Dunk

by Lubar, David

  Not bad, I told myself, though it felt kind of weird talking to a stranger this way—even if he couldn’t hear me. I glanced over at Malcolm.

  “See? I can do it.”

  He stared back at me without saying anything, but I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t impressed. As I thought about it, neither was I. Maybe I should have said melons instead of vegetables. No, that wasn’t much better. I took another shot. “Hey, muscleboy . . .” In my head, I ran through everything I could think of about weightlifting, trying to find the perfect line. None of it seemed funny.

  “Hurry up,” Malcolm said.

  “Shut up. I’m trying to think.” A jumble of bad ideas filled my brain.

  “He’s getting away. If you let him go, you’ve lost a mark. No mark, no money. There’s nothing sadder than a broke Bozo.”

  I opened my mouth. But I didn’t have anything to say.

  “Too late,” Malcolm said. “He’s gone. Wave bye-bye to him and his wallet.”

  “Come on, that wasn’t fair,” I said. “You can’t expect me to dream up something just like that.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Malcolm said. “That would be too hard. Nobody could do that.” He turned from me and stared out at the street. There was no one in front of us now, but he acted like he was talking to the weightlifter.

  “Hey, strongman. You look like you can lift anything. Except your IQ. It must be tough to tell yourself apart from the dumbbells.” He threw in a quiet version of his Bozo laugh for good measure.

  “Okay, so you knew a couple lines,” I said.

  But he didn’t stop with a couple. “Man, you’re strong—maybe you should take a bath. Hey, you must be a body builder—there’s no way nature could turn out something that strange on her own. Wow, where’d you get that body? I didn’t know they made ’em without a neck. You’re looking swell. Or maybe swollen. Better stop before you pop.”

  He went on for at least five minutes. Finally, as a small group of adults headed down the street in our direction, Malcolm looked at me and said, “Your turn. This is easy. You’ve got a choice. Take your pick.”

  “Sure. Just stop talking. You’re distracting me.”

  “Right. Sorry. My mistake. You’re absolutely right. There won’t be any distractions on the boardwalk. It’s such a nice, quiet place to work. So peaceful. Sometimes I like to bring the crossword puzzle with me for that very reason. When it gets really quiet, I meditate.”

  “Shut up.” I wished I’d hit him a whole lot harder this morning.

  “My pleasure.”

  Okay. I’d show him. I scanned the group, looking for the best mark. One of the guys was tall, but not real tall. One of the women was wearing high heels. That’s kind of stupid near the beach and boardwalk. But not stupid enough to be worth mentioning. There had to be something I could pick out. That’s it—one of the guys had on really baggy pants. “Hey, you,” I said, “those pants are so baggy . . . they should . . .” Oh god, I sounded just like Waldo.

  My brain switched off again. I sighed and watched as the group walked up the next block. This really wasn’t a fair test. I had to worry about keeping my voice down. And they were farther away than they’d be on the boardwalk—all the way down by the street.

  “There they go,” Malcolm said. “They’re spending all their money somewhere else. Tossing dull darts at underinflated balloons or shooting basketballs at microscopic hoops. Apparently, your mime act didn’t hold their interest. On the positive side, you’re still dry. Congratulations. You could be the world’s first waterproof Bozo.”

  “Okay, you’re right!” I shouted. I felt like letting him have it with my knee again. “You’re absolutely right. I suck. Thanks so much for proving it.” I stormed down the stairs.

  “Oh, come now, Chad,” Malcolm called after me in a voice like Goofy from the Disney cartoons. “Don’t be such a bad sport. Come on back and play.”

