Coney Island Cherry, Part I

Coney Island Cherry Part I

by Thomas Jacob There was this girl in my kindergarten class. Her name was Mia, and there was something fascinating about her. It was the first time in my life when I truly became absorbed in anything, anyone. I would sit under the enormous willow tree at recess and think about the red dress she wore, covered in white polka dots. She looked like a cross between kindergarten versions of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and Minnie Mouse. I would pull out my notebook and draw pictures of her in the margins, always wearing that dress. Cherry reminds me of that girl. That image, those memories, come flooding back whenever I see her. There is something in the way she pushes her shadow-black hair back with a band, and in her smile, so powerful and infectious that I almost always turn scarlet, that brings Mia back to me. And, of course, her dress. Red with white polka dots – just like Mia’s. It was what first caught my eye the day I met Cherry. It was at Coney Island; I had decided that the warm billows of sun called for an impromptu day off, so I hopped on the BQE and rode it straight to Nathan’s. I couldn’t pretend like I had some sort of profound connection to the place like my parents, or even anyone else old enough to remember sleeping out on the beach. But I loved the smell of the air, full of salt and cigarettes and grease, and the burn of the pavement under my feet. I adored the quaint games of skill, holdovers from another generation that contained only fragments of their original personalities. One attraction stood out to me: the freak show. I gazed at the colorful retro signs of the Lobster Man, the Bearded Lady, and assorted magicians and sword-swallowers. I reveled in this kind of false nostalgia, imagining that I had some sort of spiritual connection with the place. Instead it was just a story I needed to make up in my head to replace the reality that I traveled there alone. The inside of the theatre, too, seemed quite intact from generations of use and abuse. Sitting in the stands felt like traveling back in time. I sat frozen to my seat as the theatre, which appeared to only hold a few dozen people filled right up. The lights dimmed, and a lanky fellow with a prisoner-striped shirt, bowler hat and a quite remarkable mustache sauntered out. The crowd erupted in a crass, contemporary-American manner that temporarily jostled me back into the present. “Greetings, gentlemen and madams!” He waved his arms in front of him like a stork, effortlessly engaging us. “My name is Donny Vomit, and I would like to welcome you to Coney Island’s one and only freak show! Now, we do so appreciate you all coming and supporting us this evening. We here believe that Coney Island, and this building in particular, is an historical landmark, and you being here today proves that we are right.” We cheered. I was actually getting into it, and I sort of agreed with him. “So without further ado, here is our very own wonder woman, Esmerelda!” I watched as the freaks took to the stage and acted out their respective routines. Esmerelda held a thick, giant snake around her shoulders and played some games with it. Her hair was longer than Amy Winehouse’s, and at least three different colors, and with her heels appeared to be quite a bit over six feet tall. I could tell that the snake was not a prop but her pet, a friend even, just by the way the two looked at each other. She would stick out her tongue and it would stick out its tongue at her, their eyes following each other as they swayed back and forth. I wondered if I would ever love anything else as much as Esmerelda loved that snake. Next was the Lobster Man. A burly, short, bearded man came to the stage, grabbed the microphone and preceded to tell us stories of how he’s learned to masturbate with his disfigured hands and whether or not anyone in the audience had weed (and if they did, to smoke together after the show – he’d provide the papers. Big man). It was a little odd and underwhelming, but it certainly wasn’t false advertising – his hands were truly victims of ectrodactyly, just like the infamous Grady Stiles, the original Lobster Boy. Donny Vomit came out again, this time as the Human Blockhead. I was fairly engaged in this act, as Mr. Vomit took what looked to be a six-inch long iron nail and preceded in nailing the fucking thing straight into his nose. Not something I’ve ever had the urge to attempt (I would say understandably so), but I suppose if you can do it, you might as well try to base part of your living off it. Then Cherry took to the stage. For a moment I felt suspended, trapped in my sudden infatuation for her and jarred by the memories of Mia I could smell the willow tree at recess; I could feel the smooth cloth of her dress. Donny accompanied her, carrying a bindle of swords of various shapes, sizes and, I guessed, skin-piercing abilities. The