Coney Island
Coney Island is on the southern part of Brooklyn, touching the Atlantic Ocean. Brighton beach is right next door, further east. The boardwalk has been in a few movies, specifically ‘9 1/2 weeks.’ When Mikey and Kim walked along the boardwalk, already a couple and infatuated with one another, they run into some kids; she is wearing a soft light beige trench and ballet flats, serious fashion moments in that movie, and some of the best sensual scenes ever filmed. Childishness is embraced by the multitude of sand, and the enormity of the ocean. The amusement park echoing out during summertime in a chorus of laughter from the kids enjoying rides and attractions. Coney is known for the NY Aquarium, and what’s now called Luna Park, an amusement park with lots of rides. Cyclone roller-coaster. Wonder wheel. Zenbio. Slingshot. Thunderbolt. Coney clipper. Steeplechase. Astro tower. Raceway and Bumper cars. There’s also Nathan’s famous hotdogs and Mark Wahlbergs’ burger joint nearby. It’s a fun place. The Shell rd. apartment was a few blocks away. The park is closed during the fall and winter, but I felt like I was on some ride.
When I was about eight, my father promised we would go to the amusement park (it was called Nellie Bly back then). The day came, I woke up early and washed up, dressed and went out into the living room. I was excited like Christmas. No one was up this Saturday morning. I went back into my room and sat on my bed, dressed. I looked over at my older brother’s bed. We shared a room, the bed was empty, he had been away at military school, out in Long Island. Sometimes he stayed through the weekend. I heard some movement outside the room, my mother, breakfast would soon be ready. Then my father came out of the bedroom. I heard the faucet in the bathroom. I waited and made my way to the living room again.Thrilled already I stared directly at his face and said, “What time are we going?” He forgot. Looking uncomfortable he replied, “We can’t go today.” It was only a week ago that he promised me. He always told me to be honest. “But you promised,” I muttered. He kissed me and returned, “I have to meet with someone later this morning, we’ll go another day.” Betrayed. Bamboozled. I whimpered minimally and walked into the kitchen. My mother handed me a big piece of crusty white bread smeared with butter and topped with a healthy layer of black caviar. Immigrants from the former Soviet Union sometimes splurged on caviar. It being a delicacy and symbol of comfort; instead of affirming a connection to USSR, it seems an embrace of the American dream. I loved caviar.
From Sizzle by Slava Korin