  As I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard him following me. When he was halfway down, he jumped over the railing. I guess he wanted to show off and land right in front of me, but his left leg—the one he limped on—buckled when he hit the ground. He winced in pain, then swore.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That was stupid.” He held on to the railing and lifted his leg so his injured foot dangled above the ground. For a moment, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  Some of my own anger faded. “You sure you’re okay?” I wondered how much of his pain was from the memory of past injuries.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just have to avoid leaping off stairs.” He leaned against the railing and wrapped his arm around it. “Look, I wasn’t trying to prove to you that you suck. Almost everyone sucks at new stuff. Otherwise, we wouldn’t need any teachers. I was only trying to prove that you’ve got a few things to learn before you climb into the tank. You’re not so thickheaded that you won’t admit that, are you?”

  I shrugged, which was the best way I could find to avoid admitting anything.

  “Everything looks easy from the outside. Ice-skating looks easy when I see it on television. If I tried to do a triple loop without training, I’d end up flat on my back. Brain surgery looks simple. Maybe I’ll go out and saw open someone’s skull. Dig around a bit in the cerebellum. How hard could it be?”

  “Okay. I get the point. But I figured I could do it. The stuff you say in the tank—I have stuff like that running through my mind all the time.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Sure, you can be funny. So can I. But that’s not good enough. You want to sit in the tank like Waldo and use the same old lame stuff all the time? Waldo’s a great guy. I like him a lot. But you and I both know he stinks as a Bozo. Right?”

  “Yeah.” I had to agree with him on that.

  “When Waldo gets in the tank, he’s still Waldo. That doesn’t work. Nobody wants to dunk Waldo or Malcolm or Chad. You have to be the Bozo. Think of it as a role. A part in a play.”

  I nodded. That kind of made sense.

  “I know you’ve got dreams of leaping into the tank and being brilliant. But it doesn’t work that way. You’ve got to make some effort. I’m going to ask you just one question. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “How badly do you want it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough. You have to know. You have to decide whether you’re willing to work for it. And before you decide, let me point out that you’re a complete idiot for wanting to do this. It’s a job nobody is going to appreciate. Yeah, people will laugh when they walk by and maybe notice how clever you are. Even so, they’ll think you’re nothing but a loser who can’t find anything better to do than sit on a ledge waiting to get dunked. Maybe one person in a million will hear you and actually understand what it takes to do the job. And that person will probably be some annoying kid with dreams of glory. Still want it? Or would you be happier if you forgot the whole thing?”

  I thought back to the first time I’d seen him in the tank. I remembered how he’d played the crowd like a puppet master. Nobody ignored him. It was impossible to walk past him without stopping, without listening. He had total control. And I thought about the shiver that ran through me when I heard that voice. “I want it.”

  “Bad enough to work for it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Then, for starters, you need to be around the tank as much as possible. I’ll tell Bob you’d like your job back.”

  “But—” I groaned at the thought of gathering balls again.

  “See you around seven.” Malcolm limped over to the stairs and hobbled up to the porch. As he reached the top, he looked down and told me which movie to study next.

  I went inside and watched the movie, keeping the volume low so I wouldn’t wake Mom. It was an old film called Beetlejuice, about this really whacked-out ghost. I think it was the same guy who played Batman. As I watched, I realized that this was where Malcolm had gotten some of his Bozo routine. The voice he us
ed was definitely inspired by Beetlejuice. Not completely. But there was an obvious influence.

  I set the clock to wake me early so I could visit Jason. He needed to believe there was hope, and I needed to act like he’d leave the hospital someday. That wasn’t going to be easy.

  I glanced up at the ceiling. Malcolm didn’t realize I was already getting a chance to play a role.

  30

  I BROUGHT THE INSULT BOOK AND THREE VIDEOS TO THE HOSPITAL with me the next morning. I figured Jason’s mom would probably come around on her lunch break. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Jason before then, so I got there at eight.

  He was awake when I reached his room. He looked about the same. Still hooked up to tubes. Still no sign that he’d ever be well enough to go home. I sat down and opened up the book.

  “Bedtime story?” he asked.

  “Better.” I read him some of my favorites parts, including all the quotes from Churchill.

