Joyland Ch. 2

She decided that to demystify Stanley Kouchet to any degree would be more torturous than to never quite comprehend him. A week passed, then two; she did not ask about Stanley, nor did she attempt to see him. She listened, a fly on the wall, to the copious amounts of gossip that went hand-in-hand with a largely teenage-based staff. She heard personality options; he was gay, he was a womanizer, he told numerous bad jokes. Then there were conspiracy theories: he was a spy for the owner, he was the owner, he was an alien scout of sorts. Of course, the silliest rumors passed like bones between the teeth of the wolf, savory though almost shapeless.
         Such things did, however, make her paranoid. He could be the owner. It would make sense. Nobody had ever actually seen said owner and Stanley evidently had keys to the grounds. It seemed unlikely so young should own and operate a relatively successful business as Joyland—but it was the only explanation that sat well within her stomach.
         Her days as an employee at Joyland passed more slowly as the summer grew hotter. The heavy polo shirt was her biggest burden; whenever she knew that Stanley was on the Ferris wheel and far out of sigh, she would take it off to work without the stifling heat of the thick material.
Stephanie tried to avoid doing this whenever she was anywhere near Lucas. It wasn’t that he stared; he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. Her feeling was more so one of extreme guilt when he looked at her with the adoration of a long-time lover. Any other summer, she’d jump at the chance to develop a relationship with someone as attractive, available, and interested as he was.
But there were other things on her mind this summer. Something fresh and forbidden, sweet on just the tip of her tongue because she could not yet roll it around her mouth to savor the taste.
The sun set most nights before nine o’clock. This night was no different; the temperature had remained a stifling ninety-seven degrees and there were no stars in the sky, no moon or light other than that of the artificially bright colors of the Ferris wheel and the rest of the rides. She pinched the collar of her wife beater and tugged on it, hoping to allow at least temporary air circulation against her sweating skin. She walked along the short pathway which led from the public area of the park to the worker’s lodge, pulling her hair into a ponytail and fanning herself with her hand.
Her strongest emotion upon seeing Stanley waiting for her at the end of the path was that of surprise, followed shortly by shame. She probably should have been more afraid that a strange man was waiting for her in the dark after her shift, but there was a certain charisma in his eyes that made him completely benevolent.
“Hello,” he said—though to her, labeling the noise that pirouetted from his lips as mere “speech” was an insult to any god who may have created him. Even in two syllables, his voice behaved melodically, as if in song.
“Hi,” she said, stepping past him into the lodge and flipping on the light. The worker’s lodge was like a small cabin and included a kitchen, bedroom, living room, and fully equipped bathroom. It was convenient for the workers—especially when they wanted to cool off in a manner other than taking a round on the Log Jam.
He followed her into the lodge, but did not close the door. She sat down on the couch and stared at his comforting smile.
“So am I fired?” she managed to shamefully mutter, turning her gaze to the ground. “I’m really sorry for taking the polo off. I know it’s inappropri--.”
He laughed softly, his voice bouncing like the brightly colored plastic balls of her childhood.
         “That’s what you guys think? That I’m the manager or something?”
         Her eyes lifted to watch him laugh. She noticed then for the first time that he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. His eyes were green; a perfect portrait of the summer leaves so rare in the concrete-covered haven of her workplace.
         “The owner,” she corrected dumbly.
         He grinned at her. “What else do they say about me?”
         “What are you doing here?” she ignored his question, her curiosity full and flaming.
         He raised his eyebrows, his smile dropping slightly as he thought.
         “Are you afraid of heights?”
         She was taken aback by his seemingly random question and stared at him blankly. His eyes seemed to never blink; his voice was eternally coaxing her like a guardian or a lover. Such a fine line existed between the two labels—with him, it was the hardest to define.
         “The Ferris wheel,” he elaborated.
         “Oh,” she said, standing up quickly. “I don’t know. I should get home.”
         Her heart protested her every word.
         “Just one revolution,” he wheedled. A revolution. The perfect word. What an appropriate one for the situation; she wanted to kiss this stranger, who stood tall and broad in front of her, green eyes and neatly swept dark hair, leaning on a cane and smiling at her in the most particular way.
