Frankie Nightmare
Frankie Nightmare found himself out of the job at 8:03 p.m. on July 3, as Annie-Marie Dobbs sat laughing atop the Coney Island Wonder Wheel. She threw back her head and grabbed for her friend Wendy’s arm, exclaiming in tones of ecstatic relief, “I don’t know what I was so scared of! This is incredible!”
But Frankie couldn’t hear any of that, as he was now standing at the base of the Ferris wheel, blinking the neon from his eyes, his feet unsteady on gum-sticky concrete. It took him several minutes to realize what had occurred.
He had been with Annie-Marie for 10 years now, ever since her mother sent her a newspaper clipping in the mail detailing the prevalence of decapitations at amusement parks. With Frankie on the job, the fresh-faced college student skipped the senior trip to Six Flags and her boyfriend, Chad Olsen, called her a coward with a sad shake of his blond head. Frankie never liked Chad Olsen. He did like Annie-Marie, though.
As he stood, gazing up at the girl, Frankie felt a pang where he supposed his heart was. It was rule number one, he knew, “Never fall in love.” The rule was etched on the most prominent poster in the Nightmare break room, next to a picture of a dead kitten hanging from a tree limb emblazoned with, “Hang in there, baby!” Frankie recalled Chad Nightmare staring up the poster and sneering, “Who would ever fall in love with her?” He jutted his thumb at the pulsing dome of Annie-Marie’s cranium that served as their ceiling. “She’s a coward.”
Chad Nightmare was Number-One Nightmare, consequently, all the other Nightmares looked like him: close-cropped hair, blue eyes, fleece vest and checked button-up. Johnny Nightmare used to be Number One, and, at first, Frankie was glad when he was unseated; it was awkward in the Break Room with all those Middle Schools milling around. Soon, though, he came to hate Chad and his white smile. His unending talk about boats and cars, his constant Jaeger-bombing.
The Ferris wheel was bringing Annie-Marie’s bucket back to earth now, and Frankie watched as she and Wendy clamored out, all long limbs and laughing. He watched as she exited the park, the place where his heart probably was aching, then gazed out at the sea lapping at a beach littered with needles and condoms.
Frankie knew from the Nightmare handbook that, once expelled, one would have to find what was called a JOB. According to the inside of Annie-Marie’s head, a JOB required doing something you hated and then realizing you were naked. He tried to think about things that he hated and all he could come up with was Chad Olsen. A glance in the side of a dark shop window revealed that he still resembled the man, so he supposed that part of the JOB was done.
“Excuse me,” Frankie said, tapping a woman on a sunburned shoulder. She turned around, still laughing at something another woman had said. She was wearing a little veil attached to a sparkling crown and a bikini and she looked Frankie up and down and smiled. He knew it was because he was attractive. Chad Nightmare was always bragging about having abs.
“Yes, my darling?” the woman crooned, adjusting the banner across her chest that read: “BRIDE TO BE.”
“Where can I get a job being me, but naked?” he asked, blinking his blue eyes. He knew they were pretty because Chad called them his “panty-melters.”
The woman laughed and fluttered a hand against his chest. “Honey, you’ve come to the right place.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him, cackling, into the street.
But Frankie couldn’t hear any of that, as he was now standing at the base of the Ferris wheel, blinking the neon from his eyes, his feet unsteady on gum-sticky concrete. It took him several minutes to realize what had occurred.
He had been with Annie-Marie for 10 years now, ever since her mother sent her a newspaper clipping in the mail detailing the prevalence of decapitations at amusement parks. With Frankie on the job, the fresh-faced college student skipped the senior trip to Six Flags and her boyfriend, Chad Olsen, called her a coward with a sad shake of his blond head. Frankie never liked Chad Olsen. He did like Annie-Marie, though.
As he stood, gazing up at the girl, Frankie felt a pang where he supposed his heart was. It was rule number one, he knew, “Never fall in love.” The rule was etched on the most prominent poster in the Nightmare break room, next to a picture of a dead kitten hanging from a tree limb emblazoned with, “Hang in there, baby!” Frankie recalled Chad Nightmare staring up the poster and sneering, “Who would ever fall in love with her?” He jutted his thumb at the pulsing dome of Annie-Marie’s cranium that served as their ceiling. “She’s a coward.”
Chad Nightmare was Number-One Nightmare, consequently, all the other Nightmares looked like him: close-cropped hair, blue eyes, fleece vest and checked button-up. Johnny Nightmare used to be Number One, and, at first, Frankie was glad when he was unseated; it was awkward in the Break Room with all those Middle Schools milling around. Soon, though, he came to hate Chad and his white smile. His unending talk about boats and cars, his constant Jaeger-bombing.
The Ferris wheel was bringing Annie-Marie’s bucket back to earth now, and Frankie watched as she and Wendy clamored out, all long limbs and laughing. He watched as she exited the park, the place where his heart probably was aching, then gazed out at the sea lapping at a beach littered with needles and condoms.