  He kept telling me they were awful. And he kept telling me they were mean and cruel. But he also kept laughing. I had to stop pretty often. Any time he laughed too hard, he started coughing. At least twice a nurse peered in through the doorway and gave me a suspicious look, like I was doing something wrong. I guess they weren’t used to hearing laughter around here. But I didn’t get kicked out.

  After I’d read him all the best lines in the book, we watched two of the movies. They were both pretty short, but it was getting near lunchtime, so I switched off the monitor. I didn’t want Jason’s mother catching us. I put the third movie in the VCR, but shut off the power and handed Jason the remote.

  “Here. You can watch one after lunch if you feel like it.” I’d picked out a tape that looked especially good.

  “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

  “How do you feel?” I was almost afraid to ask that question.

  “Tired.”

  I’d been hoping he’d say he felt better. It seemed like the movies helped. But maybe all they did was take his mind off his problems for a while. And the way he kept coughing, I wondered whether I was hurting him more than I was helping him. Maybe his mom was right.

  “I guess I should get going. Need anything?”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  I headed out. I thought about facing the boardwalk, and the people on the boardwalk, but I still didn’t feel ready. Maybe tomorrow.

  I spent the afternoon at the beach.

  I went home early so I could see Mom before she drove off to school. She was studying when I came in. She must have been surprised that I’d started going out again, but she didn’t make a big deal out of it.

  “Did you have a good day?” she asked.

  “I saw Jason. Then I hung around the beach.”

  “The beach is nice. I’m glad you got some fresh air. How’s Jason doing?” she asked.

  “About the same. I don’t know if he’s ever going to get better.”

  “You can’t give up hope,” Mom said. “Jason’s a fighter.”

  “Yeah, he’s tough.” That sounded so shallow, like a get-well card. Don’t give up. Stay tough. Keep on fighting. I dug for something positive to say but found nothing. Mom was quiet, too.

  Finally, I pointed at the ceiling. “He ever tell you anything about himself?”

  She shook her head. “Some people don’t share their pain. Professor Vale puts on a good show, but he’s carrying a lot of hurt.”

  That surprised me. Mom was a better judge of people than I’d thought. I never would have guessed that Malcolm had suffered a tragedy, but Mom seemed to know. I wondered if she could see the things that were hidden inside of me.

  I shut up and let her get back to studying. After she left for school, I watched another movie. Then, around six thirty, I set out for the dunk tank, taking Gull Avenue, which runs parallel to the shore a block away. For the most part it’s just houses and a couple small stores. I cut over to the boardwalk when I got near Wild Willy’s Pier, wondering if I really had the job back.

  “Hey, there you are,” Bob said, as if I hadn’t disappeared for a while. He waved at me with the pretzel he was holding, throwing a small spray of mustard, then nodded toward the bucket. “Get to work.”

  I grabbed the bucket and towel. Another Bozo was just getting ready to leave. Malcolm stepped from the dressing room and motioned for me to join him as he walked toward the tank. I noticed he was limping pretty badly. “Pay attention to everything,” he said. “Understand? Study the crowd. Try to guess who I’ll pick next. Try to figure out what you’d say.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’ll be a quiz afterward.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.” When he reached the tank, he said, “Who am I?”

  “Malcolm,” I answered without thinking.

  He shook his head and pointed at the tank. “Who am I?”

  I touched one of the cold steel bars and thought about climbing onto the ledge. “The Bozo?” I guessed.

  “Right. Once I get in there, I’m not Malcolm. I’m the Bozo. A bottomless well of venom. Everyone’s worst nightmare. The guy you’d love to get even with. I’m the boss who yelled at you today, the teacher who flunked you, the parent who grounded you last week, the bully who stole your lunch money. I’m whoever they need me to be.” He grinned and let out one of his patented laughs. “Now get to work.”

