Joyland

it a run for its money: DOG SAVES GIRL AT AMUSEMENT PARK.
    Want to know my first snarky urge? To clip the article and send it to Wendy Keegan. I might even have done it, had I not looked so much like a drowned muskrat in Erin’s photo. I did send it to my father, who called to say how proud of me he was. I could tell by the tremble in his voice that he was close to tears.
    “God put you in the right place at the right time, Dev,” he said.
    Maybe God. Maybe Rozzie Gold, aka Madame Fortuna. Maybe a little of both.
    The next day I was summoned to Mr. Easterbrook’s office, a pine-paneled room raucous with old carny posters and photographs. I was particularly taken by a photo that showed a straw-hatted agent with a dapper mustache standing next to a test-your-strength shy. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, and he was leaning on a sledgehammer like it was a cane: a total dude. At the top of the ding-post, next to the bell, was a sign reading KISS HIM, LADY, HE’S A HE-MAN!
    “Is that guy you?” I asked.
    “It is indeed, although I only ran the ding-show for a season. It wasn’t to my taste. Gaff jobs never have been. I like my games straight. Sit down, Jonesy. You want a Coke or anything?”
    “No, sir. I’m fine.” I was, in fact, sloshing with that mornings milkshake.
    “I’ll be perfectly blunt. You gave this show twenty thousand dollars’ worth of good publicity yesterday afternoon, and I still can’t afford to give you a bonus. If you knew . . . but never mind.” He leaned forward. “What I can do is owe you a favor. If you need one, ask. I’ll grant it if it’s in my power. Will that do?”
    “Sure.”
    “Good. And would you be willing to make one more appearance—as Howie—with the little girl? Her parents want to thank you in private, but a public appearance would be an excellent thing for Joyland. Entirely your call, of course.”
    “When?”
    “Saturday, after the noon parade. We’d put up a platform at the intersection of Joyland and Hound Dog Way. Invite the press.”
    “Happy to,” I said. I liked the idea of being in the newspapers again, I will admit. It had been a tough summer on my ego and self-image, and I’d take all the turnaround I could get.
    He rose to his feet in his glassy, unsure way, and offered me his hand. “Thank you again. On behalf of that little girl, but also on behalf of Joyland. The accountants who run my damn life will be very happy about this.”

    When I stepped out of the office building, which was located with the other administrative buildings in what we called the backyard, my entire team was there. Even Pop Allen had come. Erin, dressed for success in Hollywood Girl green, stepped forward with a shiny metal crown of laurels made from Campbell’s Soup cans. She dropped to one knee. “For you, my hero.”
    I would have guessed I was too sunburned to flush, but that turned out not to be true. “Oh Jesus, get up.”
    “Savior of little girls,” Tom Kennedy said. “Not to mention savior of our place of employment getting its ass sued off and possibly having to shut its doors.”
    Erin bounced to her feet, stuck the ludicrous soup-can crown on my head, then gave me a big old smackaroonie. Everyone on Team Beagle cheered.
    “Okay,” Pop said when it died down. “We can all agree that you’re a knight in shining ah-mah, Jonesy. You are also not the first guy to save a rube from popping off on the midway. Could we maybe all get back to work?”
    I was good with that. Being famous was fun, but the don’t-get-a-swelled-head message of the tin laurels wasn’t lost on me.

    I was wearing the fur that Saturday, on the makeshift platform at the center of our midway. I was happy to take Hallie in my arms, and she was clearly happy to be there. I’d guess there were roughly nine miles of film burned as she proclaimed her love for her favorite doggy and kissed him again and again for the cameras.
    Erin was in the front row with her camera for a while, but the news photogs were bigger and all male. Soon they shunted her away to a less favorable position, and what did they all want? What Erin had already gotten, a picture of me with my Howie-head off. That was one thing I wouldn’t do, although I’m sure none of Fred, Lane, or Mr. Easterbrook himself would have penalized me for it. I wouldn’t do it because it would have flown in the face of park tradition: Howie never took off the fur in public; to do so would have been like outing the