Dunk (9 page)

“Shut up!” I shouted, spinning toward him.

He wasn't even looking at me. Or talking to me. He was pointing at a guy in the crowd wearing a bright-orange Highway Department vest. I guess the guy had just gotten off work.

“Real hard job, right? You the genius who holds the sign that says
Stop?
Where'd you go to learn that trade? Moron school?” The highway guy threw eighteen balls before he dunked Malcolm. I was rooting for the mark the whole time.

Not that I had much of a chance to think. I was too busy ducking, dashing, stooping, and scooping. And wiping. The water in the puddles was unbelievably gross. People had all sorts of crap on their hands when they grabbed the balls. The towel looked like something that had been used to diaper a baby gorilla. That wasn't the worst part. My knees hurt from hitting them on the boardwalk. My back hurt from all the bending. My clothes were wet from getting splashed and from kneeling in puddles. And my pride had been crushed past any hope of recovery. Someone I knew was bound to spot me sooner or later.

On top of everything else that made this a nightmare, there was no safe place to hide. Most of the balls hit the canvas and dropped. But there were plenty of wild throws. Once in a while someone got real angry and hurled a shot right at the cage. The Bozo was safe behind the bars. I wasn't. There was no way to know how the ball would bounce. It was like being caught inside a giant pinball machine.

Those damn bars. They made all the difference. I was on the outside, trying not to get killed, while that freak Malcolm was on the inside, where I belonged.

At one point I heard someone shout, “Hey, look at Chad.”

I glanced over and saw Anthony with a couple of his friends. None of them was close to being able to walk a straight line. Malcolm ignored him. I'd noticed he didn't pick any vics who were too far gone. I ignored Anthony, too. Unfortunately, he didn't ignore me. “Wow, Bozo's ball boy,” he said. “Ballzo!” He cackled at his great wit. “Yeah, Ballzo.”

They moved on, and all I could do was hope that he was so stoned he'd forget the nickname before he had a chance to spread it around. I couldn't go through the rest of high school as Ballzo. I'd be getting into fights every day.

All in all, it was absolutely the most awful two hours I'd ever spent in my life, not counting the time when I was seven and came down with a stomach virus in the middle of a class trip to the Philadelphia Zoo. Maybe this was worse. Malcolm worked the crowd the whole time, never letting up. He had players coming one right after another. I didn't get any chance to rest. The two times Bob sent me for food, I had to run both ways so I wouldn't fall too far behind. The only thing that saved me from dying was that it was still early in the season. The action started to drop off around nine. If I'd had to go much longer, I never would have made it out of there alive.

“You can knock off now if you want, kid,” Bob said when the pace had slowed enough so he could handle it.

I nodded, too tired to even talk.

Malcolm still didn't let up. “Wow. I had no idea lizards could walk so well on two legs,” he called to a mark.

Bob reached into his change apron and pulled out a thick bundle of cash. “Let's see. You worked two hours. Minus the rental fee for the bucket and the towel. And union dues, of course.”

“What?”

“Relax, kid. I'm just playing with your mind,” He riffled the money with his thumb, then pulled off a couple bills and jammed them in the pocket of my pants.

“Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow, same time?” He turned away from me to do business with Malcolm's latest vic.

I tried to think of the best way to tell him I was quitting.

Bob handed the player three balls, glanced back at me, and said, “I have to admit, you told the truth. You're a hard worker. Good to know I can count on you.” He slapped me on the back, then gave me a shove. “Go on. Run around. Have fun. Go do whatever it is you kids do these days.”

I staggered away, propelled by his shove. My pants were soaked all the way up to my knees, and my socks were so wet they squished with each step. All the pains merged into one giant ache. I managed to drag myself a couple blocks. Then I dropped onto a bench that faced out toward the water. All around me, the lights kept flashing, the rides kept running, the people kept walking and playing and spending. But my mind had nearly shut down. Numb and exhausted, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the money, wondering how badly Bob had ripped me off.

