Dunk (21 page)

“Yeah.” He sighed and glanced toward the hall.

“She hates me,” I said.

Jason shook his head. “No. She's just upset.”

No kidding
. “Did you tell her I wasn't doing anything bad?”

“I tried.” He coughed a bit, then said, “She'll get over it.”

“I hope so.” Another worry crossed my mind. Maybe she wasn't the only one who didn't like what I was doing. “You want me here, right?” I asked.

“For sure.”

Relieved, I plopped down on the chair and looked around the room. There was still a regular television mounted in the corner opposite the bed. “Want to watch something?” I could tell that Jason was getting worn out from talking.

“Okay.”

“Not much on,” I said after flipping through the channels. I settled for an old western. I'd hoped to find something funny, but it looked like we were out of luck.

A while later, a nurse walked past the room, carrying a bed pan.

“Check it out,” I said, trying to make my voice sound like W. C. Fields from the old movies. “Guess they're making soup in the cafeteria.”

It was gross, but Jason laughed. That got me started. “If I were you, I wouldn't eat the pea soup.”

He groaned. But then he laughed.

I was on a roll.

“It must be hard to work in that kitchen. I'll bet the chef is pooped.”

One idea flowed into another. “Waiter, there's a fly in my soup,” I said, talking like someone who's always complaining. I switched to a waiter's voice. “Don't worry, sir, I'll zip it up.”

I wiggled my eyebrows like Groucho Marx and said, “This place stinks. People are dying to get out.” It was a twist on the old joke about the graveyard—people are dying to get in. But that didn't matter. Jason laughed again.

A doctor went running past. “Poor guy must have lost his patients,” I said.

I liked being Groucho, so I stuck with it. For the next hour, I played the part, making ridiculous jokes and tossing out comments about everyone who walked past. Just having fun.

Jason laughed, and he coughed, and he groaned at the bad jokes. Behind me, the western played on unwatched.

Finally, I stopped to catch my breath.

“Man, you're crazy,” Jason said. But he was grinning.

“I am,” I agreed.

“Pea soup,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought I was gonna die.”

Thought you were, too
. I remembered something our gym teacher used to say.
Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger
. Was I killing my best friend, or making him stronger?

Jason was panting, gasping, coughing little coughs, still catching his breath. Still weak and sick. But no doubt about it, he seemed better. I realized I was feeling better, too. My heart ached over Gwen, but maybe it was an ache I could fix. At the very least, it was an ache that would heal. In the meantime I didn't care what Jason's mom did. She could burn all the movies in the world and smash all the VCRs. I was still going to make him laugh. All I needed was my mind and my mouth.

Later that afternoon I went home and watched more movies, memorizing the funniest parts so I could share them with Jason. That evening I listened again to Malcolm while I worked at the Bozo tank. The next morning I went back to see Jason. I told him some of Malcolm's best lines from the night before.

“That's awful,” he'd say. Then he'd laugh.

I thought up a new gag. While I talked, I slipped off my chair like I was getting dunked.

Jason enjoyed that, too. “You still want to be a Bozo?” he asked as I got up from the floor.

“Yeah. I must be out of my mind, but I want it as much as . . .” I caught myself.
As much as you want to play volleyball in Santa Monica
. “I just really want to do it.”

“Why?”

I searched for words to explain my feelings and wondered whether anyone could give a good answer to that question. Why did Corey want to design websites? Why did Ellie like biology? What makes a kid sit in his room every day practicing guitar chords or painting pictures for hours at a time? What makes a guy spend years chiseling away at a block of marble? Maybe it was just some feeling in the gut that said,
Do this
.

Jason shrugged. “You'd be good. Maybe that's why.”

“Thanks.” That made as much sense as anything. I guess it was better to be a good Bozo than a bad engineer or lawyer. I slipped off the chair again. It wasn't as funny the second time.

When I ran out of lines from Malcolm, I pretended I was W. C. Fields playing a doctor. “I'd take your temperature,” I told Jason, shaking an imaginary thermometer, “but I'm not sure which end smells better.”

