loosie: words: Sleazy Does It

Sleazy Does It

Loosie spends a Saturday at Coney Island.

by B.D. | 2002.10.18

It's early on a Saturday afternoon but the F-train is packed. As we cruise past the lettered streets of South Brooklyn without a soul hopping off, it becomes apparent that everyone's destination is the same. We're all headed for the beach, the Boardwalk, the Cyclone, Nathan's and the mythical sleaziness that is Coney Island.

I can see the mobbed streets from the elevated train platform and the prospect of wading through the sticky throngs in ninety-degree heat is not pleasant. Today is even more crowded than usual. The Mermaid Parade, an annual festival marking the official opening of Coney Island for summer swimming, has brought out an additional assortment of freaks.

The procession, which begins on Surf Avenue and then circles back around the Boardwalk, mostly consists of festooned trucks with heavily costumed occupants. In keeping with the Mermaid theme, many of the female participants have painted themselves with glitter and have glued seashell pasties over their otherwise exposed breasts. A woman with a lousy boob-job shakes her tits and draws cheers and the attention of video cameras from the men in the crowd. Maybe it's the presence of exposed mammaries, but the policemen on the scene are unusually human. Plenty of people are guzzling from bottles of beer in plain view and the cops obviously don't care. I instantly regret not shoving a few cans of Sapporo in my knapsack.

Approximately 80% of the spectators have cameras, so getting close enough to snap a few shots of my own seems futile. I strike gold by anticipating the parade route and securing a prime position before the crowd converges. After getting a few decent flicks of guys on stilts and a dude dressed up as the Beatles' yellow submarine, I head for the Boardwalk.

By now, sweat is seeping through the fabric of my hat and my cheeks are beginning to smolder. It's truly hot as shit. The Boardwalk is filled with former parade participants, who, like myself, seem unsure as whether to leave or not. At least I'm not wearing silver paint and giant papier-mâché lobster claws. I figure I'll check out the water and slide back home.

If a vision of a one-world utopia exists, it is at the water's edge. All ethnicities, all ages and all social strata come together to enjoy the simple pleasures of sun, water and sand. The diversity of the crowd is nothing less than spectacular.

Eastern bloc ex-patriates in nut-snuggling Speedos bask on beach towels while Central American youth grapple in the cigarette-riddled sand. Mesh-hatted hipsters hike up their Diesel Jeans and amble along the shore. Underage Latinas with deceitfully voluptuous asses beckon their younger siblings into the cloudy water and Asian children gleefully throw beer cans at one another. Packs of sinewy punk rockers peel off their leather and expose their pasty, tattooed and needle tracked arms. The teenage lifeguards have cornrows and doo-rags.

Although it's just the filthy beach at Coney Island, the scene is downright inspiring. Sure, being able to co-exist for a June afternoon is completely meaningless in humanity's rich history of divisiveness and hatred, but still, the feeling of such peaceful cultural unity is not one that will quickly be forgotten. That said, the little kid who hit me with an errant clump of wet sand still deserves a ruthless beating.

Although most of the swimmers and waders wear bathing suits, countless others appear to have been drawn into the water against their best instincts. Boxer shorts, T-shirts and sports bras have turned into emergency swimming gear. Everyone knows the murky water is foul, but for people without the option of a weekend in the Hamptons, this is their only beach. And going to the beach without taking a dip is downright criminal.

The sun is merciless, but the refreshing breeze off the water almost makes me forget the sting of my rapidly burning skin. Like many others, I fall victim to the siren call of the surf. I stuff my Clark's into my backpack and walk the shoreline with my camera swinging from my neck. The reward for my beachcombing is a sunburned red triangle stenciled by my collar and three mysterious bites or bumps on my calves. Still, the foreign peacefulness of standing in the tide and feeling the sand erode from beneath my heels is worth the dermatological damage.