other freaks rolled out a large box the length of a coffin (I appreciated that they were their own roadies and prop guys) that Cherry happily displayed with her arms extended and face bright. “Cherry here is our contortionist. She’s come all the way from Argentina to be with us here at the freak show…” A portion of the crowd whooped, and as Donny spoke Cherry demonstrated her abilities. She removed the red dress so reveal a black, skintight jumpsuit that showed an ample percentage of her cleavage. Cherry stepped into the box and Donny slammed the top shut, the sound reverberating across the now-hushed theatre like a car door in an empty parking lot. “She’s gonna hafta use some of her most advanced movers for this one, folks.” He plunged a sword through the top, jabbed from underneath, and stabbed through both sides. I grinned at the sound of the blade cutting wood. He used a total of sixteen swords on the trunk, all without nary a peep from the woman inside. “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Donny projected, the room in murmuring suspense, “as I mentioned earlier, we here at the freak show believe our beloved theatre to be a monument of historical importance. Whether we like it or not, change is coming to Coney Island. We’re gonna be either bought up by the fucking city to be turned into a grand scale amusement park, or simply crushed under the corruption and depravity of what this little slice of New York has become. We have been forced to open up alternate means of income, and as such are offering a one-time only peak into one of our secrets.” He paused for dramatic effect. “For five dollars you may take a look inside the box and witness how Cherry has managed to evade all of my blades. All donations will go directly towards funding a continuing renovation project we hope will keep our theatre in business and attain the status it rightfully deserves.” The audience stalled as the words resonated within us. So it’s come to this, I thought. Bribing the audience to cough up some extra cash in an effort to save this place by offering a backstage look at their secrets, which have undoubtedly been carried and protected for generations. Times have changed all right. I thought about whether I wanted to know the secrets personally; I felt like I was shitting on sacred ground or something. But I gave in. partly because I felt I should donate the money, but mostly so I could see Cherry. Would her limbs be all contorted and disjointed? Could she have been nicked by one of Donny’s swords but has been trained to remain silent? What if that gorgeous black hair accidentally got cut off? Just like Mia, I was fascinated with Cherry, and wanted to know everything about her from the vantage point I was at – as a spectator. Hidden in plain sight, so to speak. Those of us in the audience who decided to pay – about 80% of the room – formed a line at the side of the stage where Donny collected the participation fee in a clear, oblong fishbowl. I watched from the back of the line as one after one the audience members walked along the side of the box, peering inside and then continuing on. The blank expressions that fell on their faces didn’t ease me; there were no traces of exaltation, shock or awe among them, and as the line thinned out I felt my chest tighten. I made it to Donny, who peered down at me with a smile that looked like it was hiding a lot of pain. He showed too much teeth and his cheeks stood pinned to his jawbone. I stuck my hand into the jar, handed over a crumpled five-dollar bill, and stepped onto the stage. My heart quickened inside my chest like a sudden gust of wind. I cautiously approached the box and peered inside. There was Cherry, sitting comfortably on her side and completely safe from the swords that outlined her body. I stood staring at the curves of her body, so smooth and perfect that they seemed sculpted. I was drawn to her eyes, which looked forward at the rusty, greenish casket, still and emotionless. As if a part of her soul were being revealed, never to be trusted again. I watched her, and her eyes suddenly met mine. I saw Mia in them. I didn’t see Mia much after kindergarten. We got split up into different classrooms, and she found her own set of friends. I think she moved to another state when I was eight or nine. I can’t really remember. To this day I still feel betrayed. Like she owed me something – recognition, maybe. Acknowledgement of the power she had – still has – over me. I’d like to think she’s been a recent obsession, but that’s hardly accurate. Cherry was not Mia, I was sure of that. There was darkness in Cherry’s eyes, as if they’d been scarred somehow. I could tell her experience was beyond her years, and certainly beyond mine. I blinked and she focused again on the moldy wood in front of her as I continued my descent of the stage. All I could think to myself was, “It’s so hard to love.”
Continue to Part II...