Joytime Killbox Read online

  JOYTIME KILLBOX

  JOYTIME KILLBOX

  STORIES

  BRIAN WOOD

  AMERICAN READER SERIES, NO. 33

  BOA EDITIONS, LTD. • ROCHESTER, NY • 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Brian Wood

  All rights reserved

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  19 20 21 22 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For information about permission to reuse any material from this book, please contact The Permissions Company at www.permissionscompany.com or e-mail [email protected].

  Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.—a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Code—are made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; and the County of Monroe, NY. Private funding sources include the Max and Marian Farash Charitable Foundation; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak, and Dan Amzalak; the LGBT Fund of Greater Rochester; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on page 132 for special individual acknowledgments.

  Cover Design: Sandy Knight

  Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

  BOA Logo: Mirko

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wood, Brian, 1982– author.

  Title: Joytime killbox : stories / Brian Wood.

  Description: First edition. | Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, Ltd., 2019. |

  Series: American reader series no. 33 |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019021033 | ISBN 9781942683919 (paperback) | ISBN 9781942683926 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3623.O6234 A6 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019021033

  BOA Editions, Ltd.

  250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306

  Rochester, NY 14607

  www.boaeditions.org

  A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (1938–1996)

  For Katie

  CONTENTS

  I

  STRANGERS

  What to Say to a Child in the Speedway Bathroom

  Joytime Killbox

  Fallen Timbers

  II

  FRIENDS

  USS Flagg

  Beasts of Flight

  Diary of a Bad Afternoon

  III

  LOVERS

  My Roberta

  Blockbuster

  Rough Air

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Colophon

  I

  STRANGERS

  WHAT TO SAY TO A CHILD IN THE SPEEDWAY BATHROOM

  I was midstream when this kid took the urinal on my right. There were three empty spaces, but he bellied up right next to me. Something about him, about having him so close to me there, made me uneasy. And I did not like feeling that way in the bathroom.

  He was a little guy, no more than four or five by the looks of him. His waist barely topped the urinal. When he got there he rolled his pants and underwear all the way to the floor. He pulled up his shirt and tucked it under his chin. Half-naked, he leaned back and held himself. He looked like a cherub arching a stream into a fountain. But after he finished he didn’t get dressed. He stood there with his dungarees bunched around his shoes and seemed happy enough to stare at me while I went. I began to wonder where his parents were. Somebody should have been here looking after him, keeping him from behaving like this.

  The boy tweaked his brow. He looked at me like he was the first person to discover fire, as if this encounter had changed his view of the world. Eyes all wide. His mouth amazed at the sight of the unthinkable. I tried to lean away from him but there was no escaping without hitting the floor.

  Those big boy eyes. They made me want to scold him. I mean, I really wanted to set him right. But it was just me and the half-naked boy in the restroom, and I wasn’t sure what I was allowed to say. That’s how it goes these days. This what-can-I-say-here feeling cripples me more than I’d like to admit.

  Sometimes, like when I’m at the grocery store, it’ll bear down on me. I’ll be standing in the baking aisle looking at the bags of sugar or something, and it’s pretty obvious I’m making up my mind, when an old lady slides her cart in front of me. She even glances at me over her shoulder. “Lady,” I want to tell her. “You can’t just park in front of people.” But then I wonder if it even matters. She’s probably been doing it for years. And it’s not like it kills me if I sit there a moment. So I end up waiting, this vacant look on my face, as I watch her calculate which bag of sugar is the best deal. And as I gaze down the aisle I feel some strange kind of weight pressing in, like the world is too full for manners anymore.

  I wasn’t going to talk to the boy. But I had to do something. I could feel him breathing on it. So I gave myself two exaggerated shakes before zipping up. That’s how you do it, I said without saying it. He looked down and wiggled. He tugged on his pants and his chubby fingers wiped at his thighs. Good enough. I made sure he was looking before I took a step back and flushed. The boy watched but didn’t move. I cleared my throat. He startled but kept his eyes on me. I bent my head toward the handle of the urinal. I cleared my throat again.

  The boy rocked to his toes. Best as he could, he stretched for the handle. He huffed through his nose and tried again. There was a resolve in this boy that I was beginning to like. The kid was determined. I could see his mind working as he looked up at the handle. He bit his lip and clasped onto the rim of the urinal. The sight of him cleaving barehanded to that filthy toilet made my neck sweat. He hoisted himself up to the flusher. He tugged the lever and the water sprayed on his body. The boy jumped back in delight. He clapped his hands as if he’d just ridden a slide and was ready for more.

  Before he could go again I grabbed him under his arms. His shirt was soaked with toilet water. I took him to the sink and I brought my knee under him just as my father had done with me. He sat on my thigh and leaned for the faucet. “Don’t touch,” I told him. “Soap them up. Here, like this.” I guided his hands to the dispenser. I turned on the water and cupped it in his palms. As I showed him how to rub his hands together, he watched me in the mirror. “Perfect. Just like that,” I said. “Front and back. Bubbles all over.” We rinsed our hands and I showed him where to throw his paper towel. Then I knelt down and cleaned the water from his face. I dabbed his shirt dry. “There you go. All set.”

