Jack

I am at rest, my head down, my arms hanging limp by my sides. I am wearing a navy blue sailor suit with a jaunty white sailor cap topping my black, wiry hair. A dark-eyed expression of joy is frozen on my face. Soaring brows like seagull wings lend a slightly crazed element to the joyous look. I am seated within a glass-walled enclosure with inches to spare above and around me. The back wall is covered with a mural of sailboats on the ocean. The glass walls are smeared with the nose and finger prints of curious children. Inside this ancient seaside arcade, bells sound, lights flash, and children shriek with joy. I hear the faint sound of organ music from a carousel outside.

A pair of scuffed brown shoes stops in front of me. I hear a penny drop into the slot. My head lifts, my arms move spasmodically, and I rock back and forth, sending forth peals of mechanized laughter. While I perform, I observe the owner of the shoes. He is about 20, thin, with the beginnings of a sad beard. His dark blonde hair makes the beard look like dirt on his chin. His pale blue eyes are familiar. He visited me many times as a boy.  I can’t remember his name. No matter.

Were I not so tired, so beaten down by this existence, I would almost feel sorry for him. I don’t have time for pity. Pity wasn’t wasted on me by my predecessor. Pity caused the loss of my last opportunity. I won’t repeat that mistake.

He drops another penny in the slot. I begin laughing again and notice a young lady with her arm looped through his. He calls her Jen, she calls him Sid. Now I remember. He used to come here every summer, every day for two weeks a year. His father would fetch him at the end of the day, overly cheerful and weaving from too many hours spent at the pub. I haven’t seen him for the last two years.

Jen’s hair is an unnatural shade of black, shaved short on one side. Despite the ring through her nose, she’s quite pretty. I wonder if she will miss him. Nobody missed me. Not for very long anyway. I lock my eyes on Sid’s and wait for him to notice. He jerks back from the glass, then moves forward and presses his forehead against it. I wink at him, then slump forward as the time runs out. He drops another penny in the slot.

Jen rolls her eyes and tugs on Sid’s arm, pointing toward a flashing pinball machine. He shrugs her off, not looking at her. She pouts and storms away, her heavy black boots clumping with each step. He places a hand on either side of the glass and leans in. I meet his gaze and wink. His hand rises to his mouth and his eyes widen. He backs away as I slump into rest. The scuffed brown shoes disappear from sight. I wait.

I perform many more times. I have years of practice and a heritage of patience. Children are fascinated. I was once a child who loved to watch the jolly sailor.

Adults view me with a mix of humor and mockery, with an undercurrent of disquiet. They can’t quite put their finger on it. Most walk away and forget about me. A very few of my childhood friends are drawn back as adults, puzzled by their continuing obsession.  And a special one of these can become my salvation.

Sid returns, as I knew he would. The arcade is almost empty except for Gordon, the pensioner who exchanges the new decimal money for the large, old pennies which run most of the vintage machines in the arcade. The last time I went into rest, I managed to keep my head propped to the side instead of slumped forward. I observe the young man talking to Gordon and pointing toward me. There is no sign of Jen. Gordon puts his arm around the young man’s shoulders and they walk across the tatty carpet and stand in front of me.

Sid drops a penny in the slot, and I perform again. I do not make eye contact nor do I wink. Gordon shrugs, shakes his head, and walks away. The young man leans into the glass, his breath making a cloud of fog. He stares at me. I stare back, then wink. He plunges his shaking hand into his pocket and pulls out another old penny. He calls to Gordon, who ignores him. He puts in another penny. This time I manage to make my left arm hit the glass during my performance. He jumps back as if shot, whipping his head around to see if anyone noticed. Gordon has turned his attention to the small telly under his desk. There is no one else in the arcade. He swipes sweat from his upper lip and digs in his pocket once more.

The next time he puts in a penny, I don’t move or laugh. Our eyes meet. He puts in another penny. I don’t move. He strikes the side of the glass. I don’t move. He walks around to the back of the enclosure and finds a lever marked “maintenance.” He looks toward Gordon’s empty desk. The old man has gone to the loo, again. Every hour and half past like clockwork.  

Sid runs his hand down the lever, then returns to the front to stare at me. He puts in another penny. I move once to the left and let out a single “Ha” and stop. He walks halfway to Gordon’s desk, stops and shakes his head, and jogs back. He knocks on the front glass one last time. I do not respond. He circles behind the enclosure and pulls up on the lever. The back glass plate opens with a soft whoosh of air. The cooked sugar scent of candy floss drifts into the glass box. He leans his head in, and I have him.

#

I am standing outside the Laughing Jolly Jack Tar arcade machine. Jack’s pale blue eyes look panicked. His dark blonde hair goes well with the sailor suit. I put a penny in the slot and watch his performance. Not bad. He’ll get used to it.

I whistle as I stroll past Gordon onto the promenade of the Blackpool seaside. Seagulls scream and circle above a family throwing chips in the air, snatching the chips before they fall. My friend’s clothes are loose on my frame, but the scuffed brown shoes fit nicely. No matter, they will do for now.

“Sid,” I say out loud, sampling the name. Not bad. I’ll get used to it.