Just once... thought Victor, just once, just one time, just one GODDAMN time... “Come on, Vic! Come on!” Marie stamped her foot and tried to not breathe through her nose. “No good. It stinks, Vic-tor! It stinks like pee!” Victor didn’t respond. Marie almost never came to Coney Island anymore, especially not at the tail-end of the season. Now the sun was going down. Shivering, she felt in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter. She caught her reflection in the lighter’s chrome case. Marie, Marie... she said to herself, ...thirty-five years old and look at you. You’ve got to take better care of yourself. She lit a Camel and dragged deep. Pulling the cigarette from her lips, she squinted at it and thought the death wish reasserts itself...
Marie wasn’t sure why she was on Stillwell Avenue, with a September chill curling around her legs. She had dressed for a warm day: blue capris and a sheer white short-sleeved blouse. “That...” Victor said, the first time he saw it, “...is criminal.” Victor always wanted her to wear a black bra beneath the blouse. Marie thought it looked cheap and would do so only in private. Victor finally turned around and said, “I don’t smell pee. Come on... this is the new Coney Island! All fixed up!” He stepped over to Marie, took off his denim jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. She sighed and said, “When are we leaving, Vic?” Victor turned back toward the SHOOT OUT THE STAR booth and said, “One game...”
“One game my ass...” Marie said, rolling her eyes. Years ago she found Coney charming, in a crumbling, ironic way. She and Victor would do their usual circuit: Nathan’s, the Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel (a stationary car, so they could kiss) and then down 16th Street past the Thunderbolt.
“It’s like a topiary!” she’d say. “The earth is reclaiming it! Some day it’ll be completely overgrown!” Victor would smile and snap pictures as Marie posed in front of the abandoned rollercoaster. She had a soft spot for abandoned things. By sundown they’d be at Phillip’s, buying fudge for the ride home on the F train. Then Giulani came in with his bulldozers and knocked the Thunderbolt down. Marie cried for two days. Victor tried to console her: “Babe, it’s just an old rollercoaster! What’d ya think, it would be there FOREVER?!” “Why not? Why can’t one thing last forever?” Marie sobbed. Then Phillips’s went. Another day of crying.
Now she stood on Stillwell Avenue stamping her foot. “Come on, Victor! I want to get the HELL home! I don’t wanna be here when those STUPID baseball fans show up!” Marie held in special contempt those who stumbled down to Keyspan Park – Coney Island’s spanking new baseball stadium – to watch the Brooklyn Cyclones. “The whole thing is an affront!” she said, the day they revealed the name of the new Minor League club in the Daily News. “They knock down the Thunderbolt and replace it with the Cyclones! Then they sell the name of the park to the highest bidder! What kind of crap is THAT?!”
PSSST. PSSST. PSSST. Five air-rifles, styled after Thompson submachine guns, chained to the counter and fed via pink umbilicals, sat whispering to Victor. He ambled over and grabbed the gun in the center. It had a satisfying heft and smelled of machine oil. Pressing the stock to his cheek, he shut his left eye and sighted down the length of the barrel. He’d been at this since 1971, when a hundred shots cost a quarter. That first year his grandmother and his Aunt Isabel brought him and his brother Nate. They spent the day riding go-carts and bumper cars, Nana and Iz watching patiently. Nothing else seemed open. Or maybe he and his brother were too young for the other rides. Victor remembered the stench of the place and the garbage everywhere. And how, on one go-cart track, he mistook the gas for the brake and plowed into a wall at top speed. The steering wheel rammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. After he finally caught his breath, Aunt Iz dragged him and Nate down Riegelman’s Alley, to The World in Wax Musee. Out front, a smiling Nat “King” Cole, enshrined in a three-sided glass case, silently withstood the indignity of an old drunk woman pounding on the glass, wailing, “So young, Nat! Why did you have to die so young?! Why?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE SO YOUNG?!” A hidden speaker blared They tried to tell us we’re too young – too young to really fall in love... The drunk held herself against the glass and cried. Nate marched right past her but Victor hung back Then Aunt Iz – who liked butter pecan ice cream and any roadside attraction – said, “I’ll be right behind you. It’ll be fun!” Victor shuffled around the woman. They bought tickets and slipped inside. It was dark and cool. Pools of white light illuminated the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Laurel and Hardy. But the “world” of the World in Wax Musee consisted mostly of murderers. From Jack the Ripper to a hooded executioner to the Boston Strangler – there were many bad men doing many bad things. To Victor, no tableau was more frightening than that of Richard Speck’s nursing student murder spree. He stood, bloody knife in hand, seeking his sixth victim as she cowered beneath her bed, hidden from his view. Victor couldn’t wait to be back in the sunlight.
