Dunk (10 page)

W
HEN
J
ASON SHOWED UP
, I
SCANNED HIS FACE FOR ANY SIGN
that he was angry about the way I'd shouted at him last night. Not a hint. Which made me feel even more guilty. “Hey, sorry about . . . you know . . .”

“No sweat,
amigo
,” Jason said. “You recovered from your labors?”

“Still hurting,” I said. I almost added,
Carry me
. But I kept my mouth shut because I knew Jason would actually do it. I grabbed a towel and we headed out, turning the corner and joining the stream of people who flowed toward the water all day.

It's funny listening to tourists when they see the beach for the first time. They'll say stuff like
Oh, good lord, where's the water?
There's a quarter mile of hot sand between the boardwalk and the ocean—even more at low tide. You can't really tell what's ahead until you cross under the boardwalk. Then, it's like gazing over vast empty stretches of desert. I think the town should buy a couple of camels, just for the effect.

People spill out of the motels carrying a ton and a half of stuff—beach mats, chairs, umbrellas, boogie boards, sand buckets, books, coolers, Frisbees, kites, radios, and dozens of other essential items. They can't wait to hit the water or fry themselves in the sun.

When you're barefoot, on hot sand, with both arms loaded, a quarter mile is a long, long way to trek.

Jason and I knew better, of course. I had a towel on my shoulder and sandals on my feet. So did he. We passed under the boardwalk, then back into the sunshine.

“There's Mike and Corey,” Jason said, pointing out the two of them over to our left as we got close to the surf. We joined them and spread out our towels. Mike was wearing a pair of cutoffs and his favorite beach toy—mirrored sunglasses. Corey wore knee-length shorts, a T-shirt, a hat, and about a half gallon of sunscreen. He smelled like a coconut.

“Time off?” I asked Mike.

He nodded. “Just till four. Then I'm on till closing. What's up?”

“Chad got a job,” Jason said. He kicked off his sandals and dropped down on his towel. “He's working at the dunk tank.”

“Sounds cool,” Corey said.

“It was awful.” I listed some of the details, which made me even less eager to go back. But I wasn't going to quit after only one day. “It's got to be the worst job in the world.”

“Uh-uh,” Corey said. “There are lots worse. I had an uncle who was a tester for insect repellent. They'd spray his arms with different formulas and then he'd stick them in a tank full of mosquitoes.”

“That's nothing,” Jason said. “Back in New York, a couple of the older kids I knew made money selling their blood. You're only supposed to sell some every two weeks, and you're not supposed to sell it at all if you're underage, but they'd go to a bunch of different places.”

“Yuck,” Mike said. “But that's not a job, is it? I mean, you don't do it all day long.”

“Maybe, but it's still pretty rough by the third or fourth pint,” Jason said.

“How about fixing clogged toilets?” Corey asked. “That can't be fun.”

“That's not so bad,” Mike told him. “It's not like you do it with your bare hands. My neighbor's a plumber. He makes good money. Now, sitting in an office somewhere . . . the same place all day every day—that's got to suck.”

“Depends what you do,” Corey said. “I can spend the whole day on my computer. No problem.”

“Basically, working sucks,” Mike said. “That's why I'm joining the army. You know exactly what's going to happen, and they won't fire you if business gets slow. No matter what, you get your check and you get your meals.” He plopped back on his towel. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but I could tell from the way his head moved that he was watching every girl who walked by. Even without the glasses, the girls wouldn't have noticed what he was doing because they were all too busy checking out Jason.

“Agreed,” Corey said. “Working sucks.”

I hoped they were wrong. Two more years of school, and then I'd be doing some kind of work. Maybe I'd really get to own an arcade. Or maybe I'd be the guy sticking his arm in a cloud of mosquitoes. I didn't have a clue where I'd end up. It didn't seem like I had any control over that right now. Or maybe ever. And even after all these years of school, I hadn't found anything I thought I'd be good at. Until now.

Jason stood up and stretched. “Swim?” he asked.

“Go ahead. I'll be there in a bit.”

