Stranger than Fiction - You Can’t Make This Stuff Up

I am a bit behind in my posts due to some internet delays. This one I wrote while still in NYC on August 23rd. I'll catch up eventually. . .

Coney Island

Stranger than Fiction - You Can’t Make This Stuff Up 

“When I was in my prime – I’m 57 now – but back then, when I was 20, I coulda had the pick of the littah. But we woulda neva went to Coney Island back then to get a girl. I mean, unless we wanted a crack whore. But that was the 80s. Before AIDS. Before we hadda worry.” I felt my friend, Jen, kick me in the calf for the 4^th time in less than 20 minutes. Was this guy for real? You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. 

We had been sitting on the boardwalk in Coney Island just to the north of the parachute jump having a beer out of plastic cups watching the world go by. We were thirsty after walking the length of the boardwalk and had chosen a prime people watching table to sip our cold IPAs as we watched the masses of humanity; all crammed into the small area between the pier and the border of Brighten and Coney Island. Refusing to fan out in either direction, the umbrellas seemed to pile on top of one another, music blasting out of multiple speakers, intermingling with one another, beach blankets overlapping. In front of us, a woman was now topless at the water fountain using a water bottle to wash the sand off her exposed breasts. No one seemed to bat an eye. 

There were two young girls at the plastic tables and chairs where we sat, the rest of the tables all occupied, but soon after we arrived, they finished their slushy piña coladas and left, leaving the two chairs open for the next patrons.

Popeye, as we came to find out later, joined us then – a man in his early 60s, wearing a white tank top, freckles dotting his exposed reddish biceps. The man with him remarked that he preferred to stand, a baseball cap pulled over his dark, weathered brow. “Cheers,” he offered and held his half filled cup out, smiling at us with a toothless grin. “We’re waving g-bye to my daughter,” the man in the tank top said as he waved at the ocean.” “She’s headed to Bermuda and Florida on a cruise,” the friend added and motioned out to a large ship in the distance. 

“You girls ain’t from around here,” Perry, the friend with the wide toothless smile proclaimed. “We been here all our lives,” he said proudly. “We seen it all.”

“Yeah but this place used to be scary,” a new friend that had just arrived added. His gold chain and crucifix caught in the tufts of hair on his chest, as he stood in front of me momentarily obscuring my view of the beach goers. 

“My motha always told me to never wear gold to Coney. She said it was dangerous. Though I gotta say that the only time I was evah robbed was that time when that prostitute stole my chain. We had just finished a half and half and I was tired. She said, ‘yeah baby, I’m sleepy too.’ But when I woke up, she was gone and so was my chain. Luckily I had my wallet down my underwear and I was asleep on my belly.”

The three men laughed and Jen kicked me again under the table. We drank just a little bit faster. “Those were the days – I was bigga then.” The man they called Popeye offered. “I was a body builder – with Schwarzenegger and others too – I knew them all. Thems guys  - they was huge. 6 foot 8, 6 foot 3. They dwarfed me. I and was pretty big back then.” Perry bobbed his head up and down above him, slapping him on his shoulders in agreement.  

He continued not waiting for us to comment, “You know that Trump guy – now he has the right idea – it’s enough with those Mexicans. We should close all those borders.” Jen leaned back in her seat and picked up her phone. The air was thick with discomfort. I could feel my face form a tight lipped smile. “What? You don’t agree?” I shook my head, opened my mouth and then closed it again thinking better of it, knowing that it was time for us to move on. We had had enough Coney Island for the day. We drained the last of our beer and stood. 

“Oh you’re leaving?” Popeye said surprised, “Take care.” 

“Be careful girls,” Perry called after us. “Coney Island’s a jungle!” we heard as we walked back down the boardwalk, across the crowded streets with $3 egg creams and hot dog eating contests. 

Past the Freak Show and Nathans offering us its historic hot dogs, past the funnel cake and the soft serve ice cream. Back to the subway D with a new mixture of characters with their myriad stories that you couldn’t make up more creatively if you tried. 

Sometimes reality really is stranger than fiction.