Dunk (19 page)

“Who?”

“Just someone.”

She shook her head. “No reason at all. Want me to put in a good word for you with any particular someone?”

“No. That's okay. Thanks.”

I watched her walk off. It was funny. Ellie was pretty and smart, and fun to be with, but I'd never even thought about dating her. I mean, we went out for pizza with the gang, but I didn't want to kiss her any more than I'd want to kiss Jason or Mike or Corey. It was another mystery in a life filled with stuff that just happened, or just didn't happen. I think you can go crazy if you try to find reasons for everything.

I stayed on the beach while the sun set behind me, then watched as the stars came out. By then I was almost alone. They closed the beach at ten, but nobody cared if you were out after that as long as you weren't making trouble. The rule was mostly to keep kids from partying there at night. Couples went for walks all the time. And people surf fished. But a little after ten I started to think about leaving. I figured with my luck I'd be the one they caught when they decided to enforce the regulations. The last thing I wanted was more trouble with the cops. I'd already seen enough blue uniforms to last a lifetime.

After shaking out my towel, I headed home. I didn't bother putting my sandals back on. The sand was cool now and felt good against my feet. The scattered small pinches from broken bits of clamshells didn't bother me.

When I reached my house, I realized I still didn't want to go inside. I'd spent enough time in my cave during the last few weeks. But I didn't feel like wandering around the boardwalk either. Not yet. I knew too many people up there, and some of them would ask where I'd been. I didn't want to get into it. What could I say. I've been away? I went on a mind trip?

Above me, I heard a door open and close, followed by the creak of porch boards.

“R
EAD ANY GOOD BOOKS LATELY
?” M
ALCOLM STOOD ON THE
upstairs porch, running a towel through his hair. I figured he'd just gotten off his shift and headed right for the shower. I stared at him, trying to sort through the feelings that jumbled around in my mind. I hated his guts. But I also sort of liked him. And that made me hate him even more. On top of all that, he'd briefly opened a window to his past. No. Not a window. It was more like a furnace door.
I had a wife
.
I had a son
. I was still wrestling with that information.

“You can come up if you promise not to kick me in the balls again,” he said.

I joined him on the porch, leaving the insult book down by my door. I wanted to hang on to it for a while. But I brought back the acting book. “This one sucks,” I said.

“You're welcome.”

“That insult one is pretty good.”

“Glad it meets with your approval.”

“Sorry about nailing you with my knee,” I said.

“That's okay. I've been hit harder. Sorry about slapping you.”

“That's okay. I've been slapped harder. Of course, that was by a three-year-old girl.”

Malcolm grinned. “Not bad, for an amateur. Did you watch any of the movies?”

“Yup.” I told him which ones I'd seen. “They're funny. But I don't need to watch all of them. I'm ready.”

“You think just any Bozo can hop in that tank?”

“I could,” I said.

“Really?”

“Sure.” I didn't see any reason why not. “It's easy.”

“Okay.” Malcolm pointed down to the street. “Here comes a mark. Let's see you hook him.”

“Right now?” I asked. The guy Malcolm picked out looked like he lifted weights—maybe small cars. “Here?”

Malcolm nodded. “Here and now.”

“No way. I don't want him punching me out. Why do you think there are bars on the tank?” I could just imagine the guy racing up from the street and chucking me off the porch because I yelled insults at him. I've never backed away from a fight, but I preferred to tangle with opponents who didn't look like they belonged to a different branch of the animal kingdom.

“So speak softly,” Malcolm told me. “Keep your voice down. He doesn't have to hear you. This is just practice. Come on, wonderboy. Show me how good you are. Open your mouth. Let the brilliance flow. Amaze me.”

“Hey, you,” I said as the guy walked past the front of the house. I kept my voice soft enough so it wouldn't reach him. “Are those muscles, or are you carrying a bag of vegetables?”

Not bad, I told myself, though it felt kind of weird talking to a stranger this way—even if he couldn't hear me. I glanced over at Malcolm.

“See? I can do it.”

