The Mirror

The Belt Parkway girdles the belly of Brooklyn like a belt years too short, squeezing the
overflow of middle aged obesity. We flow on this ribbon of asphalt and concrete bordering the
Narrows until we exit onto the sand spit known as Coney Island. My mind wanders back to
another age. The mirror was kind then, and fun. Especially those in the amusement parks of my
youth.
The salt in the air heralds the approach to the ocean. In the distance rising above the
horizon on this brisk fall day, are the mechanical relics of the amusement parks. The slender
curves of the parachute jump appear through the filter of ocean mist, and the large circles of the
once great Ferris wheel seems to be suspended in mid air.
The boarded up amusements along Surf Avenue parallel the expanse of boardwalk,
extending from Brighton Beach to ritzy Sea Gate, the gated community at the western end of
Coney Island. The faded signs still advertise the alligator boy and the bearded lady, whose 5
minute cameo appearances on the street stages, remain only in the memory of those who stood
20 deep, wide eyed and open mouthed, waiting to confirm the freak show characters in the back
room exhibit area.
The Mardi Gras Movie Theater that served sarsaparilla and hot dogs at saloon tables is
gone. The screen was reserved for Tom Mix, Buck Jones, Roy Rogers and the Wild West.
Cowboys and Indians, sheriffs, marshals and outlaws galloped across the rugged plains of the
Midwest, when good was easily distinguished from bad, and the good always defeated the bad.
Baba loved the cowboy movies. It was the only memory I have of being together with
grandmother one on one.
The original Nathans hot dog stand, still remains. Melted cheese replaced ketchup on
the large steak sized French cut fried potatoes. They were piled into paper cone containers and

The Mirror

covered with salt. It was the hot dogs, the chow mien sandwich on a bun and the barbecued beef
sandwich that drew the crowds. The servers shouted their wares and tonged the deliciously
spiced hot dogs onto the buns at a dizzying speed. Yellow mustard was dolloped onto the hot
dog from a large spatula attached to the unscrewed top of the mustard container. The smell of
souring bread from discarded buns remains vividly impressed on my senses. I have always
wondered how a smell remains lingering in the archives of my brain.
The boardwalk opens onto a vast oceanic horizon. The flying sentinels of the ocean sit
perched atop the cobra light poles lining the steel pipe railing. The benches provided vistas of
hope, mystery, constant change, and endless constancy, to young, old, infirm, rich and poor,
without discrimination. There is something cleansing about the ocean as each wave transfers its
energy into a white capped curl, dissolving the shore.
The wooden planks remember my footsteps. It has been a long time yet embedded into
the grain of the worn treated planks, is my past life. The salt air fills my nostrils with a tinge of
the denizens that are carried just beneath the waves. It is still morning. There are few people, or
they remain unnoticed. Without purpose, yet clearly directed by subconscious thoughts, I find
myself at the base of what was a misty landmark from the Belt Parkway. The curved steel of the
parachute drop rises quickly to the skeleton umbrella, 200 feet from the ground that once
released screaming daredevils to the spring braced landing at the boardwalk level. Beyond the
wind, the air is silent except for the clanging of the guide cables, dangling useless in their
obsolescence. A dogs howl echoes off the rusting steel, poignantly emphasizing the purposeless
existence of this once great adventure.
Lingering on the currents of the ocean breezes, just beyond the parachute drop are the
ghosts of other adventures, whose physical reality is no longer present. I close my eyes to

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recapture the memory of one of the greatest thrills of my life, Steeplechase Amusement Park.
One of two amusement parks in the Coney Island of my youth, Luna Park, the second, both
captured my imagination as the highlight of my early remembering.
The graceful sweep of the steel monorail tracks, carried the carousel horses, that gave the
name to the park, out above the boardwalk, guiding them over gentle hills, descending with their
daring riders into an enclosed hall that led them, down an inclined passage onto a stage, creating
exciting theater for tired amusement park patrons. A jet of air at the bottom of the inclined plane
blew the skirts up of the unsuspecting young ladies, to the delight of the audience filled with GI
Joes, sailors and young kids. A clown dressed as a farmer chased steeplechase riders into a stage
doghouse with a cattle prod. The farmers companion, a clown clothed dwarf, used a paddle to
chase the riders all over the stage until they managed to escape across a bridge of moving plates.
The Steeplechase Amusement Park was a state of mind; a collection of illusions
assembled to challenge and test the mental courage of the young and old park visitors. There
were no sophisticated computer created thrills. Instead, the great hall carrying the lingering
sharp essence of ozone created by sparks generated by the bumper cars contactor as it scraped
the steel electrified netting above the enclosed battle field, contained waxed corkscrew slides,
ending on spinning discs, or a mountain slide with waxed bumps, that left the young and
courageous gliders with proud thigh burns, as souvenirs of their bravery.
The wedding ring, a huge wooden ring thirty to forty feet in diameter suspended by guide
wires attached to a center pole, was rotated in a rising and falling circle, by four tank suited
strong men. Seated on the circumference of the ring, the screaming passengers rose and fell as
they were propelled around their circular path.