  I took advantage of the changing of the Bozos to gather most of the balls. Then things got busy. While I hustled, I listened to Malcolm and tried to learn as much as I could about the way he worked.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that each group had a leader—someone who did most of the talking or stood out in some way. Someone who had the ideas and made the choices. Small group, large group, it didn’t matter. They all had a leader. And the leader had the most to lose if the group laughed. That made him—or her—the perfect mark.

  I thought about our group. No doubt who the leader was. What would happen to us now? I tried not to let my mind go in that direction. Between chasing the balls, listening to Malcolm, and watching the crowd, I almost managed to keep those unhappy images under control.

  Around ten Bob handed me a ketchup-smeared twenty-dollar bill and told me I could knock off. But I hung out for another hour, watching and listening while Malcolm finished his shift. Then he climbed out of the tank and Bob closed up for the night. I guess neither of them felt like spending time working the thinning crowds and stragglers at the far end of the day.

  “Four hours is pushing it,” Malcolm said when he came out of the dressing room. “Three is better. I try to knock off by ten unless the action is just too good. If it’s really slow, I might even knock off at nine. The funny thing is, the guys who stink can work all day. They’re so mechanical about it, they’re like machines. I’ve seen the truly untalented go for eight hours at a stretch. But I’m shot after four. So, did you learn anything?”

  “Pick out the leader. Right?”

  “You got it.” He looked around, then said, “I’m too wired to go home yet. Want to get some pizza?”

  “Sure. You like Salvatore’s?”

  He nodded, and we headed that way. It immediately felt weird. I should be going there with Jason. I glanced at Malcolm as he limped along next to me. “You sure you want to walk that far?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’d you hurt your leg?” I asked. “I mean, the first time. Not last night.” The moment the words left my mouth, I remembered what Mom had said. Some people don’t share their pain. I realized I should mind my own business.

  It was a while before he spoke. “Car accident.”

  Two words that revealed everything. I could tell from his voice that he didn’t want to share any details.

  As we got near the Cat-a-Pult, I saw them—Anthony and Gwen. She was working. He was waiting. “Crap,” I muttered.

  “Problem?” Malcolm asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Must be something. Go on . . .” />
  “There’s this girl.”

  “That explains it,” Malcolm said.

  I waited for him to make a joke, but he didn’t. After a while, I told him, “She likes this other guy. He’s bad news.”

  “So get off the couch,” Malcolm said.

  “What?”

  “Just because you finally left your little cave doesn’t mean you’ve gotten off the couch yet. Stop being such a lump. Do something. Win her away from him. Be more charming. That can’t be hard. Or be tougher. Kick the jerk’s butt. Ram your knee into his crotch. I know for a fact you’re good at that. Go ahead. Go back and pummel him into the ground—I’ll wait.”

  “Right. And get arrested.” If I thought it would work, I’d tackle Anthony right now. But Gwen wasn’t the kind of girl who would be impressed by a fistfight.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Malcolm said. His voice got soft and gravelly. “I got a friend named Tommy the Butcher. For a small fee he can break this kid’s kneecaps. You’ll owe him a favor, of course. To be collected at some later time. One kneecap—small favor. Two kneecaps—big favor. Three kneecaps—trade up for a really big favor.”

  “Cut it out.” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Though I had to admit the idea appealed to me.

  “Get off the couch,” Malcolm said again.

  I’m trying, I thought, but I didn’t bother telling him. “What about you?” I asked when we reached Salvatore’s. “You’re all hot on acting. Why aren’t you out looking for a movie or a play to be in?”

  He didn’t answer. I got lost in my own thoughts, wondering whether there really was something I could do to get Gwen away from Anthony. Nothing brilliant came to mind. Though a lot of violent things did. We bought slices to go and walked back.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said to Malcolm when we reached the house.

  As he climbed up the steps, he looked down at me and said, “I’d make a great Hamlet, wouldn’t I? Limping across the stage, hobbling through the sword fights. Very impressive.”

  “What?”