He stared back at me without saying anything, but I could tell from his expression that he wasn't impressed. As I thought about it, neither was I. Maybe I should have said
melons
instead of
vegetables
. No, that wasn't much better. I took another shot. “Hey, muscleboy . . .” In my head, I ran through everything I could think of about weightlifting, trying to find the perfect line. None of it seemed funny.

“Hurry up,” Malcolm said.

“Shut up. I'm trying to think.” A jumble of bad ideas filled my brain.

“He's getting away. If you let him go, you've lost a mark. No mark, no money. There's nothing sadder than a broke Bozo.”

I opened my mouth. But I didn't have anything to say.

“Too late,” Malcolm said. “He's gone. Wave bye-bye to him and his wallet.”

“Come on, that wasn't fair,” I said. “You can't expect me to dream up something just like that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Malcolm said. “That would be too hard. Nobody could do that.” He turned from me and stared out at the street. There was no one in front of us now, but he acted like he was talking to the weightlifter.

“Hey, strongman. You look like you can lift anything. Except your IQ. It must be tough to tell yourself apart from the dumbbells.” He threw in a quiet version of his Bozo laugh for good measure.

“Okay, so you knew a couple lines,” I said.

But he didn't stop with a couple. “Man, you're strong—maybe you should take a bath. Hey, you must be a body builder—there's no way nature could turn out something that strange on her own. Wow, where'd you get that body? I didn't know they made 'em without a neck. You're looking swell. Or maybe swollen. Better stop before you pop.”

He went on for at least five minutes. Finally, as a small group of adults headed down the street in our direction, Malcolm looked at me and said, “Your turn. This is easy. You've got a choice. Take your pick.”

“Sure. Just stop talking. You're distracting me.”

“Right. Sorry. My mistake. You're absolutely right. There won't be any distractions on the boardwalk. It's such a nice, quiet place to work. So peaceful. Sometimes I like to bring the crossword puzzle with me for that very reason. When it gets really quiet, I meditate.”

“Shut up.” I wished I'd hit him a whole lot harder this morning.

“My pleasure.”

Okay. I'd show him. I scanned the group, looking for the best mark. One of the guys was tall, but not real tall. One of the women was wearing high heels. That's kind of stupid near the beach and boardwalk. But not stupid enough to be worth mentioning. There had to be something I could pick out. That's it—one of the guys had on really baggy pants. “Hey, you,” I said, “those pants are so baggy . . . they should . . .” Oh god, I sounded just like Waldo.

My brain switched off again. I sighed and watched as the group walked up the next block. This really wasn't a fair test. I had to worry about keeping my voice down. And they were farther away than they'd be on the boardwalk—all the way down by the street.

“There they go,” Malcolm said. “They're spending all their money somewhere else. Tossing dull darts at underinflated balloons or shooting basketballs at microscopic hoops. Apparently, your mime act didn't hold their interest. On the positive side, you're still dry. Congratulations. You could be the world's first waterproof Bozo.”

“Okay, you're right!” I shouted. I felt like letting him have it with my knee again. “You're absolutely right. I suck. Thanks so much for proving it.” I stormed down the stairs.

“Oh, come now, Chad,” Malcolm called after me in a voice like Goofy from the Disney cartoons. “Don't be such a bad sport. Come on back and play.”

As I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard him following me. When he was halfway down, he jumped over the railing. I guess he wanted to show off and land right in front of me, but his left leg—the one he limped on—buckled when he hit the ground. He winced in pain, then swore.

“You all right?” I asked.

He nodded. “That was stupid.” He held on to the railing and lifted his leg so his injured foot dangled above the ground. For a moment, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

Some of my own anger faded. “You sure you're okay?” I wondered how much of his pain was from the memory of past injuries.

“Yeah. I'll be fine. I just have to avoid leaping off stairs.” He leaned against the railing and wrapped his arm around it. “Look, I wasn't trying to prove to you that you suck. Almost everyone sucks at new stuff. Otherwise, we wouldn't need any teachers. I was only trying to prove that you've got a few things to learn before you climb into the tank. You're not so thickheaded that you won't admit that, are you?”

