Joyland

hand.
    “Hey greenie. You got another suit, or is that the only one that fits ya?”
    “Theresh another one,” I said. I sounded drunk. “Cossume shop. Ex’ra large.”
    “Oh hey, that’s good,” he said, and dumped the pitcher over my head. My scream of surprise echoed up and down the Boulevard and brought several people running.
    “What the fuck, Fat Wally?”
    He grinned. “Wakes ya up, don’t it? Damn right it does. Labor Day weekend, greenie. That means ya labor. No sleepin on the job. Thank yer lucky stars ’n bars it ain’t a hunnert and ten out there.”
    If it had been a hunnert and ten, I wouldn’t be telling this story; I would have died of a baked brain halfway through a Happy Howie Dance on the Wiggle-Waggle Story Stage. But Labor Day itself was actually cloudy, and featured a nice sea-breeze. I got through it somehow.
    Around four o’clock that Monday, as I was climbing into the spare fur for my final show of the summer, Tom Kennedy strolled into the costume shop. His dogtop and filthy sneakers were gone. He was wearing crisply pressed chinos ( wherever were you keeping them, I wondered), a neatly tucked-in Ivy League shirt, and Bass Weejuns. Rosy-cheeked son of a bitch had even gotten a haircut. He looked every inch the up-and-coming college boy with his eye on the business world. You never would have guessed that he’d been dressed in filthy Levis only two days before, displaying at least an inch of ass-cleavage as he crawled under the Zipper with an oil-bucket and cursing Pop Allen, our fearless Team Beagle leader, every time he bumped his head on a strut.
    “You on your way?” I asked.
    “That’s a big ten-four, good buddy. I’m taking the train to Philly at eight tomorrow morning. I’ve got a week at home, then it’s back to the grind.”
    “Good for you.”
    “Erin’s got some stuff to finish up, but then she’s meeting me in Wilmington tonight. I booked us a room at a nice little bed and breakfast.”
    I felt a dull throb of jealousy at that. “Good deal.”
    “She’s the real thing,” he said.
    “I know.”
    “So are you, Dev. We’ll stay in touch. People say that and don’t mean it, but I do. We will stay in touch.” He held out his hand.
    I took it and shook it. “That’s right, we will. You’re okay, Tom, and Erin’s the total package. You take care of her.”
    “No problem there.” He grinned. “Come spring semester, she’s transferring to Rutgers. I already taught her the Scarlet Knights fight song. You know, ‘Upstream, Redteam, Redteam, Upstream—’ ”
    “Sounds complex,” I said.
    He shook his finger at me. “Sarcasm will get you nowhere in this world, boy. Unless you’re angling for a writing job at Mad magazine, that is.”
    Dottie Lassen called, “Maybe you could shorten up the farewells and keep the tears to a minimum? You’ve got a show to do, Jonesy.”
    Tom turned to her and held out his arms. “Dottie, how I love you! How I’ll miss you!”
    She slapped her bottom to show just how much this moved her and turned away to a costume in need of repair.
    Tom handed me a scrap of paper. “My home address, school address, phone numbers for both. I expect you to use them.”
    “I will.”
    “You’re really going to give up a year you could spend drinking beer and getting laid to scrape paint here at Joyland?”
    “Yep.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    I considered this. “Probably. A little. But getting better.”
    I was sweaty and his clothes were clean, but he gave me a brief hug just the same. Then he headed for the door, pausing to give Dottie a kiss on one wrinkled cheek. She couldn’t cuss at him—her mouth was full of pins at the time—but she shooed him away with a flap of her hand.
    At the door, he turned back to me. “You want some advice, Dev? Stay away from . . .” He finished with a head-jerk, and I knew well enough what he meant: Horror House. Then he was gone, probably thinking about his visit home, and Erin, the car he hoped to buy, and Erin, the upcoming school year, and Erin. Upstream, Redteam, Redteam, Upstream. Come spring semester, they could chant it together. Hell, they could chant it that very night, if they wanted to. In Wilmington. In bed. Together.

    There was no punch-clock at the park; our comings and goings were supervised by our team leaders. After my final turn as Howie on that first Monday in September, Pop Allen told me to bring him my time-card.
    “I’ve got another hour,” I said.
    “Nah,