  He looked down at his shirt, pulled at it with his fingers, then looked up at me. His eyes were bigger than before. Now full and earnest. And I thought he might want to tell me thanks but wasn’t sure how.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault.” I stood and the boy jerked backwards. He held his thumb with his hand and he pulled his arms close to his belly. I spoke to him with a tone that would calm a horse. “Listen,” I said. “You need to learn this. You can’t stare. Not in the bathroom. Not here.” I waved my hand in the vicinity of my groin. He stood there holding his thumb. “This is private. You need to respect that. Okay, champ? Got it?” I’m not sure why, perhaps my little league coach had done it to me, but I reached out and scuffed his hair. This touch jolted something in the boy. He looked at me like a snared animal. Eyes glazed with fear, a rope of spit hanging from his teeth. The start of a scream wavered in his throat.

  “No, no,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything. There’s no need for that.”

  The boy hollered. The veins on his temple flooded and he bolted for the door. Even after he vanished, his cry rang off the tiles.
>
  I didn’t move. I could hear the boy sobbing outside. In two deliberate syllables he yelled Stranger! over and over like a car alarm. A woman asked him what was wrong. I heard her voice plunge with concern. She begged the child to tell her what happened in there.

  What could I say? I touched him. I was only cleaning the boy. I was showing him how it’s done.

  Nothing sounded right. So I planted myself in front of the sink. I straightened my shirt in the mirror and I swept the hair from my face. I was relieved to be there alone. But the moment was dashed by a rumble at the door. His mother called for me to come out and by god she’d have it. But I didn’t answer. As she wailed at the door I stared deeper into my face. I thought of that old lady at the grocery. Acting all sweet and brittle. The nerve she had, wedging her way in front of me to buy a bag of sugar.

  JOYTIME KILLBOX

  His Joytime Ambassador highlighted several lines of the contract. As he explained each section he pointed to them with the cap of his marker.

  “In the unlikely event of death Joytime Entertainment LLC is in no way responsible or liable. By initialing here, here, and here,” he slid the contract across the desk, “you hereby waive all rights for legal action and forfeit all rights to financial gain.”

  He was good at this legal kind of speak. The way he glossed over it all reminded Gregory of the way an announcer would blur through the contest details at the end of a radio commercial. Gregory’s Joytime Ambassador looked the part too. White short sleeve shirt. A thick tie loose on his neck. The smell of burnt coffee on his breath.

  Gregory moved his finger down each line of the contract before saying, “And life insurance?”

  “Waived.”

  “What about burial costs?”

  “If you’d let me finish before you asked questions.”

  “Of course.” Gregory slunk back in the chair. “Sorry.”

  The Joytime Ambassador waited for him to sit still before he continued. He adjusted his glasses and read from the binder. “For an additional $10.95 we can offer you a burial rider. Our burial rider provides full clean-up, removal, and rites for your body, regardless of religious or cult affiliation,” his voice lowered, “in the unlikely event of death.”

  “Cults?” Gregory said.

  “We get all kinds.” The Joytime Ambassador took a sip from an exceptionally small styrofoam cup. “Let’s see.” He wiped between his lips with the side of his hand. “This covers up to but not exceeding six thousand in burial fees, including disposal tax, stationery, and program fees. However this does exclude all florals, parlor rentals, and makeup fees—as the mode of death will most certainly prevent viewings of any kind. Would you like to ensure the financial security of your loved ones by signing up for our burial rider?” The Joytime Ambassador looked up from his binder. His eyes fixed on Gregory’s. He already knew what Gregory would say but was legally obligated to wait for him to find the words himself. The Ambassador tapped his marker on the desk.

  “No,” Gregory said.

  “Excellent.”

  “Unless you think it’ll, you know, go off.”

  The Ambassador exhaled slow and loud enough to steal Gregory’s attention. “It’s been a while. But it is a Joytime year.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And between you and me, there’s not much to bury if it does.” Gregory swallowed. “I think I should get it. I mean, not for me, but just in case.”

  “Sure, yeah, here,” the Ambassador said. He slid his pen across the table. “Check that box before you sign.” He took another sip from his coffee. “I’ll need your card again.”

  Along the outside of the building Gregory waited. It had been an hour, and somehow after all that time, he still seemed to be in the back of the line. Even in this, the Joytime Killbox held a kind of magic for Gregory. As each person entered the warehouse and he took another step toward the threshold of riding, an incremental growth of anticipation burrowed into his gut. He watched another man disappear behind the door. By his count the total ride time was no more than sixty seconds. About forty seconds to get situated in the box and the rest of the way with the light on. He counted the people in line as he took another step forward. Just a few more minutes now. Gregory forced himself to swallow. He couldn’t get his breakfast to settle. And although he had already gone, he felt a ceaseless urge to go to the bathroom. Nerves, he thought. Nothing but anxiety. It’ll pass.