“Victor! What the HELL?!” Marie stamped her foot and folded her arms across her chest. “Just let me do this...” He slapped down six quarters. “You NEVER get it, Victor. You NEVER shoot out the damn star!” The bored-looking black guy behind the counter cradled a cellphone between his chin and shoulder, picked up a two-foot tube of BBs, emptied it into a hole in the butt of the gun and swept the quarters from the counter into his apron. Victor began as he always did, with three quick squeezes on the trigger, to check windage. The gun went PLICK PLICK-PLICK. “Christ, these BBs are all over the place!” he laughed. The attendant ignored him and spoke dirty into his cellphone.
The 4” x 5” target hung from a clip attached to the far end of a clothesline twenty feet long. An angled metal backdrop deflected the BBs into a reservoir, where they’d be collected during down time. Then the attendant placed them, one by one, back into the feed tubes. Victor’s strategy was always the same: to try and shoot a surgically precise outline of the red star, thereby removing it completely from the white background. The secret was to make each BB count. “Shit!” said Victor. A stray BB tore through the far upper right quadrant of the target, where it could be of no use. Keep it tight, keep it tight Victor muttered to himself. At stake was one of the giant stuffed cartoon animals hanging overhead: a knock-off Lion King, an ersatz Coca-Cola Polar Bear and a Sylvester-esque cat. Victor wondered if they were filled with the shredded clothes of executed Chinese dissidents. “Vic, just shoot already and let’s GO!” said Marie. Victor remembered how when they first started coming to Coney she’d join him on an adjacent gun. Her method was to blast away indiscriminately, get it over quickly. Victor would shake his head and plug away.
Victor kept squeezing off shots methodically. CLINK-PING. CLINK-PING. CLINK-KA-PING. He was most of the way around the star when the gun went PSSSHHHHHH. PSSSHHHHH. Empty. He pulled the trigger again to be sure. PSSSHHHHHH. The attendant stuck the cellphone under his chin and tugged on the clothesline, slinging the target forward. Then he unclipped it and waved it at Victor, pointing out the shred of red ink and the legend below: MUST SHOOT OUT ALL OF STAR. “Yeah, yeah – I know.” Victor said. He grabbed the target from the attendant’s hand, folded if carefully and stuck it in his breast pocket. He had a stack just like them at home. “FUCK!” said Victor.
“Can we go now?!” Marie asked, hurriedly lighting another cigarette. “Just one more, hon. I know I can get you Sylvester up there.” Marie looked up at the huge black and white stuffed cat and said, “Goddamnit, Victor! That thing’s a piece of junk!” The attendant interrupted his phone conversation to scowl at her. “No offense...” she quickly added, “... but I don’t want it. Vic, let’s just get out of here!”” Victor slammed two dollars down on the counter. “Vic, come on... you’re not...” Before Marie could finish, the attendant had fed another tube of BBs into Victor’s gun and slapped down fifty cents change. Then he went back to his cellphone conversation. Victor squeezed off three shots between the first and second points of the star, found his aim and again worked counter-clockwise. The BBs pinged against the backdrop. Around the fourth point and halfway to the fifth the gun ran dry.
“SHIT!” Vic slammed the gun down on the counter. The attendant jumped up, saying, “Hey, man – watch that shit!”
“Sorry. Sorry, man. I’m sorry. It’s just... I was so CLOSE!” The attendant reeled in the target, handed it to Victor. The star hung by half an inch of paper. “Jesus, Marie! Look at this!” Victor said. The attendant clipped on a new target and went back to his corner and his cellphone. Marie threw her cigarette down and walked over. She took the target from Victor and examined it. Calmly, quietly, she said, “Vic, listen. This is as close as you’re gonna come. Really. It’s almost all the way there. But I don’t think this can be done...” She leaned over and whispered, “I think the fix is in on this one, honey.” The attendant looked up from his cellphone and glared at her. He turned to Victor and said, “I’ll let you go again for a buck...” It was beginning to get dark. Cyclones fans flowed like zombies toward the stadium. The street lights came on. “Vic...” Marie pleaded, tugging on his arm. Victor remembered his Aunt Isabel, tugging on the same arm, saying, “Vic… you can’t win this game. I’m not giving you another quarter to throw away. It’s what they call ‘rigged’, dear. That means you can’t ever win. Do you understand?”
“Why would they do that, Aunt Iz?” Victor asked, tears running down his cheeks. “Why would they have a game you could never win?” Marie grabbed him, tried dragging him away. He shook her off. “Look, I know this sounds stupid.” he said. “I know you’ll never believe me. But I can do this. I can shoot out that FUCKING star! I can...”
