Joyland

cars) or running a street-sweeper down Hound Dog Way after the gates closed.
    “And don’t you dare leave me in the lurch. Be here on the agreed-upon date, and five minutes before the agreed-upon time.”
    “Okay.”
    “There are two important showbiz rules, kiddo: always know where your wallet is . . . and show up.”

    When I walked out beneath the big arch with WELCOME TO JOYLAND written on it in neon letters (now off) and into the mostly empty parking lot, Lane Hardy was leaning against one of the shuttered ticket booths, smoking the cigarette previously parked behind his ear.
    “Can’t smoke on the grounds anymore,” he said. “New rule. Mr. Easterbrook says we’re the first park in America to have it, but we won’t be the last. Get the job?”
    “I did.”
    “Congratulations. Did Freddy give you the carny spiel?”
    “Sort of, yeah.”
    “Tell you about petting the conies?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He can be a pain in the banana, but he’s old-time showbiz, seen it all, most of it twice, and he’s not wrong. I think you’ll do okay. You’ve got a carny look about you, kid.” He waved a hand at the park with its landmarks rising against the blameless blue sky: the Thunderball, the Delirium Shaker, the convoluted twists and turns of Captain Nemo’s water slide, and—of course—the Carolina Spin. “Who knows, this place might be your future.”
    “Maybe,” I said, although I already knew what my future was going to be: writing novels and the kind of short stories they publish in The New Yorker. I had it all planned out. Of course, I also had marriage to Wendy Keegan all planned out, and how we’d wait until we were in our thirties to have a couple of kids. When you’re twenty-one, life is a roadmap. It’s only when you get to be twenty-five or so that you begin to suspect you’ve been looking at the map upside down, and not until you’re forty are you entirely sure. By the time you’re sixty, take it from me, you’re fucking lost.
    “Did Rozzie Gold give you her usual bundle of Fortuna horseshit?”
    “Um . . .”
    Lane chuckled. “Why do I even ask? Just remember, kid, that ninety percent of everything she says really is horseshit. The other ten . . . let’s just say she’s told folks some stuff that rocked them back on their heels.”
    “What about you?” I asked. “Any revelations that rocked you back on your heels?”
    He grinned. “The day I let Rozzie read my palm is the day I go back on the road, ride-jocking the tornado-and-chittlins circuit. Mrs. Hardy’s boy doesn’t mess with Ouija boards and crystal balls.”
    Do you see a beautiful woman with dark hair in my future? I’d asked.
    No. She is in your past.
    He was looking at me closely. “What’s up? You swallow a fly?”
    “It’s nothing,” I said.
    “Come on, son. Did she feed you truth or horseshit? Live or Memorex? Tell your daddy.”
    “Definitely horseshit.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a bus to catch at five, if I’m going to make the train to Boston at seven. I better get moving.”
    “Ah, you got plenty of time. Where you staying this summer?”
    “I hadn’t even thought about it.”
    “You might want to stop at Mrs. Shoplaw’s on your way to the bus station. Plenty of people in Heavens Bay rent to summer help, but she’s the best. She’s housed a lot of Happy Helpers over the years. Her place is easy to find; it’s where Main Street ends at the beach. Great big rambler painted gray. You’ll see the sign hanging from the porch. Can’t miss it, because it’s made out of shells and some’re always falling off. MRS. SHOPLAW’S BEACHSIDE ACCOMMODATIONS. Tell her I sent you.”
    “Okay, I will. Thanks.”
    “If you rent there, you can walk down here on the beach if you want to save your gas money for something more important, like stepping out on your day off. That beach walk makes a pretty way to start the morning. Good luck, kid. Look forward to working with you.” He held out his hand. I shook it and thanked him again.
    Since he’d put the idea in my head, I decided to take the beach walk back to town. It would save me twenty minutes waiting for a taxi I couldn’t really afford. I had almost reached the wooden stairs going down to the sand when he called after me.
    “Hey, Jonesy! Want to know something Rozzie won’t tell you?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “We’ve got a spook palace called Horror House. The old Roz-ola won’t go within fifty yards of it. She hates the pop-ups