CONEY ISLAND BOARDWALK. A gray Sunday morning, maybe 10:00 a.m. The boardwalk is impossibly empty, which helps indicate that this moment doesn’t really exist. A man, STUIE, MY FATHER, sits on a bench facing the water, the closed-down booth that still has the “Bearded Lady” sign behind him. He’s reading the sports section of the Daily News. In front of him, two seagulls fight over a used diaper. A very fat man, JOEL, HIS FATHER, MY GRANDFATHER, sits next to him, to his right, pulling his slacks up at the thigh. He’s smoking a cigarette, Lucky Strike. They look near the same age, STUIE a little older. Same broad face, the kind of face that makes for cute boys and boyish men. Same upper lip, a bit too big.
STUIE:
It’s a boring story, really. [Pause.] Maybe that’s not the best choice of words. It’s just a story we’ve heard before. That doesn’t make it bad, right? It’s just, you know, I’m old. It’s harder to feign patience.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.