by Stephen King
"Fur! Fur! FUR! FUR!"
"Somebody zip me the hell up!" I shouted. "I have to get down to the Wiggle-Waggle posthaste!"
One of the girls did the honors, and I immediately saw why wearing the fur was such a big deal. The boneyard was air conditioned--all of Joyland Under was--but I was already popping hard sweat.
One of the old-timers came over and gave me a kindly pat on my Howie-head. "I'll give you a ride, son," he said. "Cart's right there. Jump in."
"Thanks." My voice was muffled.
"Woof-woof, Bowser!" someone called, and they all cracked up.
We rolled down the Boulevard with its spooky, stuttering fluorescent lights, a grizzled old guy in janitor's greens with a giant blue-eyed German Shepherd riding co-pilot. As he pulled up at the stairs marked with an arrow and the painted legend WIGWAG on the cinder-blocks, he said: "Don't talk. Howie never talks, just gives hugs and pats em on the head. Good luck, and if you start feelin all swimmy, get the hell out. The kids don't want to see Howie flop over with heatstroke."
"I have no idea what I'm supposed to do," I said. "Nobody's told me."
I don't know if that guy was carny-from-carny or not, but he knew something about Joyland. "It don't matter. The kids all love Howie. They'll know what to do."
I clambered out of the cart, almost tripped over my tail, then grasped the string in the left front paw and gave it a yank to get the damn thing out of my way. I staggered up the stairs and fumbled with the lever of the door at the top. I could hear music, something vaguely remembered from my early childhood. I finally got the lever to go down. The door opened and bright Junelight flooded through Howie's screen-mesh blue eyes, momentarily dazzling me.
The music was louder now, being piped from overhead speakers, and I could put a name to it: "The Hokey Pokey," that all-time nursery school hit. I saw swings, slides, and teeter-totters, an elaborate jungle gym, and a roundy-round being pushed by a greenie wearing long fuzzy rabbit ears and a powder-puff tail stuck to the seat of his jeans. The Choo-Choo Wiggle, a toy train capable of dazzling speeds approaching four miles an hour, steamed by, loaded with little kids dutifully waving to their camera-toting parents. About a gazillion kids were boiling around, watched over by plenty of summer hires, plus a couple of full-time personnel who probably did have child-care licenses. These two, a man and a woman, were wearing sweatshirts that read WE LUV HAPPY KIDS. Dead ahead was the long daycare building called Howie's Howdy House.
I saw Mr. Easterbrook, too. He was sitting on a bench beneath a Joyland umbrella, dressed in his mortician's suit and eating his lunch with chopsticks. He didn't see me at first; he was looking at a crocodile line of children being led toward the Howdy House by a couple of greenies. The kiddies could be parked there (I found this out later) for a maximum of two hours while the parents either took their older kids on the bigger rides or had lunch at Rock Lobster, the park's class-A restaurant.
I also found out later that the eligibility ages for Howdy House ran from three to six. Many of the children now approaching looked pretty mellow, probably because they were daycare vets from families where both parents worked. Others weren't taking it so well. Maybe they'd managed to keep a stiff upper lip at first, hearing mommy and daddy say they'd all be back together in just an hour or two (as if a four-year-old has any real concept of what an hour is), but now they were on their own, in a noisy and confusing place filled with strangers and mommy and daddy nowhere in sight. Some of those were crying. Buried in the Howie costume, looking out through the screen mesh that served as eyeholes and already sweating like a pig, I thought I was witnessing an act of uniquely American child abuse. Why would you bring your kid--your toddler, for Christ's sake--to the jangling sprawl of an amusement park only to fob him or her off on a crew of strange babysitters, even for a little while?
The greenies in charge could see the tears spreading (toddler-angst is just another childhood disease, really, like measles), but their faces said they had no idea what to do about it. Why would they? It was Day One, and they had been thrown into the mix with as little preparation as I'd had when Lane Hardy walked away and left me in charge of a gigantic Ferris wheel. But at least kids under eight can't get on the Spin without an adult, I thought. These little buggers are pretty much on their own.
