by David Lubar
“That’s the way,” the barker said. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”
Derek dropped the quarter in the slot. It hung for a second before being swallowed by the machine. There was a clunk, followed by the rumble of the nine balls rolling down toward Derek. He began to play. Derek winced as he got off to a bad start. The first shot was pretty poor. He took a breath and looked around. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to him. He rolled another lousy shot into the ten-point hole. Then he hit a thirty.
“Guess I needed to warm up,” he said, half to himself and half to the barker. His next couple of rolls weren’t bad. He hit a thirty and two forties, then rolled three balls in a row perfectly for fifties.
Twenty more, Derek thought, holding the last ball in his hand. He was at 280, more than enough for a small prize, but he knew it would be junk. An easy twenty points and he’d move up from totally worthless junk to worthless junk, or maybe even just plain old junk. Nice and easy, Derek thought as he swung the ball.
“COME-UH, COME-UH!”
Startled by the shout, Derek jerked his hand forward. The ball shot from his grip, bounced toward the targets, and plopped into the ten-point hole.
“A WINNER!” The man handed him a piece of green plastic. “Two-ninety. Small prize. Congratulations, kid. You’re a real champ.”
Derek turned the piece of plastic over in his hand and stared at it. “What’s this?”
“A bracelet. You can trade up for more prizes. Play again?”
Derek was about to answer when he was shoved aside. “I’ll try.” A kid—a big, ugly, mean-looking kid—barged in front of Derek and jammed a quarter in the slot with a grubby hand.
“Everyone’s a winner,” the barker said, smiling. “And you’re just in time for our scoring special.” He reached up and flipped over the sign that displayed the prize scores.
“But—” Derek stepped back. He couldn’t believe it—only 150 points for a small prize, and 200 for a medium. Forget it, he told himself. There’s always a trick. They never let you win anything good. He stepped back another pace but kept watching. The kid stunk. He rolled mostly twenties, with a couple of lucky thirties. He ended up with 200 points.
“We have a winner!” The barker handed the kid a small stuffed animal.
Derek shook his head. Some people had all the luck. There was no way he was going to wait around for another turn if he had to watch this kid win prizes. He decided to ride the Spin-a-Thon again. That was more his speed. It was scary—not because the ride was so rough, but because all the equipment in the carnival looked like it was within half an inch of breaking down. Every time he took a seat on that rusty old ride, Derek couldn’t help imagining the door flying open-or maybe the whole car just breaking off the shaft and hurtling through the air, carrying Derek like some medieval catapult boulder, rolling and tumbling as the crowd below screamed in panic. Yeah, the Spin-a-Thon sounded good.
The ride, as always, was uneventful. When Derek got off, he found himself walking past the skee ball booth again. The kid was still there. He was playing furiously, throwing ball after ball without pausing between shots. His shirt was soaked from the effort. Sweat dripped from his hair at the back of his neck. Sweat flew when he shook his head after each throw. A pile of stuffed animals lay at his feet.
Derek stopped to watch. “WINNER!” the barker shouted. “Medium prize,” he said. He handed the kid another stuffed animal. “Medium also wins a free play.” He reached down and pressed a button.
Derek heard the balls rolling out. Darn, he thought. That could have been me. If the kid got a free play each time he hit 200, he’d be playing forever. Derek would have loved another chance—especially with those easy scores. He knew he could hit 200 points. But the kid wasn’t going to move. He was just going to stand there and win all the prizes.
Derek looked around for something else to do. There was a wagon set back a bit past the skee ball. A large sign in faded letters proclaimed BOBO, THE MAN-EATING MONSTER!!!
Derek knew it would be a rip-off. It would be a guy in a gorilla suit, or a mechanical dummy covered with fur, or some other kind of trick. But he was getting bored, and admission probably only cost half a buck. Derek was willing to waste a couple of quarters. He walked up the ramp to the front of the wagon. There was nobody at the ticket window.