The Mirror

The entrance of the park greeted visitors with a revolving barrel of young and old
adventurers, attempting to meet the challenge of passage. Young girls laughed gleefully, skirts
over their heads, as on-looking servicemen, waited their turn to tumble through the barrel.
Even the entry pass, carried the mischievous tooth filled smile of George, on a polygonal
ticket punched as each ride was taken. George, whose slick black hair parted directly in the
middle, displayed a mouthful of white teeth, in a leering grin. Across the street from the Parks
entrance, was the RKO movie theater owned by George Tilyou, the showman founder of the
Steeplechase Amusement Park. We would spend many hours searching the streets for unpunched
tickets, allowing us to take additional trips on rides, if we could gain entrance to the Park.
Occasionally, the mounted police from the barracks on 15th street would hand out tickets to us
free of charge. They seemed like giants in their beautiful uniforms atop the brown stallions.
I barely reached the first bulge in the wavy mirror. My short pants, exposing bare knees,
compressed in a distortion, along with the wide toothless grin, stretched into a narrow horizontal
opening kept open just large enough for my extended tongue, by my fingers in each corner of my
mouth. This was my earliest memory of myself, awakened from the womb and the beginning of
life.
My Coney Island was a range of fantasies. Our life on 15th street between Mermaid and
Surf Avenues centered in a walk up apartment house adjacent to Gargulios Restaurant. Summers
were spent sleeping on the fire escape to seek refuge from the stifling heat inside. Entertainment
generally came from peering into the large windows of the restaurant that held bawdy parties
well into the night.
The alley separating the apartment house from the restaurant was the source of
mysterious nighttime adventures. I flew in an enclosed space ship through a tunnel connecting

The Mirror

the alley to the street, escaping witches and faceless kidnappers of children. The spaceship was
protection against all creatures and all evil. Occasionally, I would dream of climbing the steps of
the darkened hallway to our apartment followed by a mysterious shrouded shadow. My escape
was to stop on a step and curl into a small unnoticeable ball, waiting for the apparition to leave.
Our apartment consisted of three small rooms and a bathroom. Three children and two
adults never strayed far from one another. This was the age of imagination. The evening radio
programs, Captain Midnight and the Ovaltine decoder badge for secret messages, Mandrake the
Magician, the Lone Ranger and his faithful sidekick Tonto, and the Shadow, created adventures
never possible on television. The evening was filled with mystery and the frightening stories
from the Witches Tales, dramatic recreations of the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe, such as
Tell Tale Heart, or Nathaniel Hawthorns House of Seven Gables, or the mystery adventure I
Love a Mystery, created marvelous nightmares to ride my protective space ship through the
perilous journeys of my stimulated minds eye. We all created our own illusions as we law on
our stomachs in front of the tall radios speaker spellbound by the audio weavers of fear.
My father was rarely home while I was awake, except on Sunday. He drove a cab
through the streets of Manhattan, usually leaving the apartment at noon, and not returning until 1
or 2 AM. Sundays were usually days for outings in the taxicab. On special occasions, we would
see a show at the Radio City Music Hall, or the Roxy Theater. Horn and Hardart served our
dining needs and fascinated me with the milk fountain that metered the milk into a glass placed
below the gargoyle shaped spout for one nickel. Horn and Hardart was an institution that
appeared to serve the displaced as well as it served to entertain the unsophisticated travelers.
Our trips to Manhattan were varied between the entertainment excursions with the trips to
my fathers parents on the Lower East Side. Grandpa was the owner of a kind of variety store

