Dunk

by Lubar, David

  “Nobody in Hollywood will hire an actress who has even one little pimple. How much work do you think there is for a guy who walks like a lab assistant from a grade B horror film? I can just see the reviews. While the rest of the cast was stunning, Malcolm Vale turned in another lame performance.” He went on up to his door and vanished inside.

  I hadn’t thought about that. He was right. A blemish was rare in Hollywood. Anything more noticeable was left for bad guys, sidekicks, and Clearasil commercials. But there still had to be lots of acting jobs out there. Especially for someone with his talent. And except when he hurt himself, his limp wasn’t really all that noticeable. How badly do you want it? Maybe I’d stumbled on the truth about Malcolm—he wasn’t ready to get off the couch he had crawled onto.

  He’d lost his whole family. I couldn’t imagine what that was like. I might have lost a father, but that was different. At least I had one good parent.

  I thought about Gwen. Can you lose what you never had? And about Jason. I wasn’t going to lose him. No way.

  Despite the churning of my mind, I slept well. Those hours at the tank had wiped me out. I guess that was the good thing about hard work.

  In the morning I went back to see Jason. No matter what, I was going to visit him every day.

  “Bring any more movies?” he asked when I came in.

  I held up three tapes. “Sure thing.” I dropped down in the chair next to the bed. He looked a little better than yesterday. There was a small touch of color in his face. And he seemed to be breathing easier. Or maybe I was just getting used to seeing him this way. The little changes are hard to notice. I knew if I saw pictures side by side, Jason now and Jason before he got sick, the difference would be awful.

  “You watch the one I left?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Three times. It was great.”

  I put in another movie. Duck Soup. Groucho Marx again. Jason still couldn’t laugh too much without breaking into a coughing fit, so I kept the remote right next to me. But a couple times I got so wrapped up in laughing that I forgot to stop the tape. And I forgot to watch the clock.

  So I suppose it was my fault that Jason was in the middle of coughing his head off when his mom burst into the room.

  “I warned you about this!” she screamed.

  I leaped from my chair and popped out the tape.

  “You’re trying to kill him. You vicious little bastard! You’re trying to kill my son.” She picked up a box of tissues and threw them at me. They bounced against my chest and fell to the floor.

  Jason was still coughing too much to speak.

  “I’m just trying to make him feel better,” I said.

  “Get out!” she yelled.

  I hurried from the room. I was too angry to wait for the elevator, so I raced down four flights of steps and left the hospital. This really sucked. I was only trying to help a friend. And all I got for it was trouble.

  “The hell with her,” I said, slapping a stop sign with my open palm. “The hell with everything.” None of this was worth the abuse.

  I could feel the grayness closing back in on me. It would be so easy to give in and give up. Then I wouldn’t have to watch Jason withering away while his mother cursed at me. I wouldn’t have to deal with cops who blamed me for stuff I didn’t do. Cops who acted like I was no better than my dad. I wouldn’t have to see Gwen smiling at Anthony. I sped up, eager to get home, where I could draw the curtains and lie in the dark.

  To my right, three small children played tag on a lawn, giggling as they chased each other. Ahead, I heard the splash of someone doing a cannonball into a backyard pool. The sun heated my face as I thought about the welcoming grayness.

  It was a world without pain.

  It was also a world without possibilities. If I went there, I’d never see Jason laugh. I’d never see Gwen smile at me. I’d never find out what it felt like to lean into that microphone and let loose at the world. And I’d never prove I was better than everyone thought. I’d just be running away. I could hear Mom’s words. You’re so much like your father. No way. Never.

  I forced myself to stop walking. I wasn’t going back to the couch. I couldn’t return to that world. Not while Jason was stuck up there in that room, spending most of the day by himself. Not while everyone else had given up on him and was just waiting for him to die. I turned around and headed back to the hospital.

  I hung out behind a tree at the edge of the parking lot, watching for Jason’s mom. I knew she blamed me for everything. I realized it looked bad if Jason was coughing his head off every time his mom came to the room. But she was wrong. Dead wrong. I wasn’t hurting Jason. I was sure of that, as sure as I’d ever been of anything. I was helping him. Jason had felt better after we’d watched the movies. And after I’d read to him.

