Dunk (22 page)

I didn't expect Malcolm to believe me. But he said, “You're not the first person to notice the connection. Wait here.” He ran inside. I could tell from the clunks and crashes that he was digging around for something deep among the boxes. He finally came back with a book and a movie. “Watch this,” he said, wiggling the hand that held the movie. “Read this,” he said, wiggling the book. “Don't get them mixed up or you'll break your VCR and go blind.”

“Thanks.” I took them downstairs. The movie,
Patch Adams
, was about a doctor who believed that humor helped people heal. The whole thing was based on a true story. It was late when I turned off the TV and opened the book. The title,
Anatomy of an Illness
, didn't sound very funny, or very interesting. But I ended up reading the whole thing before I went to sleep. It was about a guy who'd cured himself of an incurable disease by laughing. The doctors told him he'd never get better. Like Jason, he had a chronic, progressive disease. Not the same one, but something just as awful. He noticed he felt better after he laughed. So he watched funny movies and tapes of old TV comedy shows and laughed as much as possible. And proved all the doctors were wrong. He did other stuff, too, like take lots of vitamins. But he felt it was the laughter, as much as anything, that made a difference.

I slept until half past noon. As soon as I got up, I headed for the hospital to see Jason. After making sure his mom's car wasn't in the parking lot, I went up to his room.

“How you feeling?” I asked.

“Could be worse. They said my enzyme levels were better.”

“That's good, right?”

Jason shrugged. “I guess. The doctor seemed surprised. He came back to see me three times yesterday.”

“We're going to surprise him a whole lot more,” I told Jason. “We're going to surprise the heck out of him. Out of all of them.”

Jason looked puzzled.

I handed him the book Malcolm had given me. “Read this later. Okay?”

“Is it funny?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Dead serious.” As much as laughter would help him, I knew it would work even better if he believed in it. That's something else I'd learned from the book. Everything worked better if you believed. That's why a sugar pill could cure a headache if the person thought the pill was medicine, or why a witch doctor's spell could kill someone who thought the power was real.

“Promise you'll read it?” I asked.

“Does this look like school?” he asked.

I held out my hand. “One dollar. Pay up.”

Jason stuck his hand into the pocket of his pajama top and shrugged. “I owe you one.”

“Look. I'm not kidding. You have to read this. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” I turned my attention to making Jason laugh. In a way, it still seemed crazy that something like laughter could help. But I'd bet it seemed crazy when a scientist first claimed that mold could cure infections, or that sunlight helped the body make vitamin D. Putting all of that aside, there was something else that made a believer out of me. I knew I felt better when I laughed. It was that simple.

I told Jason about the trip to see Jordy and about the progress I was making in my Bozo training, and I repeated some of the better lines I'd come up with on the porch. Then I checked the television. This time I found a funny movie. “Maybe you can get them to bring back the VCR,” I said.

Jason nodded. “I'll try.”

I stayed until his dinner came, then headed home. We'd laughed a lot. I felt good. Jason was still real sick. No doubt about it. But there was hope. Maybe he could heal himself. Maybe I could help.

There was another part of my life that needed healing. An hour or so after I got home, I went to the boardwalk and headed for the Cat-a-Pult.

Gwen was at the booth. Anthony wasn't. I wondered whether they'd broken up. That would be wonderful, but I knew I was fooling myself if I believed my problems had solved themselves while I wasn't looking. There was a big difference between hope and fantasy. I stared at the booth for another moment, remembering what had happened last time I'd been there. I'd left that wound untreated long enough. Telling myself it would be different than before, I went to talk with Gwen.

I
DIDN'T WAIT FOR HER TO NOTICE ME
. I'
D SPENT TOO MUCH OF
my life standing in silence, hoping someone else would speak. “Hi, Gwen,” I said as she handed a player his change.

“Oh, hi, Chad.” She smiled, but it was a small smile, like the sort you'd share with a stranger.

