Joyland

magician never tells his secrets. Don’t you know that?”
    “Did you have a card-and-bunny-gig when you were with Blitz Brothers?”
    “No, sir, I did not. All I did with the Blitzies was ride-jock and drag the midway. And, although I did not have a valid driver’s license, I also drove a truck on a few occasions when we had to DS from some rube-ranch or other in the dead of night.”
    “So where did you learn the magic?”
    Fred reached behind my ear, pulled out a silver dollar, dropped it into my lap. “Here and there, all around the square. Better goose it a little, Jonesy. They’re getting ahead of us.”

    From Skytop Station, where the gondola ride ended, we went to the merry-go-round. Lane Hardy was waiting. He had lost the engineer’s cap and was once more sporting his derby. The park’s loudspeakers were still pumping out rock and roll, but under the wide, flaring canopy of what’s known in the Talk as the spinning jenny, the rock was drowned out by the calliope playing “A Bicycle Built for Two.” It was recorded, but still sweet and old-fashioned.
    Before Mike could mount the dish, Fred dropped to one knee and regarded him gravely. “You can’t ride the jenny without a Joyland hat,” he said. “We call ’em dogtops. Got one?”
    “No,” Mike said. He still wasn’t coughing, but dark patches had begun to creep out beneath his eyes. Where his cheeks weren’t flushed with excitement, he looked pale. “I didn’t know I was supposed to . . .”
    Fred took off his own hat, peered inside, showed it to us. It was empty, as all magicians’ top hats must be when they are displayed to the audience. He looked into it again, and brightened. “Ah!” He brought out a brand new Joyland dogtop and put it on Mike’s head. “Perfect! Now which beast do you want to ride? A horse? The unicorn? Marva the Mermaid? Leo the Lion?’
    “Yes, the lion, please!” Mike cried. “Mom, you ride the tiger right next to me!”
    “You bet,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to ride a tiger.”
    “Hey, champ,” Lane said, “lemme help you up the ramp.”
    While he did that, Annie lowered her voice and spoke to Fred. “Not a lot more, okay? It’s all great, a day he’ll never forget, but—”
    “He’s fading,” Fred said. “I understand.”
    Annie mounted the snarling, green-eyed tiger next to Mike’s lion. Milo sat between them, grinning a doggy grin. As the merry-go-round started to move, “A Bicycle Built for Two” gave way to “Twelfth Street Rag.” Fred put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll want to meet us at the Spin—we’ll make that his last ride—but you need to visit the costume shop first. And put some hustle into it.”
    I started to ask why, then realized I didn’t need to. I headed for the back lot. And yes, I put some hustle into it.

    That Tuesday morning in October of 1973 was the last time I wore the fur. I put it on in the costume shop and used Joyland Under to get back to the middle of the park, pushing one of the electric carts as fast as it would go, my Howie-head bouncing up and down on one shoulder. I surfaced behind Madame Fortuna’s shy, just in time. Lane, Annie, and Mike were coming up the midway. Lane was pushing Mike’s chair. None of them saw me peering around the corner of the shy; they were looking at the Carolina Spin, their necks craned. Fred saw me, though. I raised a paw. He nodded, then turned and raised his own paw to whoever was currently watching from the little sound booth above Customer Services. Seconds later, Howie-music rolled from all the speakers. First up was Elvis, singing “Hound Dog.”
    I leaped from cover, going into my Howie-danee, which was kind of a fucked-up soft-shoe. Mike gaped. Annie clapped her hands to her temples, as if she’d suddenly been afflicted with a monster headache, then started laughing. I believe what followed was one of my better performances. I hopped and skipped around Mike’s chair, hardly aware that Milo was doing the same thing, only in the other direction. “Hound Dog” gave way to the Rolling Stones version of “Walking the Dog.” That’s a pretty short song, which was good—I hadn’t realized how out of shape I was.
    I finished by throwing my arms wide and yelling: “Mike! Mike! Mike!” That was the only time Howie ever talked, and all I can say in my defense is that it really sounded more like a bark.
    Mike rose from his chair, opened his arms, and fell forward. He knew I’d catch him,