed in black letters on the back. Red flames burst from the first letter of each word, and the whole name was underlined with a lightning bolt.

  “Hey, Stinger,” I said when he spotted me. “How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Chad.” He nodded. “It’s going good. You?”

  “Can’t complain. You here for a while?”

  “Just till tonight. Came over with some of the guys from camp. Whatcha been doing?” He leaped up and grabbed a Frisbee as it passed overhead.

  “Working on the boardwalk. At a dunk tank.”

  “Sounds like fun,” he said as he flicked the Frisbee to one of his friends who was standing knee-deep in the water.

  “It keeps me hustling. Stop by before you leave. It’s right in front of Wild Willy’s. I’ll be there any time after seven.”

  Stinger nodded. “I’ll swing by if I get a chance.”

  “Great.” I headed to my towel.

  “What was that all about?” Jason asked when I got back.

  “Oh, I just thought Malcolm might get a kick out of meeting Stinger and his friends.”

  “Oh, man,” Jason said, shaking his head. “You’re rotten. Truly rotten.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Thanks.” I lay back and let the sun warm my smiling face. There was no question in my mind anymore. I knew for sure I was going back to the dunk tank. No way I’d miss it. Stinger could probably hit the target with his eyes closed. Tonight was going to be interesting.

  16

  “I’M HERE,” I TOLD BOB WHEN I GOT TO THE TANK THAT EVENING. It was only six forty. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss Stinger.

  “Good to see you. I kind of figured you wouldn’t be back. Half the kids I hire quit after the first day. Or sooner. Especially the kid who got hit on the nose. He pretty much quit right then.” Bob waved the remains of a stick of cotton candy in the general direction of the bucket. “You might as well get to work.”

  It was just as awful as it had been the night before. And even more dangerous. I nearly got nailed a couple times because I kept searching the crowd. But tonight I didn’t care about the filth or the pain or the danger. Whatever I had to deal with, it would all be worthwhile. As long as Stinger came.

  About half an hour after I got there, I caught a couple flashes of orange heading toward the tank. It was Stinger, and he wasn’t alone. There were nine or ten guys with him. This was perfect. More than perfect.

  Earlier, I’d kicked one of the balls so it rolled behind the tank. Now I rushed over to grab
it, just as Malcolm got dunked.

  “Hey,” I said, loudly enough to get his attention as he climbed out of the water. I had to hurry before he chose another mark.

  “What?”

  “See that kid in the orange T-shirt? The one with the crew cut.”

  “Yeah, I see him.”

  “I know him from school. He used to pick on me all the time.”

  “You want to get even?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yeah, I want to get even,” I said. That was sure true. I couldn’t help grinning in anticipation. Man, was I about to get even. Big time. “Think you can show him what it’s like to get picked on?”

  “No problem.” Malcolm looked over at Stinger. I could almost hear his Bozo brain working, searching for the perfect hook to sink into his victim so he could drag him into the game. I wondered what he’d pick. Stinger was tall and thin. He looked kind of awkward when he walked. And his hair was in a buzz cut. I figured Malcolm could start out using any of those things.

  But the Bozo homed in on something else. “Well, what do we have here?” he asked. He let the question hang in the air just long enough to get everyone’s attention, then supplied an answer. “It’s a traveling herd of oranges.”

  The crowd shifted as everyone inched away from Stinger and his pals.

  “My mistake,” Malcolm said. “You’re such a close bunch, you must be bananas.” He let out a Bozo howl to punctuate the joke. The crowd started laughing.

  I watched Stinger’s face. He was about the calmest guy I knew. Pressure meant nothing to him. He was used to being shouted at. He’d been called far worse names than anything Malcolm would say in public. There was a chance he’d just shake off the comments and walk away. Come on, I thought, go for it.

  “Yes!” I said as Stinger smiled that calm, deadly smile and strolled over to Bob.

  “Oh, no,” Malcolm said. “One of them got loose. Save me!” He glanced frantically from side to side in the tank, as if his life was in danger.

  Stinger took the three balls with his right hand and passed one of them to his left. He tossed the ball up about a foot and let it fall back into his waiting fingers. Then he did it again.

  “It’s a baseball,” Malcolm said. “What’s wrong? Never seen one before? Stop playing catch with yourself and throw the stupid thing.”

  That’s exactly what Stinger did. His first throw nailed the target dead center with a deafening clang, plunging Malcolm into the water.

  Malcolm climbed back on the seat and leaned over to say something into the microphone. But before he had a chance to speak, Stinger, using the same beautifully smooth motion, nailed the target a second time.

  And then he nailed it a third time.

  While I gathered up the three balls, Stinger paid Bob another two bucks. Behind him, his buddies cheered and whistled. And they lined up for their turns. The crowd drew closer, suddenly sensing that this time the vic was inside the cage.

  Stinger threw another three pitches, just as perfectly as he’d done from the mound at Pinecrest High, where he’d led the Pine Devils to an undefeated season with his eighty-five-mile-per-hour fastball. He was off to college in the fall on a full scholarship. But first he’d stopped at Camp Sizzle, a local pitching camp where the best of the best get fine-tuned. Anyone who’d lived around here for long knew about the camp. Malcolm, on the other hand, had no clue what he’d just unleashed.

  I caught sight of Jason in the crowd, far over to the right. He shook his head and mouthed the words, “You’re bad.”

  Yeah, I was bad. And I loved it. Stinger hurled three more balls, all dead on target, and then stepped aside to let one of the other star pitchers have a turn.

  Malcolm didn’t even get a chance to open his mouth. Nearly every single throw plunged him into the water. The crowd loved it, too. A couple times I saw money passing hands. People were actually betting on the pitchers.