Frankie knew from the Nightmare handbook that, once expelled, one would have to find what was called a JOB. According to the inside of Annie-Marie’s head, a JOB required doing something you hated and then realizing you were naked. He tried to think about things that he hated and all he could come up with was Chad Olsen. A glance in the side of a dark shop window revealed that he still resembled the man, so he supposed that part of the JOB was done.
“Excuse me,” Frankie said, tapping a woman on a sunburned shoulder. She turned around, still laughing at something another woman had said. She was wearing a little veil attached to a sparkling crown and a bikini and she looked Frankie up and down and smiled. He knew it was because he was attractive. Chad Nightmare was always bragging about having abs.
“Yes, my darling?” the woman crooned, adjusting the banner across her chest that read: “BRIDE TO BE.”
“Where can I get a job being me, but naked?” he asked, blinking his blue eyes. He knew they were pretty because Chad called them his “panty-melters.”
The woman laughed and fluttered a hand against his chest. “Honey, you’ve come to the right place.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him, cackling, into the street.
***
The Pirate’s Booty was known for two things: sub-par hamburgers and dancing men dressed like the titular pirate. Having not spent much time honing his moves inside of Annie-Marie’s head—unless you count swinging back and forth like a Ferris wheel seat, which no one did—Frankie was hired to flip burger patties rather than to undulate on stage. The owner, Griselda Hammersmith, still included him as part of the establishment’s daily “All Booties on Deck,” though, wherein the dancing pirates shook their titular booties at the laughing patrons.
It was during one such “Booties on Deck” that Frankie saw Annie-Marie and a gaggle of friends spill into the bar, kitted out much like the woman who had procured him this occupation in the first place. Annie-Marie, her face loose with liquor, smiled under her tiara and plucked nervously at her sash as Wendy pulled her to table and turned her, bodily, toward the bouncing booties of various and sundry seamen. Slack-jawed, Frankie watched over his shoulder as his posterior pogoed, until he realized that Annie-Marie was staring right at him.
“Is that…?” she said to Wendy, eyes locked drunkenly on Frankie’s. For a moment, joy surged in his chest. She remembered him somehow. She knew how he defended her from the other Nightmares in the Break Room. She remembered how he always tried to make those Ferris wheel rides just a little less terrifying. His heart plummeted like a fighter plane as she dissolved into laughter.
“That’s my asshole college boyfriend,” she crowed to her friends, the drink making her heedless of volume. “I can’t believe it! That’s Chad motherfucking Olsen!”
As the booties bounced their final bounce, Frankie retreated to the back room, his face one giant blush, cursing Annie-Marie and pirates alike. He took a ragged breath and stared hard at the burgers sizzling in their own fatty juices.
Then Griselda swanned into the back, her cigarette smoldering. “You got a break kid!” she cried. “You’re going to the big-time—the main stage. Christ, man, you should have told me you had a twin!”
Frankie turned toward her tobacco-stained voice, his brow furrowed, a growl escaping his lips as he saw the man at Griselda’s side: Chad, smile crooked, pecs puffed, his own personal nightmare.
It was during one such “Booties on Deck” that Frankie saw Annie-Marie and a gaggle of friends spill into the bar, kitted out much like the woman who had procured him this occupation in the first place. Annie-Marie, her face loose with liquor, smiled under her tiara and plucked nervously at her sash as Wendy pulled her to table and turned her, bodily, toward the bouncing booties of various and sundry seamen. Slack-jawed, Frankie watched over his shoulder as his posterior pogoed, until he realized that Annie-Marie was staring right at him.
“Is that…?” she said to Wendy, eyes locked drunkenly on Frankie’s. For a moment, joy surged in his chest. She remembered him somehow. She knew how he defended her from the other Nightmares in the Break Room. She remembered how he always tried to make those Ferris wheel rides just a little less terrifying. His heart plummeted like a fighter plane as she dissolved into laughter.
“That’s my asshole college boyfriend,” she crowed to her friends, the drink making her heedless of volume. “I can’t believe it! That’s Chad motherfucking Olsen!”
As the booties bounced their final bounce, Frankie retreated to the back room, his face one giant blush, cursing Annie-Marie and pirates alike. He took a ragged breath and stared hard at the burgers sizzling in their own fatty juices.
Then Griselda swanned into the back, her cigarette smoldering. “You got a break kid!” she cried. “You’re going to the big-time—the main stage. Christ, man, you should have told me you had a twin!”
Frankie turned toward her tobacco-stained voice, his brow furrowed, a growl escaping his lips as he saw the man at Griselda’s side: Chad, smile crooked, pecs puffed, his own personal nightmare.
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Brenna Ehrlich is the director of content and culture (indie and rock) at TIDAL. She's also the author of PLACID GIRL and STUFF HIPSTERS HATE, and has had short stories published in Cease, Cows, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Anon magazine, Impose magazine and Beyond Books. Her other writing credits include a weekly column on Internet etiquette for CNN and articles for Rolling Stone, Bandcamp, Mashable, Heeb magazine, Broadly, Brooklyn Magazine and Nylon.
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