Then Groucho stopped by, and Beetlejuice, and a dozen others. All during that time, no matter who I was on the outside, on the inside a part of me was thinking about Gwen. But I tried to keep that part separate so it wouldn't cast a shadow over Jason's laughter.

That became my routine. Hospital, home, dunk tank. Day after day. A week passed. Jason wasn't coughing as much. And he seemed to be able to talk a bit more without growing tired. In the middle of the second week, the routine got interrupted. I found Malcolm waiting for me on the porch when I came home from the hospital. “No work tonight,” he said.

“What?”

“We're going on a field trip.”

M
ALCOLM WOULDN'T TELL ME ANYTHING MORE
. A
COUPLE MINUTES
later a battered old Lincoln pulled up by the curb.

“Let's go,” Malcolm said, hopping in the front passenger side.

“Hello, stranger,” Doc said when I got in the backseat. “I thought you'd moved. Or maybe you didn't like me anymore.”

“I was dealing with some problems,” I told Doc. “Sorta gave up for a while.” I figured if there was anyone I could be honest with, it was him. Doc never seemed to judge anyone—as long as you didn't bang on his machines.

He nodded. “Been there myself. Glad you survived.”

We took the Parkway north for a couple miles, then cut over inland along one of the local highways. Doc kept up most of the conversation all by himself, telling stories about his own early days traveling the country and doing odd jobs. After half an hour we swung off the highway and drove down the main street of a small town. At the far end of the town, Doc pulled into a crowded parking lot next to a church. Behind the church, in a large field, I saw a Ferris wheel, a couple smaller rides, and a bunch of game booths. The smell of grilled sausages drifted through the open window, along with the sweet, greasy aroma of funnel cakes.

“Sort of a long way to travel to see stuff we can walk to,” I said as I searched the small carnival for anything halfway interesting.

Malcolm grinned and got out of the car. “Oh, there's something here we don't have on the boardwalk.”

“What?” I asked. “Hand-powered merry-go-rounds?”

“You'll see.”

I followed Malcolm and Doc through the parking lot. We passed by the games and the food at the far side of the carnival. Right in the center of the midway, a huge crowd blocked the path. Even before I could see anything, I could hear him.

It was a Bozo.

And he was even better than Malcolm.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Jordy Ketchum,” Doc told me. “One of the best in the business.”

“He's a legend,” Malcolm said. “Watch and learn.”

I worked my way closer. Jordy was amazing. He didn't just taunt the mark. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, involving everyone in the crowd, lining up his next three or four marks ahead of time while he sunk the hook in his latest vic. I watched him snag a man, a woman, and a boy.

“Hey, check out the gut on that guy. Looks like someone pumped him full of air. Don't laugh, lady. I think you're the one they took the air from. Holy cow, kid—if your ears stuck out any farther, you'd have to file a flight plan.”

The kid got to the barker first.

“Step right up, kid. That's it. Three for two dollars. Pay the guy with the apron. Try not to hit him with an ear. Give him a ten, you'll get four dollars change. Yeah, kid, listen to me. I give good advice. That's how I ended up in this high place. If you want to be a sport, buy the big guy some food. Looks like he hasn't eaten in at least thirty seconds. How 'bout you, lady? You eat anything this month?”

The kid threw a ball. The skinny woman and the guy with the big stomach lined up for their turns.

“Nice try, kid. This time aim for the target. Give him a hand, folks. He sure could use it. And an arm, too. Just keep your hands away from the big guy. If he gets hungry, you might lose a finger. Haaaaaaa.” His laugh was simpler than Malcolm's chain-saw cackle. He didn't need the extra flair.

By the time the kid dunked him, he'd gotten another mark in line with the man and the woman. The action never stopped. He even had priests and nuns chucking balls at the target—all in good fun, of course. Jordy ruled. No question. He was king. The whol$ time he sat on the ledge in that beat-up old carnival dunk tank, he was the center of the universe. Finally, over protests from the crowd, he took a break and ducked into a tent.

“This way.” Malcolm led me over there.

“Hey, Barrymore,” Jordy said when we walked in. He was sitting on, and dripping into, a large easy chair. “Good to see you.” He leaned forward and shook hands with Malcolm.

