This week has been a scorcher so we decided that since we are close to the coast, we would take advantage of Coney Island. Little did we know that all of New York had the same idea. The adventure started on the train ride there.
Sitting on the N for eight stops, Ai and I soon figured out that we will be featured in the back of a reality TV production. We cleverly named the show “Chorney Island” as we watched meatheads do pull-ups on the bars and Guidettes twirl on the poles with Grade-A film equipment capturing their every move.
When we finally made it to the station, we pushed through the crowd and tried to find a vacant square inch of the beach. I trampled half of the people in front of us when Ai spotted a shady spot under the boardwalk. We soon found out how shady it was.
After fanning out our towels and sitting next to quiet hippies and a Latina familia, the “Worst Parents in America” rolled into town with their cooler of self-medication. When their child accidentally ripped the Styrofoam cooler, the woman showed us her parenting skills through racial obscenities and hints at child abuse. Here are some of her best:
“–, I dare you to cry. If you do, I will slap the — out of you.”
“Don’t make me get up. If you do, –, you are going to regret it.”
“I am going to beat you until you can’t breathe.”
“You never do anything right. You are going to turn out to be a bigger criminal than your father. Maybe I can get my — from you.”
All the while, the Latina children were having a blast digging the biggest hole next to Ai and I that I had ever seen. All six of them vanished within fifteen minutes of digging, with tosses of sand spewing out like a sprinkler in an even rotation. We were about to jump in there with them for protection.
After an awesome grease-filled lunch that didn’t consist of hotdogs, we went to hop back on the train when we met our long-lost best friend – the NYPD.
Ironically, they were all hanging out by a donut shop. However, there was one outcast officer that was manning the subway turnstiles. He was in a bitter mood, probably because none of his colleagues invited him to Donut Time.
As we pulled to the side of him to put our shirts back on, the officer decided to yell at me as I had my shirt in hand.
“Ma’am!” he said in the most disgusted voice I had ever heard someone talk to me in.
“Yes!” I said cheerfully, naïve to the fact that I was getting reprimanded.
“Put some clothes on!”
He said it like I was the most hideous person on the beach. Like I was a monster.
I stared blankly at him and opened my arms in disbelief. “I am.” Literally, my shirt was in my hand and my bag was at my feet. “It was too crowded on the boardwalk so we came in here.”
He proceeded to give me a lesson in “decency” and didn’t stop complaining about my exposure until I got on the train.
I checked to see if I was having a Janet Jackson nip-slip or had a wedgie I wasn’t aware of (that’s impossible, by the way). However, everything was in its rightful home.
Can I just state that my bikini had the most coverage on the beach that I looked like a marm. There was a pregnant lady using her belly as a floatation device and a man whose dragon tattoos were covering more of his no-noes than his speedo.
A million comebacks went through my mind as I pulled my shirt and shorts on.
“I guess I’m not the only one with sand in their vagina today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry officer, I must be blinding you.”
“You are right, my ankles are too much.”
“Your friends are around the corner stuffing their faces like… pigs.”
I didn’t say a word though. After picking up my bag, I turned to him and smiled. “Have a great day.”
He looked back at me like he had soiled himself.
You can make me self-conscious about my glow-in-the-dark skin, my clothes being eight years old, and my solar-powered forehead. However, the last thing you can insinuate is that I’m a disgusting cow. I had more class than 99.9% of the people on the beach today. My bikini was tied so tight around my neck I was choking and walking like the Hunchback of Nortedame.
Come on, this is the girl who hates wearing white shirts because her bra might show through. Decency is not a lesson I need. In fact, I think a course in “How to Let Loose” is more appropriate.
“I’m sorry I’m so beautiful,” I complained to Ai, bitterly throwing my crap down on the train. “That you have to yell at me to get me to acknowledge your presence.”
“Amen, sister,” a girl shouted from the other end of the train as she lifted a drunken finger towards the police.
“See,” Ai said, sitting beside me. “Brooklyn has your back. And at least you know you have something in common with the police for future reference. You both run on Dunkin.”
Touché, Ai, you sarcastic twit. Touché.