I shrugged, which was the best way I could find to avoid admitting anything.

“Everything looks easy from the outside. Ice-skating looks easy when I see it on television. If I tried to do a triple loop without training, I'd end up flat on my back. Brain surgery looks simple. Maybe I'll go out and saw open someone's skull. Dig around a bit in the cerebellum. How hard could it be?”

“Okay. I get the point. But I figured I could do it. The stuff you say in the tank—I have stuff like that running through my mind all the time.”

Malcolm nodded. “Sure, you can be funny. So can I. But that's not good enough. You want to sit in the tank like Waldo and use the same old lame stuff all the time? Waldo's a great guy. I like him a lot. But you and I both know he stinks as a Bozo. Right?”

“Yeah.” I had to agree with him on that.

“When Waldo gets in the tank, he's still Waldo. That doesn't work. Nobody wants to dunk Waldo or Malcolm or Chad. You have to be the Bozo. Think of it as a role. A part in a play.”

I nodded. That kind of made sense.

“I know you've got dreams of leaping into the tank and being brilliant. But it doesn't work that way. You've got to make some effort. I'm going to ask you just one question. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“How badly do you want it?”

“I don't know.”

“Not good enough. You have to know. You have to decide whether you're willing to work for it. And before you decide, let me point out that you're a complete idiot for wanting to do this. It's a job nobody is going to appreciate. Yeah, people will laugh when they walk by and maybe notice how clever you are. Even so, they'll think you're nothing but a loser who can't find anything better to do than sit on a ledge waiting to get dunked. Maybe one person in a million will hear you and actually understand what it takes to do the job. And that person will probably be some annoying kid with dreams of glory. Still want it? Or would you be happier if you forgot the whole thing?”

I thought back to the first time I'd seen him in the tank. I remembered how he'd played the crowd like a puppet master. Nobody ignored him. It was impossible to walk past him without stopping, without listening. He had total control. And I thought about the shiver that ran through me when I heard that voice. “I want it.”

“Bad enough to work for it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Then, for starters, you need to be around the tank as much as possible. I'll tell Bob you'd like your job back.”

“But—” I groaned at the thought of gathering balls again.

“See you around seven.” Malcolm limped over to the stairs and hobbled up to the porch. As he reached the top, he looked down and told me which movie to study next.

I went inside and watched the movie, keeping the volume low so I wouldn't wake Mom. It was an old film called
Beetlejuice
, about this really whacked-out ghost. I think it was the same guy who played Batman. As I watched, I realized that this was where Malcolm had gotten some of his Bozo routine. The voice he used was definitely inspired by Beetlejuice. Not completely. But there was an obvious influence.

I set the clock to wake me early so I could visit Jason. He needed to believe there was hope, and I needed to act like he'd leave the hospital someday. That wasn't going to be easy.

I glanced up at the ceiling. Malcolm didn't realize I was already getting a chance to play a role.

I
BROUGHT THE INSULT BOOK AND THREE VIDEOS TO THE HOSPITAL
with me the next morning. I figured Jason's mom would probably come around on her lunch break. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Jason before then, so I got there at eight.

He was awake when I reached his room. He looked about the same. Still hooked up to tubes. Still no sign that he'd ever be well enough to go home. I sat down and opened up the book.

“Bedtime story?” he asked.

“Better.” I read him some of my favorites parts, including all the quotes from Churchill.

He kept telling me they were awful. And he kept telling me they were mean and cruel. But he also kept laughing. I had to stop pretty often. Any time he laughed too hard, he started coughing. At least twice a nurse peered in through the doorway and gave me a suspicious look, like I was doing something wrong. I guess they weren't used to hearing laughter around here. But I didn't get kicked out.

After I'd read him all the best lines in the book, we watched two of the movies. They were both pretty short, but it was getting near lunchtime, so I switched off the monitor. I didn't want Jason's mother catching us. I put the third movie in the VCR, but shut off the power and handed Jason the remote.