ISSUE 14
Coney Island
Coney Island, today both a complex residential neighborhood and a beachside tourist attraction for out-of-towners and city dwellers alike, was once the site of magical amusement parks like Dreamland, which collapsed into the ocean following a 1911 fire and was only recently rediscovered beneath the waves. Lesser known is Coney Island Creek, two unconnected inlets that once comprised the body of water that made Coney Island a true island. Today it is the mysterious, toxic final resting place of whaling ships, motor boats, and one homemade yellow submarine.
Rickie’s got a foot on my head, I’m holding onto a fistful of his hair and he’s pressing my nose so far back it feels like it’s ramming into my brains. Whenever we get together, he beats the crap out of me. I’ve known Rickie since we were little, since baseball camp, when I had thick glasses and a patch to correct my lazy eye. Sometimes, my eye still goes berserk.
They were part of something larger and escaped. They somehow made it down the Belt and down the main drag of Surf Avenue. Lefty wanted in on the action; Righty wanted to run and hide. Unarmed, and trying to communicate, they went eastward into the Land of Dreams. Passing Steeplechase, and The Wonder Wheel, Lefty said to Righty, “ I want thrill.” Then, Righty said to Lefty, “but we’re on the run and I miss her voice and her lips.”
The boardwalk transforms
every couple blocks.
The wood runs seaward,
shifts toward north
or goes missing
behind caution tape.
Elizabeth L. Bradley has contributed to Underwater New York, Salon, Smithsonian.com, and Gothamist. "Water" is excerpted from her new history, "New York," by permission of Reaktion Books, London, England (please note Anglicized spelling throughout). "New York" is available for purchase here.
Perhaps this chain of events amounts to nothing
more than a malfunction: one million light bulbs
bursting in succession, a fire spreading rapidly
through the landscape of lath buildings.
(a found poem)
Next to the bearded lady, premature babies.
Lined up under heaters, they breathed filtered air.
No more than three pounds. Infants in incubators -
part of the carnival; a quarter to see.
Tornadoes arrive in New York, Coney Island
roars in destiny but not destination and that’s the problem –
things bubble up in a dreamland with absolutely nothing
to celebrate except a temporary sentiment
that collapses in a fit of thunderous applause
Tom wanted a Cadillac Eldorado but his cousin George said he’d cut him a deal on the Lincoln and when it came to family that was that. Where George had gotten the Lincoln, who knows? His cousin was full of mystery. An entrepreneur, is what George called himself. He loved to lord his vocabulary over Tom, challenge him, stretch out the syllables. On-tra-pri-noo-er.Restaurant manager, realtor, car salesman. Why pin yourself down? George said. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, dabbling his fingers in the air. Master of none.
It rained on and off for several weeks. A canopy of gunmetal grey hung over everything and Bella was gone. The morning after her mother’s funeral she had disappeared and the house on Albemarle Road felt empty without her. Without the red heat from the stoked furnace of her pillowed belly, or the raunchy giggles of her personal perfume it just wasn’t the same. Stanford and Elmer found her room a shipwreck. A violent jumble of sheets and pillows crouched on the bed like a pack of wild dogs. Dresser drawers hung open, their contents spilled. The vaulted doors of the waterfall chifforobe stood splayed. Scarves bled onto carpet, dresses sat in heaps next to hats scattered like lonely life preservers. Only a few keepsakes seemed to be missing; the sliver chain necklace with its St. Anthony medal, her charm bracelet, and the two photos; the one of the baby and the silver-framed picture of the strongman with Bella on his shoulders.
Listen to the original song by Lawrence Kim and His Boss: Dreamland