“Hello?” Derek tried to look past the bars. “Hello? Anybody here?” He waited a moment, then moved to the door that was next to the window. He was about to call again when he heard people arguing inside the wagon.
“He has to be fed,” the first voice said. It was a woman speaking.
“We fed him last week,” a man said. “It’s too soon. We can’t have a pattern.”
“Look, Charlie is already setting it up. Didn’t you see him flip the sign? Besides, nobody ever remembers. Bobo will see to that.”
“I wish I knew how Bobo did that,” the man said. “I still can’t believe the way the crowd forgets everything.”
“It’s not important how he does it,” the woman said. “What matters is if he doesn’t get fed, he might decide to change our deal. I wouldn’t want him thinking about us as dinner.”
“Okay,” the man said, “I guess you’re right. Let him loose.”
“Bobo,” the woman called. “Dinner time.” There was a rattling of chains, then a screech of animal joy.
Derek had heard enough. He started to back away from the door and down the ramp. He stumbled, tripping over the edge of a plank. Derek twisted his body as he fell, landing hard on his side.
“What was that?” he heard the woman ask.
“Doesn’t matter right now,” the man said. “Go get it, Bobo.”
Derek felt the ramp shake, thump-clunk, thump-clunk. Something big was coming out. Something large and mean and hungry. He jumped up. A sharp pain shot through his ankle, nearly dropping him again. Behind him, a huge creature was squeezing through the door. Derek saw brown, leathery hide with patches of black fur. A smell like dead meat wafted over him. He almost threw up.
People in the crowd were looking at the trailer. Some of them ran. Others just kept staring. Then Bobo burst out and everyone was running and screaming.
Derek tried to run, but the pain searing through his ankle was so bad he almost passed out. Behind him, Bobo stood erect. He was as tall as the wagon. Bobo, like some nightmare cross between an ape and a lizard, was coming after him.
Derek hobbled away from the trailer. Ahead, he saw the skee ball game. In the middle of all the panic, two people weren’t running. The kid was bending down to scoop up his stuffed animals. The barker was leaning against the side of the booth as if nothing special was happening.
The pain in Derek’s ankle felt worse than anything he could ever have imagined—worse than the time he hit the curb with his bike and flew off, sliding across the sidewalk on both knees. Worse than the time he’d slammed his finger in the car door. But the thought of being Bobo’s dinner was far worse than the pain that shot through his ankle. He pushed himself as much as he could without passing out.
Derek glanced back at the wagon. Bobo had clumped down to the bottom of the ramp. The creature shot a hungry look to either side, then stared straight at Derek. Bobo lurched toward him. Derek gritted his teeth and forced himself to go faster.
The kid, the one with all the stuffed animals, was right in Derek’s path. Derek tried to go around. The kid was still fumbling with the animals. He dropped one. Derek hobbled past him, fire running up his leg and exploding in his brain.
He took several agonizing steps, then looked back. The kid straightened up, but a couple of the stuffed animals fell from his arms. He bent down and grabbed one of his prizes. A few more tumbled out of his grip. He’d won more prizes than he could possibly hold.
“Run!” Derek shouted at him.
The kid raised his head briefly, his face blank and empty, then looked back at the ground and tried to gather more of his winnings. Bobo was right behind him. The carniv
al beast raised a claw and swiped. Stuffed animals flew in a shower.
Everything slowed down for Derek, as if he was watching someone else’s dream. A soft object struck his chest. He clutched at it. A woman was behind Bobo. She said several words to the barker. It might have been, “Good job, Charlie.”
“This one will hold him for a while,” Charlie might have said. “Atta boy, Bobo. Take him inside. Good Bobo.”
Around Derek, the crowd stopped running and screaming. The people stood for a moment, then shrugged or shook their heads and went back to their rides and games and food. After a while, Derek couldn’t even remember what everyone had been so excited about.
“How was the carnival?” Derek’s mom asked when he got home.
“Not bad.” He limped into the living room.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
Hurt myself? Derek realized he must have twisted his ankle coming up the stairs. “I’m okay.”
