Fun House

It’s interesting to hang with Ceepak when he’s off duty, boots off, stocking feet stretched out in front of him. He’s actually pretty funny.

Of course, I say we’re off duty because we’re off the clock, but John Ceepak, being the American cousin to Dudley Do-Right, keeps his police scanner humming softly in the background.

From the TV, we hear the Fun House theme song. All eyes swing to the screen.

“Welcome to Fun House,” says Chip Dale, the host, “the number one show in America!”

Soozy K, with her death-threat immunity and guaranteed entrance into the final round, is watching the show live with us. Well, not at the Ceepaks’ place. They have her on a live remote from her heavily guarded bedroom at the house on Halibut Street.

“I wish I could’ve taken part in this week’s competition, Chip,” she says. “It sounds like it was awesome!”

“Indeed it was, our best challenge yet,” teases Chip, because they like to do that a lot on these shows: hint that something good is coming. In fact, they do more hinting and teasing than actual entertaining.

Officers Dylan and Jeremy Murray are in the background of Soozy’s secluded bedroom, looking tough, their arms akimbo, which is one of those words that doesn’t sound like what it is. “Akimbo” should be a type of Latin dance, not a way of standing “with hand on hip and elbow bent outward,” unless that is, of course, a Latin dance.

Chip Dale is back, promising us the fun will get started “right after the break.”

When they cut to commercial, we tune out the sales pitches and pick up our conversation-the way it’s done in living rooms all across the country.

“I’m not all that eager to move,” says Rita.

“I thought everybody born in New Jersey was eager to escape from it,” teases Ceepak.

“You listen to too much Springsteen,” I say.

“Or not enough,” adds Rita.

She’s right. You listen to enough Bruce songs, you eventually hear a heartfelt love of his home state. Guess that’s why he still lives over in Rumson when he’s rich enough to live on Mars.

“I, too, like New Jersey,” says Ceepak. “In fact, there are certain aspects of the Garden State I absolutely adore.”

Over on the couch, he reaches out his hand to Rita. Here in my cushy chair, I gulp beer because a frothy adult beverage always helps when you think you might gag.

“So why do you want to take a job in Ohio?” I ask.

“Most of my adult life, Danny,” says Ceepak, suddenly sounding serious, the way he does on the job, “I have lived and worked wherever my duty took me. Korea. Germany. Iraq. I only came here, as you recall, as an interim step, a waystation between my military life, which was ending, and my civilian life, which had not yet begun.”

And then Ceepak stayed in Sea Haven because duty, once again, called and people needed him. Not too long after that, he met Rita. I think he needed her.

“This opportunity,” he says, “presents a chance to work in the state, which, for better or worse, is my true home.”

I nod. I know the “worse”: his father, John “Sixpack” Ceepak, the drunk who had driven a young Ceepak to find a home in the Army.

I guess the “better” must be all those walleye.

“They’d also double John’s salary,” says Rita. “That would be nice.” When she says it, she kind of looks around their dinky apartment. Okay, living in a one-bedroom box over a bagel shop may not be the American dream, but, hey, breakfast is always hot and fresh.

“And I’d be closer to my mother,” says Ceepak, who doesn’t trust his alcoholic old man to keep his promise to quit harassing his ex-wife.

“She could move here,” I say.

“That’s what I suggested,” says Rita.

Ceepak is about to comment when his cell phone chirrups.

The work phone.

“This is Ceepak. Go.”

Rita and I stare at him, both of us with a “What happened at the Fun House now?” look in our eyes.

He covers the phone. Mouths “Chief Baines.”

Rita and I relax a little. Watch a cell-phone commercial.

Geeze-o, man. Fun House runs a ton of commercials. Like five minutes of ads for every three minutes of show.

“I see,” Ceepak says. “Understood. Will do. Roger that. Safe travels.”

And then he hangs up.

“Well?” I say.

“Chief Baines will be detained in Florida over the weekend.”

“So he’s missing all this?” I gesture at the TV.

“Apparently so.”

I’m reminded of that old saying: when the going gets tough, the tough go to Disney World.

“He’s asked me to fill in in his absence.”

“You’re Acting Chief?”

“Roger that.”

“So, can we have a casual Friday tomorrow?”

“Come again?”

“If you’re Acting Chief, you can suspend the dress code for a day. It’s supposed to be in the hundreds.”

“Be that as it may.…”

“Hey, if we’re going to do the jobs of homicide detectives, we need to dress like ’em.”

Ceepak smiles. “You make a good point. Very well. Tomorrow is plain clothes Friday.”

“Uh-oh, John,” says Rita. “You didn’t tell me you guys were going to be on the show again this week.”

On TV, the show is back. Chip Dale has just introduced a film clip. Me and Ceepak. In the front lawn of the Fun House, Ceepak aiming his Glock at Eric Hunley’s thigh, the big guy dropping to his knees and, finally, going facedown on the ground.

Ceepak sighs. And then, believe it or not, he lets out a mournful, “Geeze-o, man.”

“To ensure the safety of our house guests,” says the always-cheery Chip Dale, “local authorities have thrown up a wall of steel. So, as Soozy bravely defies her death threat. …”

They cut to Soozy up in her room. She waves at the camera. Behind her, Dylan and Jeremy Murray still have their arms akimbo.

I yawn. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s because “second-to-last” shows are never that exciting. Think about the first three Star Wars. The one in the middle was just a setup for the big finish.

To make matters worse, tonight’s competition is the hokeyest yet. It’s Jersey Shore meets American Idol meets I Want To Vomit.

The three contestants have to sing “Under The Boardwalk” with three very special guest stars. America-at least those Americans who love to repeatedly thumb text messages to TV shows-will vote on who they think did the best job.

Of course, all this junk is pre-recorded.

Unfortunately, the contestants aren’t lip-syncing. They might sound better if they did.

Mike Tomasino goes first and, believe it or not, the kid can actually sing. Plus, he gets to do the number with the Broadway cast of Jersey Boys. He nails it.

Vinnie Martin goes next and has the dubious pleasure of doing a duet with Barry Manilow. Mandy Keenan is