  As soon as I saw Jason’s mom drive off, I went back up to the pediatrics floor. I almost expected to see a poster with my face inside a slashed red circle. But nobody seemed to care whether I was there or not. I guess the nurses had other things to worry about. So I went to Jason’s room, ready to start another movie marathon.

  But I couldn’t. The VCR was gone.

  31

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” I ASKED.

  Jason shrugged. “Mom’s idea.”

  “She had them take it away?” I could just see her wheeling the whole thing out herself, pushing it across the room while the plug ripped from the socket.

  “Yeah.” He sighed and glanced toward the hall.

  “She hates me,” I said.

  Jason shook his head. “No. She’s just upset.”

  No kidding. “Did you tell her I wasn’t doing anything bad?”

  “I tried.” He coughed a bit, then said, “She’ll get over it.”

  “I hope so.” Another worry crossed my mind. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who didn’t like what I was doing. “You want me here, right?” I asked.

  “For sure.”

  Relieved, I plopped down on the chair and looked around the room. There was still a regular television mounted in the corner opposite the bed. “Want to watch something?” I could tell that Jason was getting worn out from talking.

  “Okay.”

  “Not much on,” I said after flipping through the channels. I settled for an old western. I’d hoped to find something funny, but it looked like we were out of luck.

  A while later, a nurse walked past the room, carrying a bed pan.

  “Check it out,” I said, trying to make my voice sound like W. C. Fields from the old movies. “Guess they’re making soup in the cafeteria.”

  It was gross, but Jason laughed. That got me started. “If I were you, I wouldn’t eat the pea soup.”

  He groaned. But then he laughed.

  I was on a roll.

  “It must be hard to work in that kitchen. I’ll bet the chef is pooped.”

  One idea flowed into another. “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup,” I said, talking like someone who’s always complaining. I switched to a waiter’s voice. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll zip it up.”

  I wiggled my eyebrows like Groucho Marx and said, “This place stinks. People are dying to get out.” It was a twist on the old joke about the graveyard—people are dying to get in. But that didn’t matter. Jason laughed again.

  A doctor went running past. “Poor guy must have lost his patients,” I said.

  I liked being Groucho, so I stuck with it. For the next hour, I played the part, making ridiculous jokes and tossing out comments about everyone who walked past. Just having fun.

  Jason laughed, and he coughed, and he groaned at the bad jokes. Behind me, the western played on unwatched.

  Finally, I stopped to catch my breath.

  “Man, you’re crazy,” Jason said. But he was grinning.

  “I am,” I agreed.

  “Pea soup,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought I was gonna die.”

  Thought you were, too. I remembered something our gym teacher used to say. Whatever doesn’t ki
ll you makes you stronger. Was I killing my best friend, or making him stronger?

  Jason was panting, gasping, coughing little coughs, still catching his breath. Still weak and sick. But no doubt about it, he seemed better. I realized I was feeling better, too. My heart ached over Gwen, but maybe it was an ache I could fix. At the very least, it was an ache that would heal. In the meantime I didn’t care what Jason’s mom did. She could burn all the movies in the world and smash all the VCRs. I was still going to make him laugh. All I needed was my mind and my mouth.

  Later that afternoon I went home and watched more movies, memorizing the funniest parts so I could share them with Jason. That evening I listened again to Malcolm while I worked at the Bozo tank. The next morning I went back to see Jason. I told him some of Malcolm’s best lines from the night before.

  “That’s awful,” he’d say. Then he’d laugh.

  I thought up a new gag. While I talked, I slipped off my chair like I was getting dunked.

  Jason enjoyed that, too. “You still want to be a Bozo?” he asked as I got up from the floor.

  “Yeah. I must be out of my mind, but I want it as much as . . .” I caught myself. As much as you want to play volleyball in Santa Monica. “I just really want to do it.”

  “Why?”