“Did you win that?” his mom asked.
Derek looked at the stuffed animal he was gripping. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“They sure are giving away ugly prizes,” his mom said.
Derek examined the animal. It was such a piece of junk, he couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be. Maybe it was a gorilla. It might even have been a lizard. It certainly didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen before. Well, he thought as he carried his prize up to his room, at least I won something.
A LITTLE OFF THE TOP
Ryan checked his pocket to make sure he hadn’t lost the money his mother had given him. It was still there. He hesitated at the door of the barbershop, wondering whether he could come up with any good excuse for skip-ping the whole unpleasant experience. Nothing came to mind. Best just to get it over with, he thought as he stepped inside. Life would be a lot easier if hair didn’t grow so quickly. Ryan didn’t like any part of going to the barbershop. He didn’t like waiting for his turn, and he didn’t like sitting in the chair, and he didn’t like having his head moved and turned and twisted as Mr. Garafolo snipped at his hair.
“I’m here for my usual,” Ryan said.
Mr. Garafolo turned toward Ryan. But it wasn’t Mr. Garafolo—it was a different man. He was dressed the same, with the white shirt and black pants, and he held a pair of scissors in his hand, but he was not Mr. Garafolo. The barber rotated the empty chair toward Ryan. “Step right up.”
“Uh, where’s Mr. Garafolo?” Ryan asked.
“Tony’s unavailable,” the man said. “I’m his cousin, Vince Sweeny. Come on, you’ll like the way I cut hair. You’ll leave here with a big smile. You’ll be grinning from ear to ear. I promise.”
Ryan noticed there were no other customers in the shop. He wondered if this barber had scared them off by giving someone a bad haircut. “Maybe I should come back later …”
“No, no. Come on. Tony would want it this way,” Mr. Sweeny said, pointing to the chair with his scissors. “Please.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. He noticed the way the hair clippings scattered in the breeze his feet made as they clomped on the old linoleum. It almost seemed as if the clippings were running from him.
Ryan climbed into the chair. The barber draped a large cloth over him and tied it around his neck. Ryan didn’t know why barbers bothered with that sheet—the hairs always managed to sneak through and make him itch for hours after getting a cut.
“Now,” the barber said, “how would you like it? Short? Medium? Are you one of those kids with the short top and long sides? You tell me.”
“Short is good,” Ryan said. He looked down at the cloth. There was a stain. It was dark red, almost brown. He stared at the splotch, wondering if it was blood.
Suddenly, hands grabbed his head and bent it back.
“Ah, that’s better,” the barber said. “Keep your head nice and straight. You don’t want to wiggle around.”
“Sorry,” Ryan said.
The barber started snipping away at Ryan’s head. Bits of hair went flying. Bits of hair, somehow, got through the collar. The barber pushed Ryan’s head forward. Ryan raised his eyes and looked into the mirror. There was a door at the back of the shop, leading to a storage room. In the reflection of the rear wall, a foot stuck out on the floor by the door. A foot? Ryan started to turn his head.
“Sit still,” the barber said, clamping his hands on Ryan’s head and twisting it away from the mirror. “Keep still. I wouldn’t want to cut you.” The hand held hard and firm for a moment, then let go. “That’s a good boy.”
Ryan swallowed, trying not to move his head at all. Who was this man? Ryan realized he didn’t know anything about the person who was standing behind him with the sharp, pointed scissors. He didn’t even know for sure if the man was Mr. Garafolo’s cousin, or if he was a real barber. He glanced at the cash register. The drawer was half open.
Maybe the man wasn’t a barber at all.
Shifting his eyes far to the right, Ryan could just see the image in the mirror. For sure, it was a foot—there was a black shoe and the edge of a black pants cuff, like the black pants the barber wore. Like the black pants Mr. Garafolo wore.
The scissors moved close to his ear, making tiny snips. “Where did you say Mr. Garafolo was?” Ryan asked.
Snip!