I didn't know what to do either, but felt I had to try something. I walked toward the line of kids with my front paws up and wagging my tail like mad (I couldn't see it, but I could feel it). And just as the first two or three saw me and pointed me out, inspiration struck. It was the music. I stopped at the intersection of Jellybean Road and Candy Cane Avenue, which happened to be directly beneath two of the blaring speakers. Standing almost seven feet from paws to furry cocked ears, I'm sure I was quite a presence. I bowed to the kids, who were now all staring with open mouths and wide eyes. As they watched, I began to do the Hokey Pokey.
Sorrow and terror over lost parents were forgotten, at least for the time being. They laughed, some with tears still gleaming on their cheeks. They didn't quite dare approach, not while I was doing my clumsy little dance, but they crowded forward. There was wonder but no fear. They all knew Howie; those from the Carolinas had seen his afternoon TV show, and even those from far-flung exotic locales like St. Louis and Omaha had seen brochures and advertisements on the Saturday morning cartoons. They understood that although Howie was a big dog, he was a good dog. He'd never bite. He was their friend.
I put my left foot in; I put my left foot out; I put my left foot in and I shook it all about. I did the Hokey Pokey and I turned myself around, because--as almost every little kid in America knows--that's what it's all about. I forgot about being hot and uncomfortable. I didn't think about how my undershorts were sticking in the crack of my ass. Later I would have a bitch of a heat-headache, but just then I felt okay--really good, in fact. And you know what? Wendy Keegan never once crossed my mind.
When the music changed to the Sesame Street theme, I quit dancing, dropped to one padded knee, and held out my arms like Al Jolson.
"HOWWWIE!" a little girl screamed, and all these years later I can still hear the perfect note of rapture in her voice. She ran forward, pink skirt swirling around her chubby knees. That did it. The orderly crocodile line dissolved.
The kids will know what to do, the old-timer had said, and how right he was. First they swarmed me, then they knocked me over, then they gathered around me, hugging and laughing. The little girl in the pink skirt kissed my snout repeatedly, shouting "Howie, Howie, Howie!" as she did it.
Some of the parents who had ventured into the Wiggle-Waggle to snap pictures were approaching, equally fascinated. I paddled my paws to get some space, rolled over, and got up before they could crush me with their love. Although just then I was loving them right back. For such a hot day, it was pretty cool.
I didn't notice Mr. Easterbrook reach into the jacket of his mortician's suit, bring out a walkie-talkie, and speak into it briefly. All I knew was that the Sesame Street music suddenly cut out and "The Hokey Pokey" started up again. I put my right paw in and my right paw out. The kids got into it right away, their eyes never leaving me, not wanting to miss the next move and be left behind.
Pretty soon we were all doing the Hokey Pokey at the intersection of Jellybean and Candy Cane. The greenie minders joined in. I'll be goddamned if some of the parents didn't join in as well. I even put my long tail in and pulled my long tail out. Laughing madly, the kids turned around and did the same, only with invisible tails.
As the song wound down, I made an extravagant "Come on, kids!" gesture with my left paw (inadvertently yanking my tail up so stringently I almost tore the troublesome fucker off) and led them toward Howdy House. They followed as willingly as the children of Hamelin followed the pied piper, and not one of them was crying. That actually wasn't the best day of my brilliant (if I do say so myself, and I do) career as Howie the Happy Hound, but it was right up there.
When they were safely inside Howdy House (the little girl
in the pink skirt stood in the door long enough to wave me a bye-bye), I turned around and the world seemed to keep right on turning when I stopped. Sweat sheeted into my eyes, doubling Wiggle-Waggle Village and everything in it. I wavered on my back paws. The entire performance, from my first Hokey Pokey moves to the little girl waving bye-bye, had only taken seven minutes--nine, tops--but I was totally fried. I started trudging back the way I had come, not sure what to do next.
"Son," a voice said. "Over here."
It was Mr. Easterbrook. He was holding open a door in the back of the Wishing Well Snack Bar. It might have been the door I'd come through, probably was, but then I'd been too anxious and excited to notice.
