Joyland

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 midsouth. 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