He jogged to the edge of the water and stuck a toe into the surf as it lapped toward him. After a moment he backed up a couple steps, then ran straight ahead, letting out a shout when the water reached his waist. He leaped up and dove under a wave as it broke in front of him.

“He never stops,” Corey said.

“Why don't you join him?” I asked. The whole time I'd known Corey, I hadn't ever seen him go into the water. He claimed he was allergic to salt.

“No, thanks.” He grabbed his bottle of sunscreen and started applying another layer.

I glanced at Wild Willy's Pier, which jutted toward the ocean on our right. The Green Tarantula, one of the largest inverted coasters in the East, towered over the water. I loved watching the cars when they wen^ through the first loop, throwing the riders' feet straight up as the track shot past under their heads. Seconds later, they blew through a double corkscrew. We were too far away to hear the screams.

“What do you think it would cost to build a dunk tank?” I asked.

“Two or three hundred, at least,” Mike said. “Lumber's pretty expensive, but you could use scrap iron for the bars.”

“Maybe another eighty for cheap speakers and a microphone,” Corey said. “Wait, you'd need an amplifier, too. Make it one twenty.”

“That's still not too bad.” I imagined having my own tank on the boardwalk, near a busy pier or next to one of the major coasters. I'd hire my friends to work the front. Pay them good money. I'd work the tank, of course. Maybe put the earnings into building a second tank. Train some other Bozos. Build up a whole business.

“Don't forget, you need a place to put it,” Mike told me. “Rent's not cheap around here. My boss always complains about that when he's explaining why I can't get a raise. You gotta pay for water and electricity, of course.”

“And there's insurance,” Corey said. “Workmen's comp, taxes, Social Security. There's probably some sort of licensing fee from the township. Maybe you even have to a post a liability bond.”

Man, I didn't know the first thing about that kind of stuff. How did anyone ever start a business when there was so much nonsense to deal with? I sighed and turned my attention back to the ocean.

I watched Jason for a while, then went to join him. I didn't like to dive in. I waded, standing on my toes each time a swell threatened to reach a dry part of my body. But after getting smacked with a couple high waves, I was as wet as Jason.

“Feels great,” he said.

He was right. I think there's something in salt water that can heal just about anything. My muscles felt better. All of me felt better.

Jason pointed toward the beach. “People dream all year of a week at the shore. And we live here.”

“Pretty good deal,” I said. I stood for a while, letting the motion of the water bury my feet beneath the sand. I floated and I swam a bit, then climbed out and plopped down on my towel. But something caught my attention.

A large group of guys was tossing around a couple Frisbees near the water off to our left. “Hey,” I asked, sitting up, “speaking of biting insects, isn't that Stinger?”

Mike turned his head briefly away from two girls passing near us in bikinis. “Sure is.”

I didn't recognize the other guys with Stinger. But I had a suspicion who they might be, and with that suspicion came a thought that made me grin. If I was right, I was facing an irresistible opportunity.

“What are you so happy about?” Jason asked as he came up from the water. He ran both hands through his hair, pushing off a shower of drops.

“The chance of a lifetime,” I said. “I'll be back.” I jogged over to say hi to Stinger. He'd just graduated, and was sort of a school hero. I knew him from study hall and we got along okay. About half the guys in his group wore orange T-shirts with
CAMP SIZZLE
printed in black letters on the back. Red flames burst from the first letter of each word, and the whole name was underlined with a lightning bolt.

“Hey, Stinger,” I said when he spotted me. “How's it going?”

“Hey, Chad.” He nodded. “It's going good. You?”

“Can't complain. You here for a while?”

“Just till tonight. Came over with some of the guys from camp. Whatcha been doing?” He leaped up and grabbed a Frisbee as it passed overhead.

“Working on the boardwalk. At a dunk tank.”

“Sounds like fun,” he said as he flicked the Frisbee to one of his friends who was standing knee-deep in the water.

“It keeps me hustling. Stop by before you leave. It's right in front of Wild Willy's. I'll be there any time after seven.”

Stinger nodded. “I'll swing by if I get a chance.”

