Jersey Shore Magazine

J e r s e y s h o r e • F A L L / H O L I D A Y 2 0 2 0 66 HOME PORT O n a Seaside boardwalk this Labor Day, I witnessed a little boy devouring a hot dog with one hand and waving off a hungry gull with his other. It reminded me of my own childhood on the strip at Coney Island. My father would always take my little brother and me for a ride to Nathan's for a hot dog with deli mustard and sweet relish. It was his way of relaxing, a way to unwind after a week of work at the VA Hospital assisting disabled veterans with what they needed to adjust back into civilian life. The relaxing part of this day trip would sometimes dissolve with the frustration of looking for that rare parking space. Once while looking, the car behind him beeped one too many times. My dad let loose with a string of profan- ities and told us to stay in the car while he jumped out to confront the other driver. Before they could actually hurt each other, a mounted policeman broke it up and told them both to get back into their cars. After seeing two young boys in the back seat, the policeman told my dad to drive on and try to control his temper. This was my first experience with "road rage" before it had a name. After finding a parking spot, we'd walk a block or two to Nathan's, gulls crying above us and the scent of the salt sea in the air. At Nathan's, the hub bub of people overwhelmed us and voices in unfamiliar languages sur- rounded us, Spanish, Chinese, Indian… Dad told me to wait in line as he handed me two dol- lars and said, "Get one for your brother, too." He moved A Look Back by Frank Finale to another part of the long stand with my brother and ordered a Chow Mein sandwich. It was pretty horrifying in appearance, consisting of bits of chicken, celery, and onions with some kind of gooey, starchy gravy and crispy noodles sprinkled on top. I never understood why some- one would come to "Nathan's World-Famous Hot Dogs" to order a Chow Mein sandwich. Next, he would order a Rheingold beer for himself and Cokes for us. We'd find a place to sit, eat, and watch the hundreds of people in all different types of dress, from saris to bikinis, here for fun. Afterwards, we'd walk the street with all the sideshows. Dad would instruct us to stay close to him. Invariably, one of us would stop to stare at customers getting safety- bar locked into a roller coaster with wild-weather names like Thunderbolt and Cyclone, or we'd listen to a carnival barker shouting "Hurry! Hurry!" luring people into an exotic looking tent to see the beard- ed lady or a baby with two heads. Dad would backtrack a little see- ing our awestruck faces and wait awhile with us. The constant laugh- ter of the Fat Lady drove us on until we came to the heart of Coney Island, Steeplechase Park. The massive, block- long building with an all window façade had its name splayed out across its top. In front of the windows were eight rails of life- size, mechanical racehorses and their secured riders— horses rattling and riders whooping. Inside were even more amusements. The giant slide was my favorite. You had to climb steps with a railing two stories to the top platform and slide down when tapped— sliding over the polished humps and airborne down onto a spinning disc which deposited you near the exit. From there we'd beg dad, grabbing his hand and pull- ing him towards the organ music of the carousel—please, please! He would reach deep into his pants pocket and pull out a couple of quarters for tickets. Holding our tickets, my brother and I waited in line for the next ride. I'd help him mount the middle inside horse, and I would ride on the photo by Robert Clay Reed continued on page 63

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