T
HE FIRST BILL WAS A TEN
. T
HE SECOND WAS A TWENTY
. B
OTH
were stained with mustard, but I didn't care. Even the little piece of dried sauerkraut didn't bother me. Thirty dollars for two hours of work. I stared at the bills for a moment. Then I remembered where I was and jammed the money deep into my pants pocket. Anybody flashing around cash was asking for trouble. You never knew who was in the crowd. It just took one person who was desperate enough, or wasted enough, and someone would get hurt.

As if I wasn't already hurting. I got up and staggered toward home. When I reached the ramp for my block, I plopped down on another bench and put my feet up on the railing. I took a deep breath of the night air, heavy with the scent of salt and kelp. Man, it felt good to sit back. At least it did until somebody threw a choke hold around my neck.

I panicked as the arm slipped under my chin and tightened against my throat, pinning my back to the bench. “You know what I want,” my attacker whispered, his hot breath washing across my ear. The grip grew tighter, threatening to crush my windpipe. “I want your priceless collection of dirty socks.”

I relaxed as I recognized Jason's voice. He released my neck and plopped down next to me.

“I thought you'd gone home to die,” I said.

He shook his head. “I'm great. All I needed was some sleep. Now, you, on the other hand, look like someone who's not going to be around for long. What'd you do, ride the coasters all night?”

“No such luck.” I told him about my evening's work.

After I was done, all he said was, “Wow, thirty bucks. Good deal. Run the numbers, man. You can make over two hundred a week, if he keeps paying you that much. Of course, maybe part of that was like a first-day bonus. Even so, looks like you found a gold mine. Or a golden goose. Or whatever.”

I shook my head. “No way. I can't do it.”

“California,” Jason said. “Close your eyes and imagine the beach. Imagine a place where it never snows. You know how many colleges there are near there? And that means lots of college girls. You gotta stick with it.”

“Can't,” I said. It was more than the aches and pains. It killed me to spend all that time listening to Malcolm, watching him work and knowing he wasn't going to invite me to trade places.
Come on, Chad, hop right in. The water's fine
. Yeah, right.

“Santa Monica,” Jason said. “There's a pier. Rides. Games. Food. They have tournaments all the time. I can make big money out there. We'll buy an arcade with my volleyball winnings.”

“Home,” I said, getting up from the bench. “It has a bed, blankets, and a pillow. No college girls, but nothing's perfect.” I staggered a couple steps and tried not to groan. My muscles were already growing stiff.

“Wow, you really are hurting,” Jason said. “Let me help.” He bent down, threw an arm around my back, and lifted me onto his shoulder.

“Knock it off!” I yelled as the world turned upside down. “I can walk.”

I could feel Jason shake his head. “Nope. What are friends for?” He jogged toward the ramp. “I can't let you down.”

Naturally, people stared at us as we left the boardwalk. I hated that. They probably thought I was wasted. At least they didn't stare too long or too hard. There was enough other stuff going on to catch their attention. Besides, people got carried off the boardwalk all the time.

Jason finally put me down after he'd lugged me a block. I looked carefully at his face. I was worried he'd pass out again. I weighed more than the boxes we'd carried this afternoon. As far as I could tell, he seemed fine. I guess whatever was wrong with him, it was over.

“Hey, you're bleeding,” Jason said. He pointed to my back.

“What?” I remembered getting banged and bruised, but not cut. “Where?” There didn't seem to be any sharp pains mixed in with the aches.

Jason leaned over and took a closer look. “No, wait.” I felt his finger press against my back. Then he rubbed his finger against his thumb. “Oh, yuck. It's ketchup. What were you doing? Rolling on the boardwalk?”

I thought about the shove Bob had given me. “Just about.” I left it at that and concentrated on hauling my sore body the remaining two and a half blocks.

“So,” Jason asked when we reached my house, “you're going to keep working there, aren't you?”

The thought made me shudder. “I don't think so.” But he was right about one thing. The money was great. And maybe I could talk Bob into giving me a chance in the tank. Besides, I thought, as I pushed down a twinge of guilt that threatened to enter the picture, if it was only two hours a night, it really didn't count as a job. So I wasn't going behind Mom's back.