I gave Doc a puzzled look. “Barrymore?”

“Nickname,” he explained. “Famous actor from before your time. Drew's granddaddy.”

Malcolm and Jordy exchanged greetings. “Hey, Slim,” Jordy said when he caught sight of Doc. I guess he had a nickname for everyone.

“Were you ever skinny?” I asked Doc.

He snorted. “I was born fat. Jordy likes irony.”

They introduced me, but they were so wrapped up in reliving the old days that I just stood off to the side and listened. Close up, even with his makeup on, I could tell that Jordy must have been at least as old as the bank robber I'd met in jail. I wondered whether he had any plans to retire. Did Bozos ever quit? Or did they just slowly dissolve?

“Chad wants to be a Bozo,” Malcolm told Jordy at one point.

Jordy glanced over at me. “Is that the truth?”

I nodded.

“Hey, I wanted to be a veterinarian,” Jordy said. “And look where I ended up. You never know, kid. You never know.” He laughed and returned to his conversation with Doc and Malcolm.

After his break, Jordy headed back out to the tank. “Take care, Chatterbox,” he said, winking at me as he walked by. I smiled as I thought about running into him again many years from now.
Hey, Chatterbox
.
Good to see you
.
How ya been?

We stayed until midnight, when the fair closed.

“That,” Malcolm said as we pulled out of the parking lot, “is pure genius. You can't buy talent like that.”

I nodded. “Pretty awesome.”

“A lot of carnival Bozos don't even hook the marks,” Doc said. “They'll just wait for someone to step up, and then go into a routine. Not Jordy. He's a master.”

“I learned a lot from him,” Malcolm said. He shook his head. “I was in bad shape when we met. Bad time in my life. He helped me out.” Malcolm didn't give any details, but I had a good idea what he was talking about.

We rode the rest of the way back pretty much in silence. When we reached the house, I thanked Doc for taking me, then stepped out to the curb.

“Want to practice for a little while?” Malcolm asked.

“Sure.” I followed him up to the porch and waited for someone to walk past. Even this late, there was always foot traffic. Nobody paid attention to the clock during a vacation. Before long, a guy and his girlfriend strolled down the street in our direction. Inspired by hours of watching Jordy, I came up with a line right away. “Hey mister, don't forget to curb your dog.” That would do the trick. She wasn't bad looking, but I figured this was the sort of comment that would force the guy to pay for a chance to dunk me. I grinned at Malcolm.

“No way,” he said.

“What?” My grin melted.

“First, that's just plain cruel without being funny. It's something a schoolyard bully would say. Second, you're talking to him but insulting her. Even if he dunks you, she doesn't get the revenge. He ends up feeling proud and macho. She still feels like crap. No good. Understand?”

“Yeah.” He was right. It was the sort of line one of the bad Bozos would come up with. The moment I admitted that to myself, my anger faded. I studied the couple as they passed us. The guy was wearing his pants real low. “Hey, nice belt. Wait—that's your stomach. My mistake.”

“Better,” Malcolm admitted. “Still not great, but better.”

“Hey, man, either pull up those pants or get some plaster to fill in your butt crack.”

Malcolm roared, causing the couple to glance up at us. When he caught his breath, he said, “Very funny, Chad. There's just one problem.”

“A little too PG for the boardwalk?” I asked.

He nodded. “There are families out there. Lots of little kids. Everything you say is broadcast to all ears, whether they want to hear you or not. Keep it G-rated. Stay away from butt cracks, breasts, and anything else you wouldn't discuss with your mom.”

“Farts?” I asked.

“Probably not.”

The next mark came into sight, so I got back to work.

After about an hour, Malcolm said, “Had enough?”

“Yeah, I'm beat.”

“Let's knock off. Hey, how's your friend?”

“I don't know. They say he's never going to get better, but I don't believe them.” I told him that I'd been trying to keep Jason laughing. “Maybe I'm crazy, but I think it's helping him.” I realized I sounded like a little kid chattering away about some sort of playground ritual. Or a mark explaining his system for beating the big number wheel.