“How you doing?” I asked.

“Fine.” She crossed to the other side of the booth to take care of another player.

I followed her over. “I haven't seen you in a while.”

“You haven't been around much,” she said.

A dozen replies ran through my mind.
I was keeping a sick friend company
. True, but it made me sound like I was trying to earn points. Look at me—best friend in the world, takes care of the sick and feeds the poor. Saint Chad. Nope.
I've been busy
. That sounded conceited.
I stayed away while my heart mended
. No way.

“Yeah,” I said. Man, talk about a meaningless answer. I had to come up with something that at least sounded reasonable. “A lot of stuff's been going on. What've you been up to?”

She shrugged. “Working. Going out.”

“With Anthony?” The question came out louder than I'd planned.

She nodded. “He's very nice.”

No, he isn't! It's all an act
. I wanted to grab her and shake her and shout the truth.
He's bad news
.
He'll get you in trouble
.
He might hurt you just for the fun of hurting me
. But anything I said against Anthony would just make me look like a jealous fool. And if I didn't say anything, I'd look like a jerk, too. “I've known him for a while,” I muttered.

“He's honest,” she said. “He tells me how he feels. Most guys don't do that.” Her eyes drilled through me as she spoke those words.

No! He tells you what you want to hear
. “Most guys have a hard time saying how they feel.” That was so true, but it sounded so lame.

“Most girls don't like trying to read minds,” she said.

This was going in the wrong direction. But I wasn't willing to back off. Not until I had a chance to ask her out. “Long shift?”

“Pretty long. I'm here until ten.”

Go for it
. “So, are you busy after that?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” I felt like I was banging on a locked door.

“Anthony's taking me to a party tonight,” she said.

“That's nice.” Actually, that sucked.

“It's at his brother's house.”

“Tommy's place?” Oh, man. Not there. I thought about the rented house on Abbot Drive that Anthony's brother shared with a couple other guys. They were wasted all the time. Everyone around here knew about them.

Let it go
. Maybe my life would be better if I just gave up this painful dream. I'd blown my chances in too many ways—by keeping my mouth shut when I should have spoken, and by screaming my head off when I should have kept quiet. But the thought of Gwen partying with that crowd of drugged-out scum made me flinch.

A horrible thought hit me. Was I wrong about her? Was she Anthony's type of girl and not mine? I looked in her eyes, trying to see what was really there. It was no use. I couldn't tell anything that way. I didn't have Mom's gift for peering through masks.

Crap. I didn't need this. I was sick of spending so much of my life inside my head. I was sick of struggling with everything. Even a stupid jellyfish is smart enough not to waste its life battling against the tide. “Have a great time,” I said. I sped away, fighting the numbness that tried to seep through my body.

It was close to seven, so I headed over to the Bozo tank. At least work would keep me busy. I ran into Malcolm near the entrance to the pier, standing in line at the NutShack.

“Getting Bob a small snack,” he said. “Preferably something sticky. I think it's charming the way he uses condiments to groom his mustache.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Want something?”

“Nah.”

“Hey, cheer up,” he said. “You look like your best friend just died.”

I stared at him.

“Sorry. Poor choice of words. But you really do look pretty pathetic. I've seen happier faces on roadkill. For that matter, I've seen happier faces on canned hams. What's up?”

I told him about Gwen and the party at the drug house.

“Sounds like a bad place for a nice girl,” he said. “Hell, it even sounds like a bad place for a bad girl. I've walked past that part of Abbot Drive. Scary.”

I nodded. “Nothing much I can do about it. I blew my chance.”

“Sometimes life sucks,” Malcolm said as he reached the front of the line. “I don't suppose a candy apple would do much to lift your spirits.”

“Thanks anyhow.” I waited while he got his order. When he was done, we headed over to the tank.