  In front of him was a little girl and an old man. The girl wore a Catholic school girl’s uniform and her book bag sheathed her from her shoulder to thighs. As far as he knew the two had not spoken to each other and he assumed they had not come here together. Of course they hadn’t. Riding the Killbox, Gregory couldn’t think of a more inappropriate outing for a grandfather and granddaughter. But there was something unnerving about seeing the young girl. He had heard reports of the volume of youth who had been riding. But from the comfort of his living room chair he had shrugged it off as kids looking for a thrill. Seeing it in the flesh was different. It filled Gregory with a deep, parental fear.

  “Is this your first time?” he said.

  She looked up at him but said nothing.

  Gregory buried his nerves. He feigned a confidence he usually reserved for a job interview. A dumb smile pulled at his face. “Have you done this before?”

  She leaned her head to remove something from her ear. “Me?”

  “I was asking—”

  “I heard you.” She put the earpiece back in her head.

  “You should relax a little. Stop acting like it’s your first time.”

  “Sorry. I was only being polite.”

  “Look down the line. See the focus? See them talking? No. They’re getting prepped to ride. Only first timers get all chatty in line. ‘What’s it like? Is it scary?’”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m a kid. I’m not stupid.” She folded her arms as if she was playing dress-up, reenacting a gesture she saw on television.

  “Excuse me. Where’s that come from?”

  “Just chill and get ready for the light.”

  “You’re the one that needs to chill. I’m ready. You just chill.”

  “Go troll a chat room. You’re not ready for the Killbox.” The girl turned toward the entrance. She swiped at her phone and Gregory could hear the crackle of music pulse from her head. He knew she wanted their conversation to end. And it was best not to agitate such an energetic youth. But Gregory couldn’t let it rest. How could she know he wasn’t ready? A child. He leaned in and spoke loud. “Listen. I wouldn’t have come here by myself if I wasn’t.”

  She dismissed him with an exhale and focused on her phone. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

  “I’ve read plenty.”

  “Well, I’ve ridden it. So there’s that.”

  “Was that so hard? Why are you so upset?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Look out. The line’s moving. Get ready to die. We’re going to die now.”

  Gregory tried to laugh but only a strange grunt escaped his throat. “Right. It’s unlikely.”

  “And still somebody wins the lottery. You bought that stupid rider, didn’t you?”

  “Please.”

  “From here we’re about,” she pointed at the door with her phone, “twenty minutes out. Which means you’ve got cotton mouth and sweat soaking into your pants. Which is weird because it’s so unlikely anything will happen.”

  The old man next to her put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. He was a thin, dapper man who cast a pole of a shadow on the pavement. His fingers arched like spider legs. She shrugged off his hand. “Gross. Creeper.”

  “Be kind,” the old man said. His voice was weak but still carried with it a grave authority. “It was once your first time too.” He glanced at Gregory. “Why don’t you trade me places? I’m in no hurry.” He ushered the girl in front of him. “I do apologize.”

  “It’s best I get hip to it,” Gregory said. “They’
ll run it all soon enough.”

  The old man gave a single nod. He adjusted the sleeves of his tweed jacket. It was a beautiful coat from a lost decade. Wide peak lapels with a matching vest underneath, a period piece fit for waiting on a locomotive platform or the clubhouse of a horse track. It wouldn’t have surprised Gregory to find the chain of a pocket watch drooping from his vest.

  “My father’s favorite suit was just like that when I was growing up,” Gregory said. “Said it brought him luck. He was married and buried in it.” The old man briefly met eyes with him, and it occurred to Gregory that he may have crossed a line. The man himself was close to death. But beyond that Gregory considered that mentioning death was taboo here. He quickly backed out of it. “I mean he didn’t go out, not anything like this.” His hand wheeled the air. “All natural. Nothing that could be helped, really.”

  “My condolences.”

  “It was long ago.”

  “But she was right. You ought to prepare yourself now.” He extended a finger toward the door. “Many find it difficult to take an inventory of things inside.”

  Another entered and they shuffled closer to the door. Before it closed Gregory caught what he believed to be the trailing echo of a woman’s scream. He tried to take a breath but found his lungs bricked over. He did not want to be there. But he did not want to leave the line in front of all these strangers.

  If he weren’t so terrified, Gregory might have been amazed at the simplicity of the Killbox. This phenomenon, which had shrouded the city in the mystery of terror, could have been assembled in his garage. The box sat atop a pedestal like a prized jewel. No matter where you stood there was a clean view. The walls and ceiling were formed from clear acrylic sheets, the corners caulked with a clear silicone. It was formed into a perfect cube, just tall enough for an average man to stand inside. With arms extended, one could easily touch all four walls and the ceiling. Inside, a single chair was bolted to the floor facing a square tile on the opposite wall. It appeared as if one was to sit in the chair and stare at the dark reflective square. The tile was attached to a black box that protruded about a yard, it seemed to him, outside the wall of the Killbox. From the black box, a coil of black wires twisted out of sight into the rafters. The long line of riders circled in toward the Killbox. No cry or twisted face deterred them. They were drawn quietly to the center of the warehouse.