Last week’s heat in New York City was unbearable to me. Feeling like I am cooking in a microwave, while breathing into a plastic bag is not what I signed up for.
Word on the street is that “Summer is finally here”. I say,
WHO THE HELL INVITED SUMMER?!So needless to say, by the time Saturday night rolled around (after a near homicidal melt-down on the sticky streets of SoHo), I was climbing the walls of my apartment, desperate for an ‘out’. New York was officially suffocating me.
Gertie, though the love of my life, is a giant, furry handcuff. Day trips, weekend trips, trips uptown, downtown, any town are pretty much out of the question if you’ve got a 60lb dog in tow. So I hit the Internet on a frantic search for a half-day adventure that would get Chris and I out of Manhattan – if only for a change of scenery, and the chance for a light breeze.
And what did I end up with? A day trip to Coney Island.
STOP LAUGHING. YOU STOP LAUGHING RIGHT NOW.
Fine, I know its ghetto, but once upon a long time ago, Coney Island was the place to be! Granted, that was in the late 1920’s (if then), but that’s neither here nor there. Also, websites can be very misleading, as the official Coney Island website makes it look comparable to the sandy beaches of Amity Island, minus the killer Great White, plus a rollercoaster or two. What’s better than that?
AND, there’s a Ferris Wheel. Ferris Wheels are my most favorite summertime activity – aside from eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.
So…despite my better judgment, I decided it was a-go, and Chris reluctantly agreed to be my escort. Coney Island, or bust.
12:15pm Sunday: Board the subway, Coney Island bound.
12:15 – 1:00pm: Notice that the people getting on and off the subway are getting less and less savory as we near our stop. Bury face in book, move closer to Chris.
1:05pm: Get off subway. Notice that the station is like that of European train platforms – I like it. Notice that EVERYTHING seems as though we’re in a foreign country – not sure if I like it.
1:10pm: Pass Nathan’s Hot Dog headquarters, where they have a giant countdown until next 4th of July’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. The pictures on the billboard of people double-fisting hot dogs make me dry heave.
1:11pm: Step foot on boardwalk, and begin to experience what I can only imagine an acid trip feels like.
Please, join me – and click the pic above for the full, trippy experience:
The first thing I notice is the boardwalk. The boardwalk, itself is slightly whimsical. It’s a stretch of wooden planks as far as the eye can see – and it makes that “dock-like” sound beneath the various shoes of the hundreds who walk along it.
If you close your eyes, and listen to the sound of feet on the boardwalk, waves and seagulls, its all very storybook.
Unfortunately, with open eyes, its not. Aside from the wooden planks of the boardwalk, Coney Islands’ whimsy is as dead as I would be, had I gone on the Ferris “Wheel of Wonder”.
I recently caught an episode of the History Channel series “Life After Man”, in which they chronicle what would happen to man’s creation if all of a sudden one day, man ceased to exist. This series is so compelling that we nearly missed a wedding because we wanted to see what would happen to Vegas.
In any case, being at Coney Island is like watching that show. Aside from the people who are there – its as if man no longer exists. Of the boardwalk buildings that still stand, none of them look as if they’ll survive the summer. Paint is chipping on every sign, every door and every structure. Lettering is crooked, and cracked. Merchandise appears sun-bleached and worn, as do the vendors selling it. Restaurant chairs are dirty, tables are rickety and the food comes with a lot of ketchup – as I can only assume to mask the taste.
Drink stations line the boardwalk, advertising “Free Refills”. They’ve got 3 drinks on the menu: Strawberry Daiquiris, Margaritas, and Pina Coladas – all of which are sitting in huge, plastic vats, boiling in the sun. All of which come from a spout that has probably never been cleaned by a woman who has never smiled.
There are little gazebos to the right – one of which has a karaoke machine in it. A woman is screeching “I Will Survive” to a small crowd – all of them woop and cheer.
In the distance, we can hear a man who sounds like Rodney Dangerfield on a mic. As we near, Chris and I look at each other – “Did he just say ‘Shoot the Freak?’”
And then we realize he did. Under a huge, makeshift sign reading “Shoot the Freak” is an empty lot. It looks as though any empty lot would – overturned garbage cans, cinder blocks and plywood haphazardly strewn about. But what makes this lot different, is that it’s a human hunting ground. People have crowded around because someone has just given this Rodney Dangerfield person $5 to hunt and shoot a human target with paint pellets. As the crowd draws in, so do we…
this, we have to see.
Sure enough, there’s a little human target down there – a man in head-to-toe padding, looking hot and miserable. Oddly enough, “The Freak” is the least freaky looking person I’ve seen yet. When he’s done being pelted by a chubby marksman with plumber’s crack, he puts in his earphones, and returns to the shade. The announcer says “Thanks, Freak”, and the crowd disperses.
The beach is to our right, and looks mildly inviting, as the water is actually nice from afar. Unfortunately, its far from nice. As we look closer, we see signs lining all beach entrances – the water is “closed” due to “conditions”. We shudder to think of what conditions they’re referring to.
Eventually we walk down to the Ferris Wheel. One look, and I know its not an option after deciding that it was not a good day to die. The shrill screams of terror and loose steel pull my eyes to the right of the Ferris Wheel.
And there she was.