Malcolm handed Bob a giant hunk of caramel popcorn, then slipped into the dressing room. I got to work, trying to lose myself between the mindless task of gathering the balls and the complex task of learning the craft of the Bozo. My own turn in the cage wasn't far off now. July was almost over. Malcolm said I'd get a shot in early August. The scary thing was that the more I learned, the less ready I felt.

Around nine thirty I spotted Anthony heading past, on his way to the Cat-a-Pult. “Right back,” I told Bob.

“Hey, Ballzo,” Anthony said when I rushed over to him. “What's up?”

“Don't take Gwen to your brother's place,” I said. “She's a nice girl.”

“She's very nice,” he said. “No point partying with a pig.”

He flashed me a smile, then walked away.

If the universe was at all fair, Anthony would drop dead before he took another step. But that wouldn't happen. He'd get whatever he wanted. And the rest of us would get stepped on. For the first time in my life, I really understood how one person could kill another.

As violent fantasies tore through my mind, I went back to work, where I watched other people buy a brief chance to get even with the world. They were lucky. It would take more than a Bozo to make me feel right.

We didn't finish until around eleven. As I was walking toward home with Malcolm, he said, “Hold on. I need to check something.” I waited while he made a quick call from one of the pay phones by the information booth.

“Did you read that book?” he asked when he came back.

“Yeah. It's amazing. They told the guy he'd never get better. But he got better.”

“You're right—it's amazing. But you can't always count on miracles,” Malcolm said. “It's not like we could empty out the hospitals by running continuous Three Stooges film festivals. But it would probably do a lot of good.”

“Sometimes there
are
miracles,” I said.

“Sometimes you can make your own miracles. It never hurts to try.”

“Why don't you come with me to visit Jason tomorrow?” I figured Malcolm could help me to keep him laughing.

“No, thanks. I don't like hospitals.”

“Come on. He'd be happy to see you.”

Malcolm sighed. “Want me to bring the tank? We can cheer up your friend and make a few bucks.”

I realized he was kidding, but the combined images of the dunk tank and the hospital brought up something else I'd been thinking about for a while. “You know what's funny?” I asked.

“I should hope so,” he said. “Otherwise, I'd be the world's driest Bozo.”

“No, seriously.”

“Okay, seriously, what's funny?”

“Laughter can heal, right?”

“Right.”

“But it can also hurt.”

“You're pretty smart for someone who wants to spend his life dangling over a pool of stagnant water.”

“Thanks.”

“It's not a simple subject. People far smarter than either of us have written whole books about laughter and comedy,” Malcolm said.

“Are they any good?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Boring, for the most part. And, oddly enough, rarely funny.”

We took our time going back. I didn't want to walk too fast, since Malcolm was still limping pretty badly. “Jason thinks Bozos are cruel,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“You're kidding.” I didn't expect Malcolm to agree with that.

“There's no way around it. Cruelty is part of the act. We say nasty things to people. Wrapped up in cleverness. But it's in a controlled situation. Nobody gets hurt. Or at least they don't get hurt in a way that leaves scars. And an opportunity for revenge is a mere two dollars away.”

I thought about all the skill he put into his performance. It almost seemed wasted on the marks. “There's so much you could do with your talent,” I said.

A long moment passed before Malcolm spoke. “The trouble is, I'm really good at this.”

The way he said it, he wasn't boasting—just stating a fact. He sounded kind of sad about it. Like he was so good he didn't have a choice. I knew kids in school who'd been trapped into playing sports they didn't like just because they had some talent.

“You'll be teaching in the fall, right?” I asked.

“Yeah. Figured I'd try something different. Not sure if I'll like it.”

“You've done a good job teaching me,” I said. We'd reached the ramp.

“Now don't get all soft and misty on me. I left my Kleenex in my other pants.”

“Seriously, you've taught me a lot.”

“That remains to be seen.”

We headed toward Sea Crest. As we turned the corner, Malcolm said, “She was my high-school sweetheart. It sounds pretty corny, doesn't it?”