“Jesus, Vic...” Marie said. “I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you’re gonna keep throwing your money away...” Victor slapped a single down on the counter. The attendant got up and re-filled the gun, grabbing the dollar. Marie shut her eyes and heard the PLINK-PLINK, PLINK-PLINK-PLINK of Victor’s exploratory shots. When she looked again, Victor was making good progress. One red triangle remained. PLINK. KA-PLINK. PLINK. KA-PLINK. Victor tried to take single shots but it was impossible. The gun always spat out a fusillade. Attempting to lighten the mood, he turned to Marie and said, “This is not a precision instrument.” Marie grimaced. PLINK. KA-PLINK. All that remained was a sliver of paper two BBs wide. Victor hunkered down, pulled the trigger and heard PSSSHHHH. “SON OF A BITCH!!!” he yelled, slamming the gun down. “SON OF A BITCH!” “Hey!” shouted the attendant. “I’m not gonna tell you about that again. You break that goddamned gun, you’ll be paying a lot more than a buck-fifty!”
“Yeah, okay. Okay, okay. Sorry. Sorry. Set me up again.” Victor said. The attendant did. Three more times. On each target Victor left a slip of disqualifying red. “That’s it!” said Marie. “I’m getting the HELL out of here! You can stay here all night if you want. But I’m going home.” Victor grabbed Marie by the wrist before she could get far. “Listen...” he said, “...I need a smoke...”
“A smoke? You don’t smoke.” Marie said. “You haven’t smoked in three years...”
“Yeah, I know. But I really need one now. Please? Don’t give me a hard time. I’m not gonna start up again. Really. I just... I just...” He sighed, heavy and long. Marie angrily fished a cigarette out of her pack, passed it to Victor and flicked her Zippo out at arm’s length. Victor put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned its tip into the flame. He took a long, deep drag. After french-inhaling, he blew out a thick column of smoke, turned to the attendant and said, “Listen, I have a proposition for you...” The attendant put down his cellphone and said, “Yeah?”
“Let me count the BBs.” asked Victor.
“What?” said the attendant.
“Let me count the BBs.” Victor repeated.
“Count the BBs?” the attendant asked. “What do you mean?”
“I... I’m just curious. I just want to see if it’s actually a hundred.” Victor said.
“Hey man, you better be careful. You calling me a damn liar or something?” He jerked his thumb up toward the sign. “It says a hundred fucking shots, doesn’t it?” Marie hurried over and insinuated herself between the attendant and her boyfriend. “Vic...” she whispered, “...Vic, you gotta stop this. Now. You can’t do this here. You’ll get stabbed.” She could feel the attendant fuming at her back. “Do you love me?” Victor asked.
“What?” said Marie.
“Do you love me, Marie?” The attendant backed off, shaking his head. Fucking asshole is fucking INSANE. He ended his cellphone conversation, saying, “Baby, there’s a crazy motherfucker here and I gots to go.”
“Do I love you?.” Marie tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Vic, what the hell...
Victor saw himself climbing into the Dodge, defeated, his Aunt Iz saying, “I’m sure there’s not even a hundred shots in there, Vic. That’s probably how it’s rigged.” Nate was the only one to speak all the way home. “Wait’ll Dad sees what I won!” he said, cradling a poorly painted plaster Popeye on his lap. “Wait’ll he sees THIS!” Victor noticed his Aunt begin to speak and Nana’s pre-emptive einhezena – the Maltese Evil Eye. Aunt Isabel went mute, turning her eyes back to the road.
Victor leaned close to Marie and said, “Listen, if I can knock out that star... will you marry me?” The attendant laughed. “Shit, man!” he said, “I do believe you lost your mind!”
“So do I...” said Marie.
“No, no... I know I can do this, Marie.” Victor said. I want you to believe I can. I need you to believe I can...” Victor saw his mother at the front door as the Dodge pulled up. That look on her face... Nate was the first one up the stoop. He went tearing through the house, Popeye in hand, calling, “Dad! Dad!” To no avail.
“Marie, with a hundred shots...” Victor turned to the attendant, “...a hundred shots....“ then he got down on one knee, “...and your love... I know I can do this...” Marie stood transfixed. “I’ve never seen you like this...” she said. “Damn...” said the attendant, “...I’ve never seen him like this either...”
“Just... just bet on me, Marie.” Victor said. “Come on. Just... just put your faith in me.” Marie rolled her eyes, put her hand to her brow and shook her head. “Okay. Okay.” She sighed. “You shoot out the star and I’ll marry you.” Like THAT will ever happen... Then she turned to the attendant and said, “What’s your name?” The attendant, stunned, answered, “Byron.” Marie held out her hand. “Byron, my name’s Marie.” Byron shook her hand, suspicious. “This crazy bastard here is Victor.” Victor rose slowly and stuck out his right hand. Byron shook it, warily, and said, “All these years you been coming here...“
“Nice to meet you... finally.” Victor said.
“Byron, listen...” Marie spoke slowly, like she was talking a man down from a ledge. “...I know this isn’t standard procedure. And – ordinarily – I wouldn’t DREAM of asking this...” Byron shifted his stance. Marie continued, “...but you can see these aren’t ordinary circumstances...”
