High Cyclonic

by Nicholas Allen — August 16, 2007

One of the great joys of being a freelancer is that you can, within certain reasonable limits, take a spontaneous day off whenever you feel like it. Patricia's on a "mandatory" vacation this week (Is she one of those workaholic types who never takes a break when she needs it? Perhaps a question for another time...), so when she called this morning with the suggestion that we head out to Coney Island for the day, it seemed like a fine idea.

Neither of us had been out to Coney Island in many years, so it was quite a trip down memory lane. Our first stop was at Nathan's (naturally), where we proceeded to gorge ourselves on hot dogs and French fries and corn on the cob and lobster sandwiches. As I've noted before, Patricia is a girl who can eat--which is the kind of thing that always goes straight to my heart.

We rode the bumper cars (she kicked my ass) and took turns at the shooting gallery (I kicked hers), and squeezed into child-sized cars to ride through haunted houses and log flumes and Ferris wheels. There was a pretty decent sideshow--with fire-eaters and contortionists and a "wolf man"--that we checked out. And, of course, the crown jewel of the Coney Island experience: the Cyclone. Wooden roller coasters, for anyone who's never been on one, are terrifying merely by virtue of how old and "clackety" they always sound. Not to mention that they bump and jostle you around in an entirely graceless way, unlike the much smoother roller coasters built in the last few years. But nothing will make you feel more like a man than when the woman next to you squeezes your arm and buries her face in your shoulder in sheer terror.

The best part of the day, though, was walking along the boardwalk and out to the piers. It was much as I remembered it: groups of high-school aged boys and girls forming and re-forming into groups that broke up into individual couples, who mingled and flirted self-consciously for a while before re-joining new groups. As the sun set and the lights of the boardwalk came up, we could see the couples begin to outnumber the groups, looking for secluded corners and a little alone time, away from the prying eyes of parents and friends.

"Want to walk along the beach?" Patricia suggested, and I immediately agreed.

It was like being a teenager again as we walked down the beach and held hands, carrying our shoes. The first time I ever kissed a girl was on the beach at Coney Island at the tender age of thirteen. I remember that she tasted like saltwater and cotton candy. When I kissed Patricia, she tasted the same.

"It's getting kind of late and it'll take forever to get back to the City," Patricia said. "Wanna head back now and have a cup of coffee at my place?"

What happened when we got there will have to be a story for next time...

Nicholas Allen is a writer and columnist based in Manhattan. To read all of his blogs, click here.