just a Sunday drive to the two best rocket jockeys in the universe.”
Or they’d be on their way into World of the Giants, and Tod would throw
his arm around Jeremy’s shoulder and say, “The two best rocket jockeys
in the universe can handle a fucking giant, can’t we, bro?”
Jeremy wanted to say, ‘you jerk, the only reason we’re friends is
because your old man and mine are sort of in the same kind of work, so
we got thrown together. I hate this a-around-the shoulders shit, so
just knock it off lets have some laughs and be happy with that.
Okay?
But he did not say anything of the sort because, of course, good players
in lite never admitted that they knew it was all just a game.
If you let the other players see you didn’t care about the rules and
regulations, they wouldn’t let you play. Go to Jail. Go directly to
Jail. Don’t pass Go. Don’t have any fun.
By seven o’clock that evening, after they had eaten enough junk food to
produce radically interesting vomit if they really did decide to puke on
anyone, Jeremy was so tired of the rocket jockey crap and so irritated
by Tod’s friendship rap, that he couldn’t wait for ten o’clock to roll
around and Mrs. Ledderbeck to pull up to the gate in her station wagon.
They were on the Millipede, blasting through one of the pitch-black
sections of the ride, when Tod made one too many references to the two
best rocket jockeys in the universe, and Jeremy decided to kill him.
The instant the thought flashed through his mind, he knew he had to
murder his “best friend.” It felt so right. If life was a game with a
zillion-page book of rules, it wasn’t going to be a whole hell of a lot
of fun-unless you found ways to break the rules and still be allowed to
play. Any game was a bore if you played by the rules-Monopoly, 500
rummy, baseball. But if you stole bases, filched cards without getting
caught, or changed the numbers on the dice when the other guy was
distracted, a dull game could be a kick.
And in the game of life, getting away with murder was the biggest kick
of all.
When the Millipede shrieked to a halt at the debarkation platform,
Jeremy said, “Let’s do it again.”
“Sure,” Tod said.
They hurried along the exit corridor, in a rush to get outside and into
line again. The park had filled up during the day, and the wait to
board any ride was now at least twenty minutes.
When they came out of the Millipede pavillion, the sky was black in the
east, deep blue overhead, and orange in the west. Twilight came sooner
and lasted longer at Fantasy World than in the western part of the
county, because between the park and the distant sea rose ranks of high,
sun-swallowing hills. Those ridges were now black silhouettes against
the orange heavens, like Halloween decorations out of season.
Fantasy World had taken on a new, manic quality with the approach of
night. Christmas-style lights outlined the rides and buildings. White
twinkle lights lent a festive sparkle to all the trees, while a pair of
unsynchronized spotlights swooped back and forth across the snow-covered
peak of the manmade Big Foot Mountain. On every side neon glowed in all
the hues that neon offered, and out on Mars Island, bursts of brightly
colored laser beams shot randomly into the darkening sky as if fending
off a spaceship attack. Scented with popcorn and roasted peanuts, a
warm breeze snapped garlands of pennants overhead.
Music of every period and type leaked out of the pavilions, and
rock-‘n’-roll boomed from the open air dance floor at the south end of
the park, and from somewhere else came the bouncy strains of Big Band
swing. People laughed and chattered excitedly, and on the thrill rides
they were screaming, screaming.
“Evil this time,” Jeremy said as he and Tod sprinted to the end of the
Millipede boarding line.
“Yeah,” Tod said. The Millipede was essentially an indoor roller
coaster, like Space Mountain at Disneyland, except instead of shooting