A very long subway ride away from upper Manhattan, at the Brooklyn end of lines D, F, N & Q, lies Coney Island. Much like the legendary end of the rainbow, this magical destination is full of treasure for those who find their way there.
Coney Island - home of the American amusement park - has spawned, cultivated and cherished all manner of wayward characters during its long, murky and enchanting history, from ladies of the night to sideshow freaks, and tattoo artists to sailors. Reaching its heyday as a haven for laughter, inebriation and other wild pastimes circa the 1920s, the amusement park fell into a state of neglect post WWII. There have since been attempts to restore the park to its former glory, but the fairground still retains an air of old sex nostalgia, like a sullied, derelict counterpart to the polished, legendary original.
This, of course, makes it all the more interesting. I first went there on a gloomy day last May. The mist hung wet and thick across the boardwalk, obscuring the end of the pier, the water beyond it, as well as the towering, crooked-looking ferris wheel. The amusement park was empty, apart from the puffy, liquored-up 'Nam veterans standing sentry by the rides, waiting for those in need of amusement, but returning always to tip back their barely concealed brown paper bags. The merry-go-round travels in endless circles, the carnival music plays, the hot dogs are the best in the world and the mist thickens. i love it, this long-standing bastion of kitschy, crooked, bewitching Americana.
This time around, however, the weather was (rather surprisingly) sweltering, and my Coney Island day plan included lying around on the beach and dipping my toes into the Atlantic.
Gone was the gray fog obscuring the beach on the previous visit, and in its place were the browning bodies of masses of New Yorkers. With the temperature in the triple digits, it was to be expected. Kids frolicking in the waves, old ladies with those weird aluminum foil tanning mirror things, and beach vendors zigzagging the shoreline, selling everything from steaming empanadas to rainbow-colored kites.
I find myself a spot, apply factor 30 in excess and settle down with Richard Price's Lush Life, ignoring the smirks my chalky white limbs seem to be getting from the orange-hued hoochies in teeny bikinis on the neighboring beach towel. Ah, this is the life.
After finishing my book and dozing off for a while, i come to, thirsty as hell and with an uncomfortable burning sensation beginning at the back of my calves and ending somewhere around the back of my neck. Ouch. Note to self: even SPF30 isn't gonna save you when you fall asleep in the sun. The gum ball-popping ladies to my left continue to simper as i pack up my stuff and head back to the boardwalk with pizza and a pint in mind.
Before i call it a day, i pay the Glass Box Grandma a visit. There's nothing like getting your fortune told by a googly-eyed dame encased in glass.
I drop in a quarter, expecting the robotic geriatric to spring to life. It doesn't happen. Instead, a light comes on, the granny jerks awkwardly back and forth a couple of times, and then resumes her static, cockeyed vigil.
I'm a little disappointed. And then i see the card sliding out of the waist-level slot of the machine. I pick it up and decipher grandma's prophecy.
Grandma tells me i talk too much, can't keep secrets, shouldn't leave the house for any reason, and would be better off taking after a wise, old bird. For another quarter she'll elaborate. I'm satisfied with the crone's counsel; it's little nuggets of wisdom like these that keep me from making awful mistakes, like going on ill-advised trips to dirty, big cities; meeting horrible people and generally having the worst time of my life. Oh my, how dreadful it all sounds. How dreadful indeed.
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