“Say yes, man,” Jason urged.

“I don't know. Maybe.” The feel of the money came back to me. It was washed away as a jolt of pain ran through my elbow where I'd gotten clipped by a wild throw. “No. Definitely not. I'm done with it.”

“That's what I like about you, Chad. Once you make up your mind, you never change it—at least, not more than five or ten times a second.”

“No. I've made up my mind for sure. I quit.”

“And I suppose that's your final answer?”

“Yeah.” I started up the walkway to the porch.

“Careful,” Jason said. “Quitting can become a habit.”

Those words felt like a knife in my back. I spun around to face him. “You think I don't know that?” I shouted. “You think I need a lecture? Give me a break, okay?” Nobody could tell me anything I didn't know about quitting. I was the son of a world-champion quitter. And I sure didn't need anyone to remind me of that.

Jason took a step back. “Sorry. I didn't mean it that way.”

“I'm not like my dad,” I said. I remembered how he'd always wait until dinner to drop the news.
I quit that job today, Annie. Just didn't work out
. He'd list all the reasons, and Mom would sit, not saying anything, her face marked by sadness and worry as she slowly pulled her napkin apart. Then he'd eat his food like everything was just fine, and Mom would let her meal go untouched.

“Of course not,” Jason said.

I clenched my teeth, afraid that if I kept talking I'd say something rotten. And that would be stupid. The last thing I needed was to lose my best friend right at the start of summer.

“Hey, I hear the water's supposed to warm up tomorrow,” Jason said. “How about we hit the beach?”

I nodded and took a long, slow breath, trying to push the anger and frustration deep down where they wouldn't do any harm. “Sounds like a plan.” I dragged my aching bones inside.

I never thought a bed could feel so good. Especially not a convertible. But the instant my body touched the mattress, I was out. If I had dreams, I didn't even remember them. The world just switched off until Mom shook my shoulder.

“Going to sleep the whole day away?” she asked.

I squinted at the clock. Ten thirty. I guess Mom had stopped by between breakfast and lunch. “Maybe.” I put my head back down.

“You shouldn't waste the summer sleeping,” she said.

“How should I waste it, then?”

“Do things. Make new friends. Read some good books. Enjoy yourself.”

“Okay. I'll do that after breakfast.” I pushed my face deeper into the pillow.

Mom yanked the pillow out from under me and stripped off the pillowcase, which she tossed into a basket full of dirty clothes at the foot of the couch. “Don't forget to do the wash.”

“That sounds enjoyable. Maybe I'll make some new friends in the Laundromat.”

She bent over and gave me a kiss on the top of the head. “I'll see you after work.”

“Bye.”

I dozed for a while longer, putting off the moment when I'd actually find out what it felt like to move.

A knock on the door woke me. I rolled off the couch and got to my feet. Everything ached. I felt like I'd been beaten up by professional thugs. Or talented amateurs.

I managed to cross the room. On the other side of the door was the last person I wanted to see.

“Rent,” Malcolm said, handing me an envelope. He switched into a shaky old-lady voice. “Please don't send me out into the cold, Mr. Landlord.”

I walked over to the kitchen counter and wrote out a receipt, then went back and shoved it at him.

“You worked hard last night,” he said.

I didn't bother to answer. He was such a total jerk.

He switched to a funny voice, wiggling his eyebrows and flicking an imaginary cigar. “Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.”

I didn't laugh. No way I was going to be his audience. I wasn't some mark at the Bozo tank.

“Well, have a nice day.” He headed off.

After he left, I took a long, hot shower, ate, then carried the overloaded basket down the street to the Laundromat. At least it wasn't far. I didn't make any new friends. But I washed and dried the clothes. Right after I got home, I put on my bathing suit and called Jason. Then I turned the TV up loud to drown out the stupid voice that kept looping through my mind. . . .
It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. . . .
Not me. Not that job. I couldn't do it. I wanted to quit, but I didn't want to be a quitter. There had to be another way out.