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A Coney Island Girl

Coney Island, New York

June 20, 1956

“Four. Get me four!”

The young man looked over his shoulder, “Four? You want four?” as he, with his wife close behind, got into line behind a hairy, barefooted man wearing bathing trunks. “I thought you were the guy that wasn’t ever going to eat lobster.”

Even though it was mid-week, the combination of the weekly Wednesday-night fireworks display, a near-ninety-degree day and the balmy evening had brought thousands of milling people to Coney Island. The boardwalk was packed, but nowhere more jam-packed than in front of the blue and yellow clapboard structure with the yellow and blue sign that read:

NATHAN’S

COCA-COLA—HOT DOGS

LOBSTER ROLLS—SHRIMP ROLLS

“Yeah, that’s right.” Moving even closer, putting both arms around his waist, rubbing her breasts provocatively against his back, whispering into his ear, “But that was before you made me, mmm…” Nipping his earlobe, breathing her sultry breath into his ear, “eat a, mmm…” Bending her knees outward, into the backs of his knees, causing his knees to buckle forward, flicking the inner ridge of his ear with her tongue, “lobster roll. Mmmm!”

Feeling the soft pressure of his wife’s breasts on his back and the cool touch of her bare legs against the back of his bare legs, and her warm breath and moist tongue in his ear, even though he knew she was teasing him, even here, even within this mass of people, the feel of her breasts, the brushing of her body and the touch of her tongue brought about the usual, and—really, though, any of the three individually would bring about the very same result and—a part of the young man’s body responded.

Leaning to the side, looking down, the young woman saw that she’d gotten the response she’d inspired—and expected. Smiling, taking her arms from about his waist, but pinching his behind in the process…

“Ouch!” pretending to pout, but truly loving her every touch, “you got sharp nails!”

“The better to pinch you with, my dear.” Backing away, “I’ll get a bench.”

“No,” moving forward as the line shortened, “I’ll need help.” But the young woman was gone and her husband, and his stretched fly, were alone in the crowd.

Looking.

Holding two Coke bottles by their necks in one hand and a bag with fries and eight miniature hamburger buns filled with grilled lobster salad in the other, looking for his wife

…

The multi-hued light of the setting sun reflecting upon the young woman’s face…

My God…

Sitting on a bench gazing at the choppy ocean, shiny strands of long black hair moving about her head in the slight, summer breeze, her long, slender legs stretched forward, the soles of her sandals pressed upon the bottom slat of the wooden balustrade…

His breath catching, My God, he thought, she’s so beautiful!

Sensing she was being watched, turning her face in his direction…

Crossing her eyes, the wife stuck her tongue out at him.

 “Hi, baby!” Sitting on the bench, placing the bag and bottles between them, “J’ya miss me?”

“Miss you? Yeah! Did I ever miss you… Where’s the grub?”

A burst of light, then, poom, the reverberating sound of the first rocket of the night, that was felt in the chest as well as heard.

As the lights of the boardwalk went on, the fireworks, fired from a barge anchored a half-mile offshore started.