  “Tough night,” Bob said when I delivered a bucketful of balls.

  I shrugged. “It happens.”

  Once or twice, when I got close to the cage, I looked at Malcolm and said, “Hey, it’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  My work was easy. The players had to wait between throws while Malcolm crawled back onto the ledge. I didn’t have any trouble keeping up, especially since Malcolm got slower and slower.

  Now we’re even, I thought as the last member of Stinger’s group took his turn. Back in January I’d been over at Corey’s house when he was washing his cat. Corey’s got bad allergies, and the doctor suggested either getting rid of the cat or at least giving it a bath every couple weeks. Until now I’d never seen anything sadder climbing out of the water than Corey’s cat. But Malcolm was looking pretty pathetic. And pretty exhausted. The effort of hauling himself back on that ledge so many times had to be tiring. Even so, I figured he’d gotten off pretty easily.

  But it wasn’t over.

  Stinger and the rest of the pitchers did the one thing guys are best at—they made a game of it. They lined up again and each player took a turn. Whoever missed had to drop out. Then the rest of the pitchers went for another round.

  Malcolm spent more time in the water than on the ledge.

  Eventually, it got down to Stinger and two other guys. Nobody missed for a while. It seemed like it would never end. Then, finally, the other two guys missed, one right after the other.

  Enough, I thought as Stinger threw his final ball. He raised his hands in victory, then waved at me and walked through the cheering fans, along with his friends from Camp Sizzle.

  A large part of the crowd drifted away now that the show was over. Bob tapped his watch to let me know it was nine o’clock. Oh, man—I never expected the whole thing would last that long.

  17

  “YOU CAN KNOCK OFF,” BOB SAID AS HE PULLED OUT HIS WAD of cash. He frowned as if he was doing some sort of calculation. “Sorry it’s not more. Bad night for all of us. Guess my uncle’s going to have to wait a little longer for that heart operation we’ve been saving up for.”

  “What?”

  “Just playing with your mind,” Bob said, grinning at me with teeth that weren’t entirely free of hot-dog relish. “Here, take this.” He handed me two bills.

  “Thanks.” I joined Jason over at the far right edge of the crowd.

  “Man,” he said. “That was brutal. I wouldn’t have stayed in there, would you?”

  “I don’t know.” I wondered what I would have done if I’d been in Malcolm’s place. It would be easy to leave the tank, I guess. Nobody would know who I was. But it would still feel like quitting. On the other hand, what’s the point in letting yourself get destroyed? It was only a job. Or was that the sort of excuse that quitters always used? I quit that job today. Just didn’t work out.

  I watched Malcolm crawl onto the ledge and, for the first time in nearly two hours, open his mouth. “Hey, how about that?” He paused and scanned the crowd. “Yeah, how about that. . . . That was really something. . . .”

  I wondered whether he had anything left. He must have gone into the water a couple hundred times. He’d sat there knowing that almost every throw was going to send him plunging. It had to be kind of like standing in front of a firing squad. Maybe he was afraid the whole boardwalk was loaded with talented pitchers tonight.

  The remaining crowd started to drift off.

  “Guess I got dunked, huh?”

  A couple people laughed.

  “What are you laughing at, farm boy?” Malcolm called to a skinny guy wearing overalls and a white T-shirt. His voice didn’t have its usual harsh edge. “You take a wrong turn with your tractor?”

  The guy threw three balls and missed three times. Then he shrugged and started to walk away.

  I waited to see whether Malcolm would get him to try again. He couldn’t allow the mark to escape that easily.

  “Let’s go,” Jason said. “I’m tired of watching him take the plunge.”

  “Just a minute.”

  “C
ome on. Let’s get some pizza. I practiced for three hours this afternoon. I’m starving.” He turned and headed north.

  “Okay,” I said as I caught up with him. “But let’s go to Salvatore’s.”

  “That’s where I was going,” Jason said.

  I pointed south. “Salvatore’s is that way.”

  Jason looked around for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Right.” He turned and we headed back past the dunk tank. I wasn’t surprised at his mistake. The boardwalk is so long, and so crowded with games and shops, that almost everyone gets confused once in a while—even people who live here.

  Behind us, I could hear Malcolm saying something about cows and overalls. I couldn’t tell if the guy took the bait. Pretty soon the sound of the rides and the crowds drowned out anything from the Bozo tank.

  “How about Stinger,” I said. “Ever see anything like that?” Jason shook his head. “Not in this lifetime. Speaking of which, have you figured out how to keep Malcolm from killing you?”

  “What’s he going to do? It’s part of the job. Just one of the risks he has to take. He might have run into Stinger even without my help. Right?”

  “Maybe,” Jason said. “But I wouldn’t want to try to convince him of that.”

  “Forget about it.” I checked the money Bob had given me. A five and a ten. “My treat,” I told Jason. When we got to Salvatore’s, I ordered a whole pie. I splurged for a large bottle of soda, too. One of the three-liter deals.

  “You guys win the lottery?” Salvatore called from behind the counter when the waitress brought us the pie.

  “Chad’s been working hard,” Jason called back.

  “Or hardly working,” Salvatore joked, almost as if it was a reflex.

  An ache in my side told me Jason was right. I’d been working hard. In a way it felt good, like after a rough game of football with the guys. I’d earned the pains. But this was better than a hard day of sports. I had money in my pocket. I’d been paid for every ounce of agony. My good feeling slipped away when I thought about Malcolm. If I closed my eyes, I could see him plunging into the water, over and over. It was like one of those movies where people live through the same thing endlessly until they figure out how to get it right.