Thursday, September 27, 2007
Coney Island, pt. I
About a month ago, I was sitting on the beach at Coney Island with Gabrielle and bits of fried clam on my face and hands. To my left, a gourd-shaped Korean woman was hugging a beat-up boombox blaring Kool and the Gang's "Celebration." An obese toddler flung fistfuls of wet sand in my direction. Pulling the grainy clumps from my weave, I gestured to the mango peddler trudging grumpily down the shore with my free hand.
“Con chili y limon?” the peddler asked.
“Si, gracias,” I answered as I caught the gourd rolling her eyes in my direction. The peddler then doused the stick-mounted mango in chili powder and lime juice and handed it over. Like the unrefined little beast that I am, I buried my face in the plastic sack and ate like a famished boar, spurts of juice conveniently rinsing clam off my chin.
“Babe, you just ate clams, corn, and fries. You’re gonna be sick.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled.
“You’ve been eating all day,” she added, watching as mango pulp now made its way down my neck, towards my neon-red chest (I forgot sunscreen).
“What else is new?” I asked, and handed it over. She looked the mango up and down warily and then took a tiny bite.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed “This is so good!”
“Tell me about it,” I replied, and then hurled a wad of sand back at the toddler. “It’s like the best thing in the world.” I said.
Engulfed in the scent of citrus, sunscreen, stale beer and fresh piss, we made out for a little while before pulling away to find a sea of greasy, red-faced frat boys grunting at us appreciatively. “Can we join?”
“Fuck off,” she said.
The men laughed and high-fived for no reason. One adjusted his balls.
“Ignore them,” I said warily. Gazing wistfully at the boardwalk, I thought about how it soon would all be gone. “My God I’m gonna miss this place.”
“I’m glad you brought me here. I can’t believe I’ve never been here.” she said.
“I know. I’ve been coming here forever.”
“Like since you were a kid?”
“Since I was like, four.”
“I can’t picture your parents here,” she said, surely conjuring an image of my wine-guzzling mother and father, howling like frightened wolves on the Breakdancer.
“My parents never brought me here,” I said. “My babysitter did.”
“Oh.”
Gabrielle gestured towards a ten-foot tall metal sprinkler shaped like a palm tree. “I’m hot. Let’s go in the sprinkler.”
“Okay,” I said, and stood up, brushing sand off my sunburned ass. We got to the sprinkler and on the count of three, sprinted through. Furrowing my brow and sucking air through corn-laden teeth, I hollered “It’s fucking freezing!”
Safe on the other side, Gabrielle dried her head with a towel. “That felt so good,” she said. From a distance we could hear someone doing Donna Summer’s “On The Radio” in boardwalk karaoke. “Wanna drink?” I asked. She nodded and took my hand. Ambling wetly over to Ruby’s, we took seats at the bar as she ordered two beers. We drank them in silence, contentedly, looking out at the ocean. “Obviously we need to win something now,” I informed her.
“Obviously.”
“Con chili y limon?” the peddler asked.
“Si, gracias,” I answered as I caught the gourd rolling her eyes in my direction. The peddler then doused the stick-mounted mango in chili powder and lime juice and handed it over. Like the unrefined little beast that I am, I buried my face in the plastic sack and ate like a famished boar, spurts of juice conveniently rinsing clam off my chin.
“Babe, you just ate clams, corn, and fries. You’re gonna be sick.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled.
“You’ve been eating all day,” she added, watching as mango pulp now made its way down my neck, towards my neon-red chest (I forgot sunscreen).
“What else is new?” I asked, and handed it over. She looked the mango up and down warily and then took a tiny bite.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed “This is so good!”
“Tell me about it,” I replied, and then hurled a wad of sand back at the toddler. “It’s like the best thing in the world.” I said.
Engulfed in the scent of citrus, sunscreen, stale beer and fresh piss, we made out for a little while before pulling away to find a sea of greasy, red-faced frat boys grunting at us appreciatively. “Can we join?”
“Fuck off,” she said.
The men laughed and high-fived for no reason. One adjusted his balls.
“Ignore them,” I said warily. Gazing wistfully at the boardwalk, I thought about how it soon would all be gone. “My God I’m gonna miss this place.”
“I’m glad you brought me here. I can’t believe I’ve never been here.” she said.
“I know. I’ve been coming here forever.”
“Like since you were a kid?”
“Since I was like, four.”
“I can’t picture your parents here,” she said, surely conjuring an image of my wine-guzzling mother and father, howling like frightened wolves on the Breakdancer.
“My parents never brought me here,” I said. “My babysitter did.”
“Oh.”
Gabrielle gestured towards a ten-foot tall metal sprinkler shaped like a palm tree. “I’m hot. Let’s go in the sprinkler.”
“Okay,” I said, and stood up, brushing sand off my sunburned ass. We got to the sprinkler and on the count of three, sprinted through. Furrowing my brow and sucking air through corn-laden teeth, I hollered “It’s fucking freezing!”
Safe on the other side, Gabrielle dried her head with a towel. “That felt so good,” she said. From a distance we could hear someone doing Donna Summer’s “On The Radio” in boardwalk karaoke. “Wanna drink?” I asked. She nodded and took my hand. Ambling wetly over to Ruby’s, we took seats at the bar as she ordered two beers. We drank them in silence, contentedly, looking out at the ocean. “Obviously we need to win something now,” I informed her.
“Obviously.”