  I searched for words to explain my feelings and wondered whether anyone could give a good answer to that question. Why did Corey want to design websites? Why did Ellie like biology? What makes a kid sit in his room every day practicing guitar chords or painting pictures for hours at a time? What makes a guy spend years chiseling away at a block of marble? Maybe it was just some feeling in the gut that said, Do this.

  Jason shrugged. “You’d be good. Maybe that’s why.”

  “Thanks.” That made as much sense as anything. I guess it was better to be a good Bozo than a bad engineer or lawyer. I slipped off the chair again. It wasn’t as funny the second time.

  When I ran out of lines from Malcolm, I pretended I was W. C. Fields playing a doctor. “I’d take your temperature,” I told Jason, shaking an imaginary thermometer, “but I’m not sure which end smells better.”

  Then Groucho stopped by, and Beetlejuice, and a dozen others. All during that time, no matter who I was on the outside, on the inside a part of me was thinking about Gwen. But I tried to keep that part separate so it wouldn’t cast a shadow over Jason’s laughter.

  That became my routine. Hospital, home, dunk tank. Day after day. A week passed. Jason wasn’t coughing as much. And he seemed to be able to talk a bit more without growing tired. In the middle of the second week, the routine got interrupted. I found Malcolm waiting for me on the porch when I came home from the hospital. “No work tonight,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We’re going on a field trip.”

  32

  MALCOLM WOULDN’T TELL ME ANYTHING MORE. A COUPLE MINUTES later a battered old Lincoln pulled up by the curb.

  “Let’s go,” Malcolm said, hopping in the front passenger side.

  “Hello, stranger,” Doc said when I got in the backseat. “I thought you’d moved. Or maybe you didn’t like me anymore.”

  “I was dealing with some problems,” I told Doc. “Sorta gave up for a while.” I figured if there was anyone I could be honest with, it was him. Doc never seemed to judge anyone—as long as you didn’t bang on his machines.

  He nodded. “Been there myself. Glad you survived.”

  We took the Parkway north for a couple miles, then cut over inland along one of the local highways. Doc kept up most of the conversation all by himself, telling stories about his own early days traveling the country and doing odd jobs. After half an hour we swung off the highway and drove down the main street of a small town. At the far end of the town, Doc pulled into a crowded parking lot next to a church. Behind the church, in a large field, I saw a Ferris wheel, a couple smaller rides, and a bunch of game booths. The smell of grilled sausages drifted through the open window, along with the sweet, greasy aroma of funnel cakes.

  “Sort of a long way to travel to see stuff we can walk to,” I said as I searched the small carnival for anything halfway interesting.

  Malcolm grinned and got out of the car. “Oh, there’s something here we don’t have on the boardwalk.”

  “What?” I asked. “Hand-powered merry-go-rounds?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I followed Malcolm and Doc through the parking lot. We passed by the games and the food at the far side of the carnival. Right in the center of the midway, a huge crowd blocked the path. Even before I could see anything, I could hear him.

  It was a Bozo.

  And he was even better than Malcolm.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Jordy Ketchum,” Doc told me. “One of the best in the business.”

  “He’s a legend,” Malcolm said. “Watch and learn.”

  I worked my way closer. Jordy was amazing. He didn’t just taunt the mark. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, involving everyone in the crowd, lining up his next three or four marks ahead of time while he sunk the hook in his latest vic. I watched him snag a man, a woman, and a boy.

  “Hey, check out the gut on that guy. Looks like someone pumped him full of air. Don’t laugh, lady. I think you’re the one they took the air from. Holy cow, kid—if your ears stuck out any farther, you’d have to file a flight plan.”

  The kid got to the barker first.

  “Step right up, kid. That’s it. Three for two dollars. Pay the guy with the apron. Try not to hit him with an ear. Give him a ten, you’ll get four dollars change. Yeah, kid, listen to me. I give good advice. That’s how I ended up in this high place. If you want to be a sport, buy the big guy some food. Looks like he hasn’t eaten in at least thirty seconds. How ’bout you, lady? You eat anything this month?”