Ryan jumped as the scissors took off a large hunk of hair right next to his ear.
“Easy, don’t jump. You want to lose your ear?” The barber put his hand on Ryan’s head again. He kept snipping, but he didn’t answer Ryan’s question.
Ryan clenched his fists under the sheet and closed his eyes.
“Relax,” the barber said. “You’ll be finished soon.”
Ryan took a deep breath. It didn’t help. There was no way he could relax, not with a body in the back room and this cold-blooded killer standing behind him.
“Just another snip, then a little touch-up with the razor,” the barber said.
Razor? Ryan grabbed the arms of the chair and opened his eyes.
He flinched as the barber slapped shaving cream on the back of his neck. It felt warm and wet. Ryan could almost imagine that it was blood. He looked down at the splotch on the sheet again. There was a scritch-scratch sound as the barber sharpened the razor on the strop hanging from the chair.
From the corner of his eye, Ryan caught sight of motion in the mirror. The foot was twitching—he was sure of it. Then, from the room, he heard a scream, “Eeeeooowwwwerrr!”
Ryan ripped the sheet from his neck, jumped from the chair, and spun to face the barber.
“Hey, careful!” The barber threw his hand up, the razor gleaming as bits of lather flew into the air. “This thing is sharp. It could take your head right off.”
Ryan tried to run but his feet tangled in the sheet. He hit the ground. There was another awful scream from the next room, “Eeeeoooowwwaaggghhh.”
Lying on his side, tangled in the sheet, Ryan saw the foot move. It pulled back into the room. Ryan looked up. Mr. Garafolo stumbled out from the back room. Ryan expected to see him grab his throat and fall to the floor. But the barber was just stretching and yawning, making a sound like “Eeeeoooowwarrgleee.”
Mr. Garafolo glanced at the empty chair. Then he stared at the floor. “Ryan. What’s the matter? You don’t like the way Vince cuts hair?”
“Uh …” Ryan untangled himself from the sheet, stood up, and plopped into the chair. “He does a great job.”
“You’re a nice boy, Ryan,” Mr. Garafolo said, “but you are a little jumpy. Try to relax. You’ll live longer.” He turned to Vince and said, “Thanks for letting me take a nap. The doctor was right—my back feels a lot better when I sleep on a hard floor. You can go now. I’ll finish Ryan.”
Finish me? Ryan thought. He started to leap from the chair again.
“Calm down,” Mr. Garafolo said, clamping a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “This is supposed to be a pleasure.”
Ryan tried not to flinch as the razor scraped across the back of his neck.
“Okay,” Mr. Garafolo said a minute later. “All done.”
Ryan paid Mr. Garafolo and walked out of the shop. “Come back soon,” he heard Mr. Garafolo call as the door closed behind him.
Ryan took a deep breath. It felt great to be standing in the bright sun and fresh air.
What a perfect day, Ryan thought as he walked down the street. It would be a perfect and wonderful and stunningly great day, except for one small thing. Now that he was done with the barber, it was time for his appointment at the dentist. Running his hand through his hair and gritting his teeth, Ryan headed across town.
THE SLIDE
Kay plopped down on the bench at the edge of the playground and set Tommy loose. “Go play,” she said as she took a can of soda out of her backpack. “Have fun. Don’t get hurt.” She watched him scurry off to the monkey bars. All around, she saw little kids having mindless fun, running and laughing and squealing like upright pigs.
“Unbelievable,” Kay said to herself.
She had dragged Tommy all around town, then just picked a direction and started walking, hoping he would be exhausted enough to sleep most of the afternoon once she got him back to his house. If he slept, she’d be free to hang out and watch TV.
But she couldn’t take him home for another hour. His mother had explained that she needed her personal time each morning. Kay had to keep Tommy out of the house until noon. It was part of her job.
Kay hated playgrounds, but she got paid the same cheap baby-sitting rate whether she read to the little creature or played with him or just set him loose to romp and frolic. She saw no point working herself ragged for a couple of dollars an hour.