         “I’ll go with you,” she said in the smallest voice, curling up like a little girl in his smile. He turned off the light and she followed him complacently, watching with fascination as he whistled and twirled his cane about.
         “Why do you carry that?” she asked, referring to the thick cane.
         “Why not?” was his chuckled reply.
         Everything on the Joyland grounds seemed bigger at night. The Whacky Shack, though only two stories high, seemed a looming mansion; the roller coaster more modern and massive. The loudness of the crowd had vanished, but the roar of the machines was ten times more potent.
         They paused at the gates. For a moment, she was terrified. She didn’t realize she was squeezing his arm until she felt his muscles tense under her grasp. He turned his head to look at her, unsmiling for the first time. Gently, he pulled his arm away.
         “You don’t have to,” he said.
         She was petrified of heights, but his voice thawed her. Her chest caged not a heart, but a feral animal, an obsessive beast. She only nodded at him in response, following him into the car and sitting on the side closest to the main metal brace of the wheel. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes as the ride began to move.
         “What’s your name?” he asked once the car had rotated twice. She opened her eyes, feeling only slight nausea as her body grew accustomed to the small degree of elevation.
         “Stephanie,” she responded, feeling his eyes on her cheek.
         “How unsuitable,” he lamented. “How plain.”
         She looked at him defensively, but saw that his grin was playful.
         “I’m Stanley.”
         “I know,” she said to him.
         She shuddered as the Ferris wheel rotated again.
         “So what else do you ‘know’ about me?” he asked.
         “Not until you tell me why you wanted to talk to me.”
         He grinned. “I asked you first.”
         She retorted, “my question is my more pertinent.”
         He closed his mouth, pursing his lips thoughtfully and dragging his teeth over his bottom lip.
         “I was waiting for someone else,” he said, and upon his face was a look of such pure earnest that she knew it was a quintessential moment of something too-good-to-be-true. His green eyes flickered with the flashing red, yellow, and blue lights of the Scrambler in front of them.
         “You’re lying,” she said, gauging the soft transformation to surprise in his face. She turned her eyes away and staring ahead at the laughing couples on the Scrambler. She felt his hand on her wrist and was about to glance at him in surprise when she felt the car lurch more violently than before and creak to life into the next position.
         “Always does that,” he said, meeting her gaze. She closed her eyes, felt her face grow hot as she leaned back in the car and grasped the lap bar.
         Two rotations later, they hadn’t spoken. She kept her eyes closed, but still felt his hot stare. She squirmed—a horrible habit. He was so undeniably beautiful, so smooth and graceful. She was humiliated by how terribly plain she was in comparison.
         “Look,” he said finally, breaking her self-depreciating thought pattern.
         She obeyed his command, her eyes following his finger.
         “This place is a national treasure. Look at their faces.”
         And she saw them. The UFO-shaped ride spun people in the air. Gravity pushed their backs to the walls, providing a pleasant sensation of an immobilized adrenaline rush. The ride spun so fast that, from where they were sitting at the peak of the Ferris wheel, the riders truly looked like an imprint of one single, smiling person.
         “When you come to a place like this,” he said, “you lose all identity. You’re just another teenager, just another Prozac mom, just another depressed, horny man. And really, none of them even know it. Because who really tries to look at themselves through the eyes of a stranger?”
         She shivered. His breath tickled her ear.
         “And sure, Lucas feeds them. Roman seats them. You give them change,” he smiled. “And gigantic stuffed dogs. But do you remember more than a handful of them?”
         It seemed a personal challenge to her. The slight upturn of the single-syllable word “you” carried with it a profound degree of eloquence that only he could produce.
         He grinned at her as she turned her body towards him.
         “How old are you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. He turned towards her as well, folding one long leg underneath his body.
         “Seventeen,” she replied, meeting his eyes as he shook her hand politely.
         “I’m nineteen. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stephanie,” he said with every drop of charm he could muster, and with perfect timing as the car rotated to the bottom and Roman lifted the lap bar.
         “Just one revolution,” he repeated; she couldn’t help but thinking that Stanley Kouchet was the beginning of her own personal revolution.