  The kid threw a ball. The skinny woman and the guy with the big stomach lined up for their turns.

  “Nice try, kid. This time aim for the target. Give him a hand, folks. He sure could use it. And an arm, too. Just keep your hands away from the big guy. If he gets hungry, you might lose a finger. Haaaaaaa.” His laugh was simpler than Malcolm’s chain-saw cackle. He didn’t need the extra flair.

  By the time the kid dunked him, he’d gotten another mark in line with the man and the woman. The action never stopped. He even had priests and nuns chucking balls at the target—all in good fun, of course. Jordy ruled. No question. He was king. The whol$ time he sat on the ledge in that beat-up old carnival dunk tank, he was the center of the universe. Finally, over protests from the crowd, he took a break and ducked into a tent.

  “This way.” Malcolm led me over there.

  “Hey, Barrymore,” Jordy said when we walked in. He was sitting on, and dripping into, a large easy chair. “Good to see you.” He leaned forward and shook hands with Malcolm.

  I gave Doc a puzzled look. “Barrymore?”

  “Nickname,” he explained. “Famous actor from before your time. Drew’s granddaddy.”

  Malcolm and Jordy exchanged greetings. “Hey, Slim,” Jordy said when he caught sight of Doc. I guess he had a nickname for everyone.

  “Were you ever skinny?” I asked Doc.

  He snorted. “I was born fat. Jordy likes irony.”

  They introduced me, but they were so wrapped up in reliving the old days that I just stood off to the side and listened. Close up, even with his makeup on, I could tell that Jordy must have been at least as old as the bank robber I’d met in jail. I wondered whether he had any plans to retire. Did Bozos ever quit? Or did they just slowly dissolve?

  “Chad wants to be a Bozo,” Malcolm told Jordy at one point.

  Jordy glanced over at me. “Is that the truth?”

  I nodded.

  “Hey, I wanted to be a veterinarian,” Jordy said. “And look where I ended up. You never know, kid. You never know.” He laughed and returned to his conversation with Doc and Malcolm.

  After his break, Jordy headed back out to the
tank. “Take care, Chatterbox,” he said, winking at me as he walked by. I smiled as I thought about running into him again many years from now. Hey, Chatterbox. Good to see you. How ya been?

  We stayed until midnight, when the fair closed.

  “That,” Malcolm said as we pulled out of the parking lot, “is pure genius. You can’t buy talent like that.”

  I nodded. “Pretty awesome.”

  “A lot of carnival Bozos don’t even hook the marks,” Doc said. “They’ll just wait for someone to step up, and then go into a routine. Not Jordy. He’s a master.”

  “I learned a lot from him,” Malcolm said. He shook his head. “I was in bad shape when we met. Bad time in my life. He helped me out.” Malcolm didn’t give any details, but I had a good idea what he was talking about.

  We rode the rest of the way back pretty much in silence. When we reached the house, I thanked Doc for taking me, then stepped out to the curb.

  “Want to practice for a little while?” Malcolm asked.

  “Sure.” I followed him up to the porch and waited for someone to walk past. Even this late, there was always foot traffic. Nobody paid attention to the clock during a vacation. Before long, a guy and his girlfriend strolled down the street in our direction. Inspired by hours of watching Jordy, I came up with a line right away. “Hey mister, don’t forget to curb your dog.” That would do the trick. She wasn’t bad looking, but I figured this was the sort of comment that would force the guy to pay for a chance to dunk me. I grinned at Malcolm.

  “No way,” he said.

  “What?” My grin melted.

  “First, that’s just plain cruel without being funny. It’s something a schoolyard bully would say. Second, you’re talking to him but insulting her. Even if he dunks you, she doesn’t get the revenge. He ends up feeling proud and macho. She still feels like crap. No good. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” He was right. It was the sort of line one of the bad Bozos would come up with. The moment I admitted that to myself, my anger faded. I studied the couple as they passed us. The guy was wearing his pants real low. “Hey, nice belt. Wait—that’s your stomach. My mistake.”