Joyland

But we rarely get what we imagine in this world, and the gal who answered my ring was tall, fiftyish, flat-chested, and as pale as a frosted windowpane. She carried an old-fashioned beanbag ashtray in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other. Her mousy brown hair had been done up in fat coils that covered her ears. They made her look like an aging version of a princess in a Grimm's fairy tale. I explained why I was there.

"Going to work at Joyland, huh? Well, I guess you better come in. Do you have references?"

"Not apartment references, no-I live in a dorm. But I've got a work reference from my boss at the Commons. The Commons is the food-service cafeteria at UNH where I-"

"I know what a Commons is. I was born at night, but it wasn't last night." She showed me into the front parlor, a house-long room stuffed with mismatched furniture and dominated by a big table-model TV. She pointed at it. "Color. My renters are welcome to use it-and the parlor-until ten on weeknights and midnight on the weekends. Sometimes I join the kids for a movie or the Saturday afternoon baseball. We have pizza or I make popcorn. It's jolly." jolly, I thought. As in jolly good. And it sounded jolly good.

"Tell me, Mr. Jones, do you drink and get noisy? I consider that sort of behavior antisocial, although many don't."

"No, ma'am." I drank a little, but rarely got noisy. Usually after a beer or two, I just got sleepy.

"Asking if you use drugs would be pointless, you'd say no whether you do or not, wouldn't you? But of course that sort of thing always reveals itself in time, and when it does, I invite my renters to find fresh accommos. Not even pot, are we clear on that?"

"Yes.''

She peered at me. "You don't look like a pothead."

"I'm not."

"I have space for four boarders, and only one of those places is currently taken. Miss Ackerley. She's a librarian. All my rents are single rooms, but they're far nicer than what you'd find at a motel. The one I'm thinking of for you is on the second floor. It has its own bathroom and shower, which those on the third floor do not. There's an outside staircase, too, which is convenient if you have a lady-friend. I have nothing against lady-friends, being both a lady and quite friendly myself. Do you have a ladyfriend, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, but she's working in Boston this summer."

"Well, perhaps you'll meet someone. You know what the song says-love is all around."

I only smiled at that. In the spring of '73, the concept of loving anyone other than Wendy Keegan seemed utterly foreign to me.

"You'll have a car, I imagine. There are just two parking spaces out back for four tenants, so every summer it's first come, first served. You're first come, and I think you'll do. If I find you don't, it's down the road you'll go. Does that strike you as fair?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good, because that's the way it is. I'll need the usual: first month, last month, damage deposit." She named a figure that also seemed fair. Nevertheless, it was going to make a shambles of my First New Hampshire Trust account.

"Will you take a check?"

"Will it bounce?"

"No, ma'am, not quite."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Then I'll take it, assuming you still want the room once you've seen it. " She stubbed out her cigarette and rose. "By the way, no smoking upstairs-it's a matter of insurance. And no smoking in here, once there are tenants in residence. That's a matter of common politeness. Do you know that old man Easterbrook is instituting a no-smoking policy at the park?"

"I heard that. He'll probably lose business."

"He might at first. Then he might gain some. I'd put my money on Brad. He's a shrewd guy, carny-from-carny." I thought to ask her what that meant, exactly, but she had already moved on.

"Shall we have a peek at the room?"

A peek at the second floor room was enough to convince me it would be fine. The bed was big, which was good, and the window looked out on the ocean, which was even better. The bathroom was something of a joke, so tiny that when I sat on the commode my feet would be in the shower, but college students with only crumbs in their financial cupboards can't be too picky. And the view was the clincher. I doubted if the rich folks had a better one from their summer places along Heaven's Row. I pictured bringing Wendy here, the two of us admiring the view, and then…in that big bed with the steady, sleepy beat of the surf outside…

"It." Finally, "it."

"I want it," I said, and felt my cheeks heat up. It wasn't just the room I was talking about.

"I know you do. It's all over your darn face." As if she knew what I was thinking, and maybe she did. She grinned-a big wide one that made her almost Dickensian in spite of her flat bosom and pale skin. "Your own little nest. Not the Palace of Versailles, but your own. Not like having a dorm room, is it?

Even a single?"