The dunk tank, that’s what I do. Every weekend I’m someplace different: a church festival in Sandpoint, Idaho; a county fair in Lonoke, Arkansas; a fundraiser in Waterbury, Vermont. I sit on a narrow plastic seat above a tank of water. The locals pay $5 for three balls and they take their shot.
That’s how I make my way in this world. That’s my job. And, to be honest, it’s not a great job. It’s not even a good job. I live pretty much hand to mouth. No benefits, no paid vacation, no retirement plan, no future.
But I’m not complaining, because at least I know why I’m here.
There was a time long ago—back before Mattie—when I thought that maybe I was serving a larger purpose in life, that maybe I was ever so slightly nudging the world towards more goodness. Because occasionally one of the locals would hit the target. I’d suddenly drop into the cold water and emerge dripping wet with a shocked look on my face. The crowd would laugh riotously, and for those few, short moments, the sadness in their small lives receded. That was my singular contribution towards the betterment of humanity.
All of that changed after Mattie showed up.
I’m at a county fair in Sandusky, Ohio. My night’s over and I’m outside the dunk tank, still wet, shivering in the early fall air. I’m bent over, arranging my gear in a metal trunk when a tall, well-dressed woman with an almost palpable aura of self-confidence walks up.
“Hi there” she chirps, as soon as we make eye contact.
Before I can answer, she extends her hand and says “Mattie.”
“I saw you in Payson, Arizona last week,” she explains as we shake hands, “And in Urbana, Illinois the week before that. And also in Skowhegan, Maine.
I frown and give her a suspicious look.
“I’m not stalking you,” she says with a dismissive laugh, “I’m just a fan of dunk tanks. And I have a suggestion on how you can get better at this.”
“I sit on a seat and wait to fall in the water,” I reply, “How can I get better at that?”
“Ponder those words for a moment,” she says.
She pauses as if she were waiting for a light-bulb to go on in my head. Instead, I simply shrug. She sighs and continues.
“Look, you just sit and wait. Right? You’re not in control. And life is all about control.”
She leans in close to me as if she were about to divulge a dangerous secret.
“Accuracy,” she whispers in my ear, “is a function of mental focus.”
Then she steps back and says, “Well, gotta run. Nice meeting you.”
She abruptly turns and walks away, but she looks back at me from a distance.
“Think about what I said,” she shouts.
I do think about what she said. I think about it a lot. She’s right, I decide. I could be doing better. Her mental focus remark wasn’t just an idle comment. It was a vital piece of information, a key to taking control of my job, maybe even my life.
I spend several days mulling over her suggestion, running through various options in my head. Finally, I come up with an idea.
The following weekend in Bend, Oregon, I’m sitting in the dunk tank surveying the crowd, seeing if there’s anything I can use. A young man steps up and pays $5. I carefully assess him as he picks up the first ball. Late teens. Cocky. Eager to show off for the attractive young woman he’s with.
“Hey, buddy,” I shout, “Hope you impress that pretty, young thing, because, honestly, she doesn’t look that impressed right now.”
He sneers, winds up, and throws a fastball that sails just a little too high.
“Ohhh, disappointing,” I yell, “Kinda like last night, am I right Miss?”
His face tightens into an angry grimace and he hurls two more fastballs that woosh past the target and slam hard into the canvas backdrop. Five dollars in the cash box, no payout.
The next guy is in his early twenties. Tall and gangly. He’s wearing a tee shirt with a high-school baseball logo. He looks like he might have been a pitcher once, maybe a good one. But he seems nervous in front of the crowd, maybe a little worried about living up to his high school reputation.
“Oh, boy! We got a ringer here, folks” I yell, “You probably already know this guy’s good. So pay attention, because he’s probably gonna do something you don’t see very often. He’s gonna go three for three. Mark my words.”
Three more errant pitches. Another five dollars in the cash box.
In the following weeks, I continue tweaking my strategy, honing my skills. Event after event, small town after small town, I’m slowly getting better. I rarely get dunked anymore. I’m no longer just sitting there waiting for one of the locals to drop me into the water. I’m luring them in now, sizing them up, playing with their minds, and taking their money.
Word of my uncanny success spreads. Eventually, I sign with an agent who begins billing me as King of the Dunk Tank. He books me into larger venues: Texarkana, Arkansas; Columbia, Missouri; Pueblo, Colorado. I’m the main attraction at every event. Kids want my autograph, women give me their cellphone numbers. I’m traveling first class, staying in nice hotels. I’m no longer pushing humanity towards more goodness, but I’m making a lot of money.
Battle Ground, Indiana. I’m midway through my night and still dry when a scrawny middle-aged man with thick glasses and a determined look on his face steps up to the line.
I survey him casually. He’s small, maybe 5’6”, spindly legs, short arms. He’s wearing suspenders and a long-sleeve shirt buttoned at the collar. He’s so weird that I can’t get a good read on him, so I wing it.