There was the “Cyclone” – the “rollercoaster” of Coney Island. She took her maiden voyage in 1927, and I’m guessing her last ride is right around the corner. From my vantage point on the boardwalk, I could actually
SEE nails wiggling free on the track as each car passed over them. The structure rattled under the weight of the passengers, and something constantly clicked as if it was about to come unhinged.
I was about to come unhinged!
Turning away from what I was certain would be the last Cyclone ride, ending in a tragic blood bath, we passed a man who had
2 live lizards hanging off the front of his shirt (“Does that man have live lizards hanging off his t-shirt?”, “Yes. Yes he does.”) With that, we decided we’d be safer on the beach.
We’d both worn flip-flops, predicting to have our feet in the sand. One step onto the beach, and I wished I’d worn galoshes. We stared at the sand in wonder – what WAS it? It wasn’t sand. It was…dirt. Fine, brown dirt – like the clay on a baseball field. In it, were finely ground pieces of plastic, Styrofoam, and paper, scattered with the occasional shard of glass. And no, I’m not referring to sea glass, I’m referring to jagged pieces of freshly broken glass, sitting slicing edge up in the ‘sand’. It was a minefield of serious hazards, yet directly to our right was a fake palm tree, shooting cold water into a fountain of refreshment to hoards of frolicking barefoot children beneath it. The water on the sand was making mud. The mud was full of plastic bits, shards of glass and children.
We proceeded on.
The beach was sprawling and only sparsely littered with people, so we had no trouble finding a quiet(er) spot. We laid our towels on the hard sand, and giggled about how we felt sorry for the underside of our towels. We then lay down, huddling to each other as though we were on a tiny raft, surrounded by the fins of circling sharks. “Sand” got on my arm at one point and I tried to brush it off. It smeared across my skin leaving a dirty smudge.
Despite the constant drone of the Cyclone rattling in the background and the occasional squawk from our tanned, drunken neighbors, we managed a few hours of relative relaxation. Chris napped and I read a book to keep me distracted from the sweltering heat. The sound of the waves was actually quite nice, and for a moment, I found the escape I was looking for. The peace - however nice - was fleeting, as a large park ranger
literally kicked a man off the beach for swimming. He then proceeded to yell at everyone within earshot - us included. This woke Chris up, and it was time to go.
At this point, we were DISGUSTING. I, personally, had a layer of grit on me so thick that I could have scratched the word “dirty” into my forearm with my fingernail. Yet, there was nothing to be done! No way to rinse off! Chris battled the children for a moment under the palm tree, but came out with muddy shoes, wet with questionable water. I put clothes on over the filth and stuck to them from the inside.
I held my breath long enough to attempt the women’s room for at least a hand-washing, but returned defeated. No soap, no paper towel, no hot water.
Our only possible cure? Beer. Ice cold beer. So we saddled up at an outside hightop at ChaCha’s Bar, with a bird’s eye view of Shoot the Freak. Perfect!
To expect “ice cold” was like shooting for the stars with a BB gun. I got a warm Corona Light, Chris got a warm Blue Moon – and they were the best warm beers we’ve ever had.
Shortly after the Freak got one in the face, it started to drizzle, and I relished in it. I was more than happy to bathe in the acid rain.
If you’re ever so inclined to conduct a social experiment, or if you’re just in the mood to feel normal, go to Coney Island. “Normal” is the only different at this place. There were people from every walk of life around us – none of whom seemed to be firing on all cylinders. There was a man next to us at the bar who had portraits of “Daddy’s Treasures” tattooed on his bicep. All three of them looked like Chucky.
I imagine it is a flawless artists’ rendering.
We chugged our beers and headed for a hot dog.
I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Nathan’s - they serve their fries
with a fork. Otherwise, I’d have starved.
With our bellies full, and our skin toxic, we headed towards the platform and passed the Lizard King (by lizard, I mean "Bearded Dragons"), a completely toothless woman, and a bright-eyed tourist who was wearing a three piece suit, having seriously misjudged the weather. Exhausted and ripe, we boarded the train back to Manhattan.
I must admit, this was one of my favorite adventures, and by far the best homecoming I’ve had in years. The City seemed clean and shiny and new. The people appeared pretty and friendly and showered. The breeze along the river was crisp, the birds sang, the grasshoppers chirped and there were no sounds of metal-on-metal rollercoaster wheels. Mission accomplished: I left my suffocation in Coney Island, and once back in Manhattan, I could breathe again.
I came away from my adventure, sure of two things:
1) This would be #5 on my list of Most-Needed Showers (see below for #1-4)
2) Coney Island is the first stop on the Subway ride to Hell. Therefore, I am going to make a conscious effort to be a better person. An afternoon is one thing – an ETERNITY is quite another.
Christy’s Top Five Best (and most necessary) Showers of All Time:1) Travel Lodge on Route 66 after hiking down - and back up the Grand Canyon.
2) Senior Year of college when Preakness was 40 degrees, raining, and after having lost my favorite yellow slicker, I spent the day in the mud with a cooler of Bug Light.
3) I spent the summer living on the far end of a greenhouse, and walked face-first in the pitch black into a giant spiderweb.
4) The morning I ran the Los Angeles Marathon.
5) After a day at Coney Island.
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