“It is imperative you exude merriment,” he stressed. “No half-assing, Skip. The parents will know. The kids will know.”
“No half-assing,” I said. But I was still processing the fact that I would have to wear a costume. I thought about leaving the office, saying thanks but no thanks, but it’s not like I had a job or an apartment or any other prospects.
“And there might come a time when the parents have second thoughts. Some might want to leave with their children, buy some more time with them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We’ve come to an arrangement with the government and the CDC,” Jamie continued. “If we are to continue operations, no one with the virus is allowed to leave.”
“And I stop them how? I weigh a hundred and thirty pounds. I write jokes,” I said.
“Firmly, and with a big City of Laughter smile,” Jamie said. “And of course, radio our security staff if a cheerful no ever fails.”
A teenage girl named Molly wearing pink striped overalls escorted me to the employee dormitories. Beyond the old prison buildings, the park resembled a Six Flags knockoff—cracked pavement, kiosks filled with off-brand candy, papier-maché dragons and enchanted fairy forests that looked like they were about to melt in the sun or dissolve with the next downpour. The central prison complex had been renovated into a pirate-themed shopping area and food court inappropriately named Dead Man’s Cove with vendors and vending machines and food carts and animatronic displays occupying the cells. Above us, rainbow spotlights scanned the ground from the guard towers. I could see the silhouettes of their rifles amid the prismatic glow.
“Are they really necessary?” I asked Molly.
“People aren’t likely to run with their kids if they think they’ll be gunned down,” she said. “It’s mostly for show, but you never know. Some of the guards are real wannabe commandos.”
Molly walked at a brisk pace, hanging a left at the Buggin’ Bumper Cars, a right at the Wet and Wild Raft Adventure, and continuing past the Laughateria, where the manager said the cast members were encouraged to perform family-friendly improv.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
She turned around without stopping, as if she were giving me a campus tour, waved to someone in a pink shrimp costume. “Couple months,” she said. “My parents cook in one of the restaurants.”
“You like it?” I realized this was a stupid question, but I wanted to understand what kind of life I’d signed up for, if I’d really be helping people.
Molly shrugged, muttered something like Jesus Christ beneath her breath before leading me past a roped-off roadway with a sign that read DO NOT ENTER. RIDES AND EQUIPMENT UNDER REPAIR.
We walked behind an antique merry-go-round dotted with seahorses and mermaids suspended on rusted poles. Asphalt became dirt and dust until we were surrounded by a circle of mobile homes and RVs. Lawn chairs and beer cans were nestled beside a burned-out fire pit. Farther away a cluster of small cottages sat atop artificial turf. From where we stood, the park lights looked like an oasis in the desert. Molly pointed to a rusted-out Winnebago and handed me a welcome packet.
“Read this,” she said. “Someone will get you oriented tomorrow. There’s no real training. Just don’t make the kids cry.”
I pointed to the cottages. “What’s up with those?”
“For families, people with special needs,” she said. “We’ll also be administering experimental drugs here, running studies for a pharmaceutical company.”
I shook my head. I could tell Molly was tired of me, or maybe she was just being a teenager.
“Well, good night,” I said.
“There are probably bedbugs in there,” she said, already turning away. “Nobody really cleans these donated vehicles.”
I turned on the lights of the camper and discovered a faded mint-green bachelor pad with old Playboys stuffed inside the glove compartment, food stains on the chipped countertops, the result of what I imagined were hundreds of road trips. I sifted through the cabinets and found some canned food only a few months past its expiration date. I ate cold ravioli while staring at the park lights through the window before drifting off to sleep.
*
My first charge was a little boy named Danny （Group 5A: Noncontagious / Stage IV Illness）。 He had fiery orange hair and wore dinosaur pajamas. His parents trailed close behind as I pushed their son from ride to ride in a race car stroller. Over the next few hours, this family lived a lie where all that mattered was having fun, though I couldn’t help noticing quieter moments—parents holding each other as their child waved to them from a bobbing ostrich on a carousel. Some of these kids were completely oblivious—too young or needing so badly to believe the happy-go-lucky marketing. But little Danny knew the score. Every now and then I’d ask him how he was doing, if I saw him take a puff on his rescue inhaler or he seemed too weak to stand from the stroller.