We meet in the parking lot that fronts Pier Two, home of the StratosFEAR Free Fall.
“Thank you for doing this with me, Danny,” says Ceepak.
“No problem.” Ceepak doesn’t trust himself to stay calm, cool, and in control when confronting his horrible excuse for a father for the first time in nearly a year. Today, being restrained and dispassionate will be my job.
It’s about 10:30 A.M.
The rides usually open around eleven. Ceepak figures his father, a Sandusky Amusements certified ride operator, will already be on the job, going through his pre-flight checklist.
We walk up the pier, which resembles a carnival midway thirty minutes before they let the suckers in. Blinking signs are flickering to life. Baskets of Oreos and Snickers bars dripping pancake batter are being dunked into bubbling vats of French fryer oil. Fluffy stuffed animals are being hung on pegs-prizes not too many basketball shooters, frog bog boppers, softball-into-a-basket tossers, or balloon poppers will actually take home.
Up ahead, I see the NASA-blue StratosFEAR car rising up its bright white tower. It slips behind the electronic sign spelling out S-t-r-a-t-o-s-FEAR that rings the ride. It creeps, like an extremely slow elevator on a high-rise crane tower, toward the top. Fortunately, the seats are all empty.
When we reach the ride entrance, the car comes sliding down like a shot. The brakes slam on. Fog puffs out. The car glides to the bottom.
“Looking good, Joe!” we hear Bob the manager holler.
“Thanks, Bob.”
And there, sitting in the control booth, is none other than Joseph Ceepak.
I almost don’t recognize him. His wild tangle of greasy hair is neatly trimmed, parted, and combed to one side. His face is shaved clean of the salt-and-pepper stubble I remember. Instead of a sloppy Hawaiian shirt with food stains dribbled down the front, he’s wearing a clean and pressed polo shirt and crisp khaki shorts.
“Johnny?” he says when he sees us staring up at him. “Boyle? Hey, great to see you two.” He squirms around on his stool. “Hey, Bob? Is it okay if I take my five-minute break a little early?”
“Sure, Joe!” Bob calls back. Then he gives us a cheery wave, the kind suburban guys give each other when they’re out mowing their lawns.
Joe Ceepak flicks some switches and hurries down to greet us.
His son’s jaw joint is doing that popping in and out thing it does near his ear whenever he’s trying not to explode.
“My goodness, Johnny. Good to see you, son. Been too long. You too, Boyle. I would’ve called you, but, well, I just got into town last night. They’re putting me up in a motel till I can find an apartment. Had to punch in bright and early this morning.”
And then he stands there, hands on hips, smiling proudly at his son.
Whose eyes are narrowing into slits tighter than window blinds yanked all the way up.
“Why are you here?” Ceepak finally says.
“Didn’t they tell you, Johnny? I’m a factory-trained and certified operator. See, the plant that manufactures these American steel rides is located up in Sandusky, not too far from where I was living after, you know, last summer when, well, I would’ve died if it wasn’t for my jarhead son!”
He actually says the word “jarhead” with some affection. Usually, he sneers it at his son. Says stuff like “you effing jarhead moron.”