He ushered me inside, closed the door behind us, and pulled down the zipper at the back of the costume. Howie's surprisingly heavy head fell off my own, and my damp skin drank up the blessed air conditioning. My skin, still winter-white (it wouldn't stay that way for long), rashed out in goosebumps. I took big deep breaths.
"Sit down on the steps," he said. "I'll call for a ride in a minute, but right now you need to get your wind back. The first few turns as Howie are always difficult, and the performance you just gave was particularly strenuous. It was also extraordinary."
"Thanks." It was all I could manage. Until I was back inside the cool quiet, I hadn't realized how close to my limit I was. "Thanks very much."
"Head down if you feel faint."
"Not faint. Got a headache, though." I snaked one arm out of Howie and wiped my face, which was dripping. "You kinda rescued me."
"Maximum time wearing Howie on a hot day--I'm talking July and August, when the humidity is high and the temperature goes into the nineties--is fifteen minutes," Mr. Easterbrook said. "If someone tries to tell you different, send them directly to me. And you'll be well advised to swallow a couple of salt pills. We want you summer kids to work hard, but we don't want to kill you."
He took out his walkie-talkie and spoke briefly and quietly. Five minutes later, the old-timer showed up again in his cart, with a couple of Anacin and a bottle of blessedly cold water. In the meantime Mr. Easterbrook sat next to me, lowering himself to the top step leading down to the Boulevard with a glassy care that made me a trifle nervous.
"What's your name, son?"
"Devin Jones, sir."
"Do they call you Jonesy?" He didn't wait for me to reply. "Of course they do, it's the carny way, and that's all Joyland is, really--a thinly disguised carny. Places like this won't last much longer. The Disneys and Knott's Berry Farms are going to rule the amusement world, except maybe down here in the mid-south. Tell me, aside from the heat, how did you enjoy your first turn wearing the fur?"
"I liked it."
"Because?"
"Because some of them were crying, I guess."
He smiled. "And?"
"Pretty soon all of them would have been crying, but I stopped it."
"Yes. You did the Hokey Pokey. A splinter of genius. How did you know it would work?"
"I didn't." But actually...I did. On some level, I did.
He smiled. "At Joyland, we throw our new hires--our greenies--into the mix without much in the way of preparation, because in some people, some gifted people, it encourages a sort of spontaneity that's very special and valuable, both to us and to our patrons. Did you learn something about yourself just now?"
"Jeez, I don't know. Maybe. But...can I say something, sir?"
"Feel free."
I hesitated, then decided to take him at his word. "Sending those kids to daycare--daycare at an amusement park--that seems, I don't know, kind of mean." I added hastily, "Although the Wiggle-Waggle seems really good for little people. Really fun."
"You have to understand something, son. At Joyland, we're in the black this much." He held a thumb and forefinger only a smidge apart. "When parents know there's care for their wee ones--even for just a couple of hours--they bring the whole family. If they needed to hire a babysitter at home, they might not come at all, and our profit margin would disappear. I take your point, but I have a point, too. Most of those little ones have never been to a place like this before. They'll remember it the way they'll remember their first movie, or their first day at school. Because of you, they won't remember crying because they were abandoned by their parents for a little while; they'll remember doing the Hokey Pokey with Howie the Happy Hound, who appeared like magic."
"I guess."
He reached out, not for me but for Howie. He stroked the fur with his gnarled fingers as he spoke. "The Disney parks are scripted, and I hate that. Hate it. I think what they're doing down there in Orlando is fun-pimping. I'm a seat-of-the-pants fan, and sometimes I see someone who's a seat-of-the-pants genius. That could be you. Too early to tell for sure, but yes, it could be you." He put his hands to the small of his back and stretched. I heard an alarmingly loud series of cracking noises. "Might I share your cart back to the boneyard? I think I've had enough sun for one day."
"My cart is your cart." Since Joyland was his park, that was literally true.
"I think you'll wear the fur a lot this summer. Most of the young people see that as a burden, or even a punishment. I don't believe that you will. Am I wrong?"