The Mirror

that served the needs of those on the edge of poverty. Grandma was in the last throws of
diabetes, losing eyesight and only a veiled presence in my memory. Broken dishes, left shoes
without a match, occasionally used insulin syringes were available for sale to the Gypsies that
frequented the store on Rivington Street, and bargained for anything they purchased. Their
flowing silk garments added color to the otherwise drab interior.
Grandpa wore the trappings of an Orthodox Jew. I could always expect him to bite my
cheek as he tested my ability to read from a prayer book. My Hebrew lessons had not yet begun
in earnest, to prepare me for my bar mitzvah. I can still remember the wire feel of his cheeks as
he kissed me. Time had no meaning. We traveled through unlimited continuum, without change.
Grandmas death never left me. I remember being in the bedroom of the roach infested walk up
near Canal Street that was home to my fathers parents. She passed quietly as I watched, never
losing the image.
While my early memories of dad were limited, I knew he was congenial and friendly.
Perhaps too friendly to suit my mom, who was constantly exasperated when Max stopped to talk
to neighbors. There may have been more reason for her to be concerned by the late hours of the
evening cab driver.
Mom represented the symbolic Jewish mother, pessimistic, neurotic yet in many ways
overbearing. I rarely recall a smile on her face. She seemed to bear the weight of the world.
Times were difficult, it is true. We had little money for luxury, yet we were not in poverty.
Those days were over before I was born. Ketchup and hot water served as tomato soup, and a
lunch of spinach, mashed potato and a soft-boiled egg, became a hearty meal. She performed all
the functions of a dutiful wife and mother and complained bitterly to Max, that he did not try
hard enough to make more money. There were always the comparisons to other taxi drivers.

The Mirror

Ray was always at odds with other family members, sensitive to slights and always
bearing grudges. She remained a martyr all her life. Rarely was discipline meted out physically.
I can remember her threats to leave me if I was disobedient. Her threats included the suggestions
of suicide if I persisted in my discordant behavior. I quickly learned conformity was vital for
maintaining the calm of mother. Unfortunately, I did not have the will of a conformist. Youngest
of the three children, I tested the limits of our constraints. Little did I know that the martyr
complex was transferable.
The Friday evening Sabbath meal was usually at mothers parents home in Bensonhurst
Brooklyn. Zeda became my idol and true mentor for my religious emotional attachment. Babas
home was kosher, and it served as the site of Passover Seders and Sabbath meals. While
grandma maintained the religious trappings at home, she would not hesitate to accompany our
family to a Sunday lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Zeda never proselytized, but practiced his
religion for himself. He was kind and without great presentation, had a warmth that exposed his
inner love. He defined the Yiddish word mensch.
The Passover Seder was generally a gathering for the entire family. Zeda conducted the
service in Yiddish and Hebrew read from a well-worn Hagadah. Most of the family waited
patiently, for a few minutes then pressed Zeda to speed the reading of the historic exodus from
Egypt, as quickly as he could. As the youngest boy, I would read the four questions, until the
next younger child replaced me.
Preparation for Passover was always a major event. Two new sets of dishes taken from
storage, one set for meat and the other for dairy meals, all koshered for Passover. Grandmother
made a sweet wine from yellow raisins crushed and squeezed through fine cheesecloth. It was
always great fun, collecting the chumeth (bread crumbs) around the apartment, then with a final

The Mirror

ceremonial collection in a wooden spoon, and a feather to dust off the window sills, the
remaining crumbs were burned with a candle.
My early education at public school was at P.S. 70 on 19th Street. The school had one
entrance for girls and one for boys. We generally lined up in single files by height. I was usually
at the front of the line. Obedient, serious and fearful of being scolded by the teachers, I generally
was the class monitor, doing errands for the teacher, distributing workbooks, or collecting papers
from the other kids. My great desire to please my teachers led to one problem that remains
entwined in the crevices of my cortex. At the end of a class session, I was asked by my teacher,
in kindergarten, Mrs. Fryman, little Mrs. Fryman, since we had a big Mrs. Fryman in the first
grade, to collect the work books. I had to go to the bathroom very badly, however, admitting that
I could not perform the task, would have allowed some other student to assume the role I was
selected for. Unfortunately, I misjudged my bladder capability and wet my pants and the floor, to
the delight of the other kids in the class.
P.S. 70 was the venue of my first amorous adventure. She was a beautiful raven-haired
temptress, who accepted kisses on the cheek; I slyly applied in the recesses of the clothes closet.
This was the age of tolerance for such affectionate tokens. It was probably the only tolerance
that society displayed.
The reflections in the mirrors and the glass windows of the corner lingerie shop were all
white, or Mediterranean sallow. Black faces do not appear in my memory bank and interaction
was practically non existent. Jews and Italians lived in hypocritical harmony together. My best
friend, Frances, invited me into his apartment for spaghetti dinners and his father read us the
comics on Sunday mornings. The Catholic Schools preached the message of Jewish culpability
for the crucifixion of Christ to the school children, while Jews snickered at the goyisha kopfs of

The Mirror

the ignorant Italians. Always done behind the backs of each group. We were cheap, wealthy and
greedy, while they were criminals and laborers who rarely amounted to much in society. All
behind each others backs and on the other side of a gracious smile.
Such were the mirrors of my Coney Island. The summers passed slowly, and the
strangers in the mirror were paid little attention. We left Coney Island for Bensonhurst, in my
third grade of school. It was traumatic for me, as was all change. Time was still continuous.