“Great.” I headed to my towel.

“What was that all about?” Jason asked when I got back.

“Oh, I just thought Malcolm might get a kick out of meeting Stinger and his friends.”

“Oh, man,” Jason said, shaking his head. “You're rotten. Truly rotten.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Thanks.” I lay back and let the sun warm my smiling face. There was no question in my mind anymore. I knew for sure I was going back to the dunk tank. No way I'd miss it. Stinger could probably hit the target with his eyes closed. Tonight was going to be interesting.

“I'
M HERE
,” I
TOLD
B
OB WHEN
I
GOT TO THE TANK THAT EVENING
. It was only six forty. I wanted to make sure I didn't miss Stinger.

“Good to see you. I kind of figured you wouldn't be back. Half the kids I hire quit after the first day. Or sooner. Especially the kid who got hit on the nose. He pretty much quit right then.” Bob waved the remains of a stick of cotton candy in the general direction of the bucket. “You might as well get to work.”

It was just as awful as it had been the night before. And even more dangerous. I nearly got nailed a couple times because I kept searching the crowd. But tonight I didn't care about the filth or the pain or the danger. Whatever I had to deal with, it would all be worthwhile. As long as Stinger came.

About half an hour after I got there, I caught a couple flashes of orange heading toward the tank. It was Stinger, and he wasn't alone. There were nine or ten guys with him. This was perfect. More than perfect.

Earlier, I'd kicked one of the balls so it rolled behind the tank. Now I rushed over to grab it, just as Malcolm got dunked.

“Hey,” I said, loudly enough to get his attention as he climbed out of the water. I had to hurry before he chose another mark.

“What?”

“See that kid in the orange T-shirt? The one with the crew cut.”

“Yeah, I see him.”

“I know him from school. He used to pick on me all the time.”

“You want to get even?” Malcolm asked.

“Yeah, I want to get even,” I said. That was sure true. I couldn't help grinning in anticipation. Man, was I about to get even. Big time. “Think you can show him what it's like to get picked on?”

“No problem.” Malcolm looked over at Stinger. I could almost hear his Bozo brain working, searching for the perfect hook to sink into his victim so he could drag him into the game. I wondered what he'd pick. Stinger was tall and thin. He looked kind of awkward when he walked. And his hair was in a buzz cut. I figured Malcolm could start out using any of those things.

But the Bozo homed in on something else. “Well, what do we have here?” he asked. He let the question hang in the air just long enough to get everyone's attention, then supplied an answer. “It's a traveling herd of oranges.”

The crowd shifted as everyone inched away from Stinger and his pals.

“My mistake,” Malcolm said. “You're such a close bunch, you must be bananas.” He let out a Bozo howl to punctuate the joke. The crowd started laughing.

I watched Stinger's face. He was about the calmest guy I knew. Pressure meant nothing to him. He was used to being shouted at. He'd been called far worse names than anything Malcolm would say in public. There was a chance he'd just shake off the comments and walk away.
Come on
, I thought,
go for it
.

“Yes!” I said as Stinger smiled that calm, deadly smile and strolled over to Bob.

“Oh, no,” Malcolm said. “One of them got loose. Save me!” He glanced frantically from side to side in the tank, as if his life was in danger.

Stinger took the three balls with his right hand and passed one of them to his left. He tossed the ball up about a foot and let it fall back into his waiting fingers. Then he did it again.

“It's a baseball,” Malcolm said. “What's wrong? Never seen one before? Stop playing catch with yourself and throw the stupid thing.”

That's exactly what Stinger did. His first throw nailed the target dead center with a deafening clang, plunging Malcolm into the water.

Malcolm climbed back on the seat and leaned over to say something into the microphone. But before he had a chance to speak, Stinger, using the same beautifully smooth motion, nailed the target a second time.

And then he nailed it a third time.

While I gathered up the three balls, Stinger paid Bob another two bucks. Behind him, his buddies cheered and whistled. And they lined up for their turns. The crowd drew closer, suddenly sensing that this time the vic was inside the cage.