wanted to hide behind the rest of us.
“First thing. You can call me Gary or Pops or come here you old sonofabitch, but I ain’t no schoolteacher, so can the mister. Second thing. I never want to see that fucking schoolboy hat on your head again. Third thing. The foul line is wherever I say the foul line is on any given night. I can do that because it’s in my myyyyynd.” He tapped one sunken, vein-gnarled temple to make this point perfectly clear, then waved at the prizes, the targets, and the counter where the conies—the rubes—laid down their mooch. “This is all in my myyyyynd. The shy is mental. Geddit?”
Ronnie didn’t, but he nodded vigorously.
“Now whip off that turdish-looking schoolboy hat. Get you a Joyland visor or a Howie the Happy Hound dogtop. Make it Job One.”
Ronnie whipped off his FSU lid with alacrity, and stuck it in his back pocket. Later that day—I believe within the hour—he replaced it with a Howie cap, known in the Talk as a dogtop. After three days of ribbing and being called greenie, he took his new dogtop out to the parking lot, found a nice greasy spot, and trompled it for a while. When he put it back on, it had the right look. Or almost. Ronnie Houston never got the complete right look; some people were just destined to be greenies forever. I remember Tom sidling up to him one day and suggesting that he needed to piss on it a little to give it that final touch that means so much. When he saw Ronnie was on the verge of taking him seriously, Tom backpedaled and said just soaking it in the Atlantic would achieve the same effect.
Meanwhile, Pops was surveying us.
“Speaking of good-looking ladies, I perceive we have one among us.”
Erin smiled modestly.
“Hollywood Girl, darlin?”
“That’s what Mr. Dean said I’d be doing, yes.”
“Then you want to go see Brenda Rafferty. She’s second-in-command around here, and she’s also the park Girl Mom. She’ll get you fitted up with one of those cute green dresses. Tell her you want yours extra-short.”
“The hell I will, you old lecher,” Erin said, and promptly joined him when he threw back his head and bellowed laughter.
“Pert! Sassy! Do I like it? I do! When you’re not snappin pix of the conies, you come on back to your Pops and I’ll find you something to do . . . but change out of the dress first. You don’t get grease or sawdust on it. Kapish?”
“Yes,” Erin said. She was all business again.
Pops Allen looked at his watch. “Park opens in one hour, kiddies, then you’ll learn while you earn. Start with the rides.” He pointed to us one by one, naming rides. I got the Carolina Spin, which pleased me. “Got time for a question or two, but no more’n that. Anybody got one or are you good to go?”
I raised my hand. He nodded at me and asked my name.
“Devin Jones, sir.”
“Call me sir again and you’re fired, lad.”
“Devin Jones, Pops.” I certainly wasn’t going to call him come here you old sonofoabitch, at least not yet. Maybe when we knew each other better.
“There you go,” he said, nodding. “What’s on your mind, Jonesy? Besides that foine head of red hair?”
“What’s carny-from-carny mean?”
“Means you’re like old man Easterbrook. His father worked the carny circuit back in the Dust Bowl days, and his grandfather worked it back when they had a fake Indian show featuring Big Chief Yowlatcha. ”
“You got to be kidding !” Tom exclaimed, almost exultantly.
Pops gave him a cool stare that settled Tom down—a thing not always easy to do. “Son, do you know what history is?”
“Uh . . . stuff that happened in the past?”
“Nope,” he said, tying on his canvas change-belt. “History is the collective and ancestral shit of the human race, a great big and ever-growin pile of crap. Right now we’re standin at the top of it, but pretty soon we’ll be buried under the doodoo of generations yet to come. That’s why your folks’ clothes look so funny in
“First thing. You can call me Gary or Pops or come here you old sonofabitch, but I ain’t no schoolteacher, so can the mister. Second thing. I never want to see that fucking schoolboy hat on your head again. Third thing. The foul line is wherever I say the foul line is on any given night. I can do that because it’s in my myyyyynd.” He tapped one sunken, vein-gnarled temple to make this point perfectly clear, then waved at the prizes, the targets, and the counter where the conies—the rubes—laid down their mooch. “This is all in my myyyyynd. The shy is mental. Geddit?”
Ronnie didn’t, but he nodded vigorously.
“Now whip off that turdish-looking schoolboy hat. Get you a Joyland visor or a Howie the Happy Hound dogtop. Make it Job One.”
Ronnie whipped off his FSU lid with alacrity, and stuck it in his back pocket. Later that day—I believe within the hour—he replaced it with a Howie cap, known in the Talk as a dogtop. After three days of ribbing and being called greenie, he took his new dogtop out to the parking lot, found a nice greasy spot, and trompled it for a while. When he put it back on, it had the right look. Or almost. Ronnie Houston never got the complete right look; some people were just destined to be greenies forever. I remember Tom sidling up to him one day and suggesting that he needed to piss on it a little to give it that final touch that means so much. When he saw Ronnie was on the verge of taking him seriously, Tom backpedaled and said just soaking it in the Atlantic would achieve the same effect.
Meanwhile, Pops was surveying us.
“Speaking of good-looking ladies, I perceive we have one among us.”
Erin smiled modestly.
“Hollywood Girl, darlin?”
“That’s what Mr. Dean said I’d be doing, yes.”
“Then you want to go see Brenda Rafferty. She’s second-in-command around here, and she’s also the park Girl Mom. She’ll get you fitted up with one of those cute green dresses. Tell her you want yours extra-short.”
“The hell I will, you old lecher,” Erin said, and promptly joined him when he threw back his head and bellowed laughter.
“Pert! Sassy! Do I like it? I do! When you’re not snappin pix of the conies, you come on back to your Pops and I’ll find you something to do . . . but change out of the dress first. You don’t get grease or sawdust on it. Kapish?”
“Yes,” Erin said. She was all business again.
Pops Allen looked at his watch. “Park opens in one hour, kiddies, then you’ll learn while you earn. Start with the rides.” He pointed to us one by one, naming rides. I got the Carolina Spin, which pleased me. “Got time for a question or two, but no more’n that. Anybody got one or are you good to go?”
I raised my hand. He nodded at me and asked my name.
“Devin Jones, sir.”
“Call me sir again and you’re fired, lad.”
“Devin Jones, Pops.” I certainly wasn’t going to call him come here you old sonofoabitch, at least not yet. Maybe when we knew each other better.
“There you go,” he said, nodding. “What’s on your mind, Jonesy? Besides that foine head of red hair?”
“What’s carny-from-carny mean?”
“Means you’re like old man Easterbrook. His father worked the carny circuit back in the Dust Bowl days, and his grandfather worked it back when they had a fake Indian show featuring Big Chief Yowlatcha. ”
“You got to be kidding !” Tom exclaimed, almost exultantly.
Pops gave him a cool stare that settled Tom down—a thing not always easy to do. “Son, do you know what history is?”
“Uh . . . stuff that happened in the past?”
“Nope,” he said, tying on his canvas change-belt. “History is the collective and ancestral shit of the human race, a great big and ever-growin pile of crap. Right now we’re standin at the top of it, but pretty soon we’ll be buried under the doodoo of generations yet to come. That’s why your folks’ clothes look so funny in
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