“I don’t think this guy can even see me,” I shout, “Let alone throw a ball this far.” The crowd bursts into raucous laughter.
Sploosh! I suddenly find myself submerged in water. A little shocked, I reset the seat and climb back on.
“Congratulations, Shorty,” I yell to him, “You’ve just proven that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.”
He immediately launches his second ball and I hit the water again. He dunks me once more with his third ball, then without saying a word, puts down another $5 and dunks me three more times. He goes three for three again on a third round. Finally, he collects his payout, gives me a farewell salute and disappears into the crowd.
I’m rattled and the rest of the night doesn’t go so well.
“Off night for the King of the Dunk Tank,” the cashier says as she counts the returns.
“I guess even a king has a bad day once in a while,” I respond.
“I just wish the king’s bad day would have been on somebody else’s watch because we’re barely breaking even here.” she sighs, “By the way, that guy that really wailed on you left his card.”
She hands me a soiled and wrinkled business card. The only words on it are: “Mr. Apophis, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower”
The next weekend in Pierre, South Dakota, I’m ten minutes into my evening when he shows up again. He puts down $15 and he dunks me nine times. Then he smiles at me and points at the King of the Dunk Tank sign. He shakes his head and laughs as he turns and walks away.
The rest of the night is a disaster. I get dunked eight more times and we end up losing money. The event sponsors grumble; my agent is getting nervous. I realize that I’m going to have to take control of the situation before things get any further out of hand.
When he shows up the following week in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, I’m ready for him. After he dunks me the ninth time, I emerge from the water and immediately pull myself through the trap door in the back. Dripping wet, I step into the street. He sees me and begins scurrying off, his bandy legs churning like an eggbeater as he weaves through the crowd. He’s surprisingly elusive and I struggle to keep up with him, but when he ducks into a dark alley, I catch him. I grab his arm and shove him against a wall.
“Who are you?” I shout.
“I’m Mr. Apophis…” he says in a thin, high-pitched voice.
“Yes, I know, Monkey-Wrench-into-the-Works Thrower,” I say, giving him another shake, “Why are you here and what do you want with me?”
“You’re hurting my arm,” he whines.
I release his arm. He shudders slightly and recomposes himself.
“Don’t take this personally," he says, “But this whole thing is ridiculous.”
“What whole thing?” I ask.
“You, your kind,” he sighs and pauses, then continues in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You’re really not very bright, you know, even the best among you. None of you get what’s going on here and you never will because you lack the mental horsepower. Worse yet, you don’t understand how profoundly ignorant you really are. So you strut around as if you’ve figured everything out. All of it.”
He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s so annoying.”
“Oh. And then…” he slaps his forehead in astonishment, “Then, to add insult to injury, that insufferable twit Ma’at, or whatever she’s calling herself these days—I think it’s Mattie now, right?”
I nod, suddenly realizing who he’s talking about.
“Mattie,” he makes air quotes as he says her name, “Flits around like a drunken matron at a neighborhood block party, stoking your arrogance with her absurd notions of control.”
From the confused look on my face, he can tell that I’m not following, so he dumbs things down for me.
“It’s like this,” he continues, “You people are obsessed with this simplistic cause-and-effect idea. You always want to know why. Why are you a dunk tank target instead of the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys? Is it genetics? Environment? Character?”
“What all of you are too dull to comprehend is that, in every case, the answer is blatantly obvious and always the same. For instance, in your case, do you know why things are the way they are in your life?”
Not willing to risk an answer, I simply shake my head.
“Because!” he bellows.
“Things are the way they are because that’s the way they are. There is no order, no reason, no cause-and-effect. The universe is chaotic. It’s fueled by randomness. The problem with so-called Mattie is that she convinces people like you that you can throttle the universe, put a saddle on it, ride it as if it were a horse that can be broken and bent to your will.”
“You want to know why I’m here? Well, that’s why. I’m cleaning up the mess Mattie’s made. I’m putting things back to normal.”
Suddenly a crowd of people enters the alley, laughing and talking loudly as they walk towards us. I turn to look at them momentarily and when I look back, Mr. Apophis has slipped away, disappeared back into the night.
I don’t see him again but evidently he succeeded in putting things back to normal because I’m getting dropped into the water regularly now. I’m no longer billed as King of the Dunk Tank. I don’t have an agent anymore, I’m not a main attraction, I don’t travel first class. I’m not playing with anybody’s mind. I’m not even pushing humanity towards more goodness. I’m just sitting there in the dunk tank, letting the locals take their shots.
That’s the way things are now. Back to normal.
But that’s okay. I may be one of the dimmer luminaries in a species that was never very bright to begin with, but at least now I understand why I’m here.
I’m here because I’m here. That’s just the way things are.
About the author
Louis Kummerer is a technical writer working and living in Phoenix, Arizona. His work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bristol Noir, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words.
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