He wasn't. I've done a lot of jobs in the years since then, and my current editorial gig--probably my last gig before retirement seizes me in its claws--is terrific, but I never felt so weirdly happy, so absolutely in-the-right-place, as I did when I was twenty-one, wearing the fur and doing the Hokey Pokey on a hot day in June.
Seat of the pants, baby.
I stayed friends with Tom and Erin after that summer, and I'm friends with Erin still, although these days we're mostly email and Facebook buddies who sometimes get together for lunch in New York. I've never met her second husband. She says he's a nice guy, and I believe her. Why would I not? After being married to Mr. Original Nice Guy for eighteen years and having that yardstick to measure by, she'd hardly pick a loser.
In the spring of 1992, Tom was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He was dead six months later. When he called and told me he was sick, his usual ratchetjaw delivery slowed by the wrecking ball swinging back and forth in his head, I was stunned and depressed, the way almost anyone would be, I suppose, when he hears that a guy who should be in the very prime of life is instead approaching the finish line. You want to ask how a thing like that can be fair. Weren't there supposed to be a few more good things for Tom, like a couple of grandchildren and maybe that long-dreamed-of vacation in Maui?
During my time at Joyland, I once heard Pop Allen talk about burning the lot. In the Talk, that means to blatantly cheat the rubes at what's supposed to be a straight game. I thought of that for the first time in years when Tom called with his bad news.
But the mind defends itself as long as it can. After the first shock of such news dissipates, maybe you think, Okay, it's bad, I get that, but it's not the final word; there still might be a chance. Even if ninety-five percent of the people who draw this particular card go down, there's still that lucky five percent. Also, doctors misdiagnose shit all the time. Barring those things, there's the occasional miracle.
You think that, and then you get the follow-up call. The woman who makes the follow-up call was once a beautiful young girl who ran around Joyland in a flippy green dress and a silly Sherwood Forest hat, toting a big old Speed Graphic camera, and the conies she braced hardly ever said no. How could they say no to that blazing red hair and eager smile? How could anyone say no to Erin Cook?
Well, God said no. God burned Tom Kennedy's lot, and He burned hers in the process. When I picked up the phone at five-thirty on a gorgeous October afternoon in Westchester, that girl had become a woman whose voice, blurry with the tears, sounded old and tired to death. "Tom died at two this afternoon. It was very peaceful. He couldn't talk, but he was aware. He...Dev, he squeezed my hand when I said goodbye."
I said, "I wish I could have been there."
"Yes." Her voice wavered, then firmed. "Yes, that would
have been good."
You think Okay, I get it, I'm prepared for the worst, but you hold out that small hope, see, and that's what fucks you up. That's what kills you.
I talked to her, I told her how much I loved her and how much I had loved Tom, I told her yes, I'd be at the funeral, and if there was anything I could do before then, she should call. Day or night. Then I hung up the phone and lowered my head and bawled my goddam eyes out.
The end of my first love doesn't measure up to the death of one old friend and the bereavement of the other, but it followed the same pattern. Exactly the same. And if it seemed like the end of the world to me--first causing those suicidal ideations (silly and halfhearted though they may have been) and then a seismic shift in the previously unquestioned course of my life--you have to understand I had no scale by which to judge it. That's called being young.
As June wore on, I started to understand that my relationship with Wendy was as sick as William Blake's rose, but I refused to believe it was mortally sick, even when the signs became increasingly clear.
Letters, for instance. During my first week at Mrs. Shoplaw's, I wrote Wendy four long ones, even though I was run off my feet at Joyland and came drag-assing into my second-floor room each night with my head full of new information and new experiences, feeling like a kid dropped into a challenging college course (call it The Advanced Physics of Fun) halfway through the semester. What I got in return was a single postcard with Boston Common on the front and a very peculiar collaborative message on the back. At the top, written in a hand I didn't recognize, was this: Wenny writes the card while Rennie drives the bus! Below, in a hand I did recognize, Wendy--or Wenny, if you like; I hated it, myself--had written breezily: Whee! We is salesgirls off on a venture to Cape Cod! It's a party! Hoopsie muzik! Don't worry I held the wheel while Ren wrote her part. Hope your good. W.