“Yeah...” Byron said, looking Victor up and down.
“...so I was hoping... I was wondering... and this is in no way ANY reflection on you or your establishment... if Vic here could count the next tube of BBs.” Marie reached into her purse and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Shit.” said Byron. “Shit, I ain’t supposed to do that...” Byron slipped the ten into his back pocket. “Okay, okay...” he said, grabbing one of the tubes and dumping it out on the counter. Vic quickly began feeding the BBs, one by one, into the butt of the gun, counting as he did: “ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-FIVE....”
“Uh, listen man... I’m already making a HUGE exception for you here.” Byron said. “You mind counting SILENTLY?”
“Oh.. yeah... sure. Sorry.” Victor replied. He resumed at SIX and left Byron and Marie smiling at each other, making small talk.
“So... what are you gonna take if he gets it?” asked Byron.
“Take?” Marie shrugged.
“Yeah, take...” Byron said, pointing upwards at the stuffed animals.
“OH! Oh... I don’t know... I guess... Sylvester?” Marie said.
“Sylvester?” Byron said, puzzled.
“Yeah, Sylvester. Sylvester the Cat?” Marie answered.
“Is that who that is?” said Byron. “Shit... All this time I thought that was Felix...”
“No, no... Felix is a whole other cat...” Marie said.
“Yeah, so is your boyfriend! He’s a whole OTHER cat!” They laughed. Victor, immersed in his counting, didn’t notice. When he was done, Marie said, “Okay, keep us in suspense why don’t you?”
“One hundred and two.” Victor said, glumly.
“I TOLD YOU!” laughed Byron. “I told you it wasn’t no gyp! I should make you give me those two extra BBs!”
“Okay, okay...” Victor said, chagrined. Marie stepped over and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you.” she said. “And I believe in you.” Victor took a deep breath and set his stance. He pulled the trigger. PLINK-PLINK-PLINK. He got his bearings and continued, as always, counter-clockwise. PLINK-PLINK-KA-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK. Marie bit her lip. Byron leaned toward the target. KA-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-KA-PLINK. The BBs tore through the paper, creating a perforation that ran from point to point.
PLINK-PLINK-P-PLINK. Marie closed her eyes. I can’t look. Byron thought This motherfucker is gonna do it.... the first time I ever seen anyone actually shoot out the fuckin’ star... Victor slowed his pace. P-PLINK-P-PLINK. P-PLINK-P-PLINK. He held his breath and thought about Nate and Popeye and the empty spaces where his father’s things had been.
PLINK. P-PLINK. PLINK. All day. They kept us away all day. PLINK. PLINK-PLINK. P-PLINK. He was almost there. He rounded the fifth point of the star. Marie stared through her fingers. Byron was still. One rivulet of red remained. PLINK-PLINK-PLINK. Then PSSSHHHHH. PSSSHHHHH. PSSSHHHH. Victor shut his eyes and slumped down on the counter. Marie went over to Victor and laid herself across his back, hugging him. Byron grabbed the clothesline and reeled the target up. Quickly he tore off the offending crimson. Then he yelled, “Holy shit! Holy shit! You did it!” A small crowd of Cyclones fans stopped in their tracks and murmured to each other. Victor stood up and grabbed the target from Byron, holding it up in front of himself. He stared at the space where the star used to be. No trace of red remained. He held the target up for Marie to see and yelled “I did it!”
Byron slapped his hand down on the counter, saying, “You did it! You TORE THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH UP!” Marie put a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Thank you.” she whispered. Byron pulled down a Sylvester and passed it to Marie. “It’s huge” she said, swinging it by its tail at Victor. He lost his balance and flopped onto his back. Byron and the Cyclones fans laughed. Staring up from Stillwell Avenue, Victor saw the faint stars of the dippers, big and small. He held up an imaginary BB gun and went “POP POP POP!” Marie knelt down and kissed him, saying, “Let’s go, fiance...”
“Fiance?” Victor said, furrowing his brow.
“WE HAVE A WINNER HERE, FOLKS!!!” Byron shouted. “WE HAVE A WINNER HERE! YOU CAN BE A WINNER, TOO...”
Coney Island lover here, from way back. Superb, Chris! I didn't know you wrote fiction. I'll be sharing this with several fellow Coney fans, be sure.
Posted by: Parq | July 25, 2005 at 11:25 AM
Great story !! I just got back from NY two days ago for my 33rd birthday...guess what i did while i was in Coney Island ? Shoot out the star ! I've loved that game since i was a kid. Thanks for the memories!
Posted by: Steve | November 19, 2006 at 03:35 AM
Thanks for this. I really like what you've posted here and wish you the best of luck with this blog and thanks for sharing.
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Posted by: maviyan | December 26, 2012 at 10:41 AM