In awe, they reached for his treasures, but he quickly closed his hands and stuffed them back in his pockets. “I sell,” he said. “At Coney Island.”
Now they were full of ideas.
“If that’s real, you’re a millionaire,” one boy remarked.
“That gold’s not real,” said another.
“If it’s brass, you’d still get enough to ride the Ferris wheel.”
“You could get a frank at Nathan’s!”
“You could get a gypsy to tell your fortune.”
“You could see a movie at the Pitkin Loew’s. Hell, you could watch movies all day.”
“Or go to Woolworths and order a hot fudge sundae.”
“A banana split.”
“A root beer float.”
“Damn, I want an egg cream.”
The train arrived and they took it west, then transferred to a line heading south to the beach. The subway car hummed with the chatter of beachgoers, and the boys stole glances at the women, many of whom were already stripped to fitted swimsuits.
“Hey Richie,” one boy said, holding open a paper bag. “You want some polly seeds?”
“You ever tried halva before?”
“Hey Richie,” said another, pointing to a vacated seat. “Take the window!”
Squeezed next to a bak gui man, Richard looked out the window. He could see Brooklyn stretching far and wide, the sky almost as vast and blue as the sky of the village. Below, the thousands of houses and cars looked like a classroom model constructed from papier-mâché and toothpicks. It was a world that belonged not to the Jew or the Anglo, the Italian or the Pol, but to any deserving American man.
Thirty minutes later, the train reached Stillwell Avenue, pulling up near the minarets and pinwheels of Luna Park. The boys squirmed through the crowded station and onto the street, determined to grab good seats at Seven Wonders of the World Freak Show so they could judge with their own eyes whether they were really seeing bona fide monsters.
The theater smelled of sweat and child puke, its seats spattered with sand and popcorn. One by one, the world’s strangest mutations emerged from behind the curtain—first, a young girl with pigtails. She wore a long, heavy skirt and looked like an ordinary child until she lifted it. This exposed four legs—two thin ones that didn’t fully reach the floor, and two thick limbs, each clothed in pink pantyhose. Richard and the boys sat on the edge of their chairs. It seemed those extra legs were really hers, and she, an actual freak. The entire crowd went wild, throwing popcorn, and Richard and the boys shouted and rocked in their squeaky seats.
Next came the Fire-Eating Man. Then the Snake Lady. Then a hak gui with elastic skin. Richard was so happy, he could have torn up all the auditorium seats with his bare hands. He could have jumped outof the El and landed on his feet—at least until the second-to-last act, when the host announced the arrival of Wee Head Wong.
It was obvious that he was Chinese, because of his tadpole eyes and black hair, only Richard had never seen anyone in China whose head was that small—so small that a teacup could’ve fit on his forehead like a top hat. Wee Head Wong bumbled around the stage, and then he stopped and stared at Richard. Richard twisted around, wanting to believe this, too, was an illusion. But the worst was true: Wee Head Wong had found him, and was smiling, pointing, and wagging his head like an idiot, so that the entire audience followed his finger to Richard’s seat.
“Wee Head Wong! Is that your grandpa?” The boys laughed, patting Richard’s head. He batted away their hands, wishing Wee Head Wong would leave the stage.
After the show, the boys descended to the streets and headed down Surf Avenue, laughing and hooting as they walked, past candy stores—ALL GOOD POPS BUY LOLLIPOPS!—cosmetic stores—WHAT MAKES AN AMERICAN MAN? HE WEARS AMERICAN SPICE!—and an accordionist with a lizard sprawled on his neck. They skipped toward the beach, sniffing up the boardwalk treats they couldn’t afford to eat.HOT SAUSAGE WITH EVERYTHING! BUTTER-BRUSHED CORN! COTTON CANDY!
“Wee Head Wong, here’s your sun hat,” said one boy, slapping a lost baby bonnet on Richard’s head.
“Look, Wee Head Wong! It’s hot DOG, your favorite!”
Richard spotted a bearded bak gui with a vest full of American flags and ray guns. He showed the peddler his rings and cigarettes, and after a painstaking appraisal, the peddler offered him two dollars.
Richard agreed, then bought a frankfurter for every boy in his group.
Thanks to his generosity, they feasted on wieners that had been sitting for hours in an unrefrigerated bin on Mermaid Avenue, in buns that had been molding for months on dank shelves in Red Hook warehouses, dressed in sauerkraut bubbling with Brighton Beachbacteria. According to theBrooklyn Times Union, they were among several dozen Brooklynites poisoned by a sweaty, gloveless vendor on the boardwalk that day.
For Richard, it was worth it. Worth it because the boys never blamed him, and included him in their moans and groans, their vomiting out the subway windows, their storytelling for weeks after. Worth it because that frank tied his fate to all the other food-poisoned Coney Island–goers of Brooklyn, who happened to represent thirteen religious persuasions and fifteen nationalities and forty-seven occupations—everyone equalized in an identical rotation between toilet, bench, and garbage pail. Worth it because each of the dozen times Richard puked in the restaurant bathroom that night, he knew Coney Island belonged to him, as much as anyone.
SADIE
