coney island — Blog

Managing Editor Lauren Stanzione shares a short story following the timeline of a young Italian-American couple's relationship in their hometown of Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY. Themes of young lust, anger, and violence.

Brandi looked like Snooki.

That’s what the principal said. You gotta stop dressing like Snooki. We don’t like you dressing like Snooki. Brandi didn’t care. She lived by the beach. She would be Snooki if she wanted to be Snooki. No pleasure was more abundant than a cheetah-printed push-up bra bought by her mother. Rico would come up behind her, cupping her like a vase that was not delicate but was rather handmade, sturdy pottery. Etruscan pottery. Rico called himself that, an Etruscan. Brandi didn’t know what that meant. Nor did it bother her. She didn’t care about that much. Besides the boardwalk. Coney Island. Rico. And her look. She very much cared about her look.

If an Estrucan was Rico, they must be beautiful, sculpted by something out of this world, and work the clam bake. Tall, tanned from head to toe, gentile locks smelling of his father’s guido hair gel and rough comb. Big smile, big laugh, big hands, she knew what that meant when she saw him at the register two years ago, with the boardwalk noise and the guns; there were always guns. When he had given her a sideways look, those arms, shoulders, and said ciao bella. She hadn’t looked him in the eye; she was Snooki in Brooklyn, why would she. But she knew. Under the hours of festival upkeep, Brandi knew her heart was molten, gooey within an urn. She desired to look into him so deeply, her fingers would be rooted in his ribs, caught in the webs of bone until she died.

Rico gave her a free granita from the back, crafted by his father in his old Italian age. He told her to come back when everyone was gone, around twelve. Brandi didn’t like hanging around too long. Her Dad was dead. She didn't want to see him anytime soon.

Brandi ate her clams. The other neighborhood girls clicked their toes, false eyelashes irritating their lids and spurring on crankiness. Let's ride the Ferris Wheel, said Brandi, holding onto bleached hair from the box, one of her friend’s new looks. No, the girls said. We’re going home.

She and Rico made out on the metal grate against the Cyclone. Had sex in the empty gelato parlor. It wasn’t great. But held potential. He was big. And strong. He liked to hold her face, tracing it in swirls of sweat and peppermint spit. It was the first time anyone had touched her cheek, jaw, chin, hair. Rico left covered in tan foundation. He stopped wearing wife beaters around then.

After that was a lot of hand holding, jumping from one side of dislodged planks to the other, and sharing chicken tenders on the sand. Brandi became a scooper in the summers. Ice cream sweet, decadent, which Rico would lick off when the children all went home. Clam boy Sicilian, Scooper Snooki. College-aged non-college-goer sweethearts.

Rico’s Dad, who was almost eighty, needed money. Rico’s mother was just shy of her forty-first birthday. Their inherent distance created odd tensions.

But Leonardo, Rico’s dad, he made very good fish. Especially on the feast of the seven fishes, December 24th, Christmas Eve. Brandi attended with Rico one year; everyone forgot her name and looked at her weirdly. Why'd they look at me like that? She asked, undressing. Rico watched her. Swallowed. Looked out the window, which was frosted over. It’s all that shit on your face, he replied. The fucking lashes. And the tits, did you have to keep the tits for my family? Clasico intonation, ragey with a smile. That was Rico.

Rico boxed her against the wall and fucked her. It was really good. Angry. He didn’t touch her face, just the cheetah bra, this one was red. For Jesus. For Christmas! She would never put the tits away. She liked them too much.

A summer. Two. Twentieth birthday, Rico still needed money. He started doing cheap shit, selling his father’s things. Stealing. Rico was incredible at stealing. His smile, trusting, that's how he reeled them in. He would find a watch, or diamonds, or both, he was smart like that, scouting out rich goers and offering services of cleaning, plumbing, air conditioning assistance; Rico was as handy as a father. Once, her sink broke, and he had taken his whole hand, that gargantuan Sicilian hand, and shoved it down there with the dirtiness; it reminded her of when he would try to finger her. But more erotic. Way more. He was sweaty, his black shirt straining his organs, his gentlemanly mouth, his laugh which refracted from the metal to her ears. The sound reminded her how much she loved him when he would watch her in the morning, her back against his chest, his hands playing her spine like an antique piano. He was, of course, very good at the piano. Billy Joel, but more sightly. And Rico’s creations, one can not forget: tomatoes, bread, cheese, olive oil; he was lean and ancient and Mediterranean, an Olympian in a poor man’s body. And always, the boardwalk. He would point oddballs out, jowly men. He knew what to say to make her laugh, always. Sitting on the sand, forgotten towel, melting makeup. He always brought his mother’s makeup wipes in his bag for her on those days. He knew she would forget, with the makeup doing, bikini choosing, shoe walking, jewelry selecting, how was there time and space to remember?

Rico got caught. Eventually. But this time, it was someone in the neighborhood. Witler. Brandi told Rico not to steal. What do they tell you, Rico, they tell you not to; she nagged and nagged and nagged, went through vanilla bean and rose petal and pistachio sunrise and orange cream, these were all the body sprays she went through in the three months before Rico died. The last one. Cherry. He loved cherries, tearing the stems from the body and swallowing them whole, pit and all, lips stained red, laugh dark and fragrant. She bought it for him, but he never inhaled it. He never knew she cared that much, that she would scoop to buy things for him, that she would scoop for him, and that night, she stole, she stole her mother's watch and had six hundred dollars, enough for Leonardo’s medicine, she should have said more. She should have told Rico to fuck off when he said that thing about her tits on seven fishes. She should have said goodbye then. The Cherry body spray wouldn't be sitting here, on her dresser, red, bloodied.

Rico wanted to take her to the fair. They had fought. Just about Witler. Don’t go stealing from Witler, Brandi commanded as she pressed her magenta acrylics deep into his bicep, leaving little moons. Fine. Fine, I’m not going to steal from Witler. I hope you're happy when my dad fucking dies. Brandi just rolled her eyes, watching the reflection of her fake eyelashes in her peripheral vision. She should have worn more lashes, an indication to Rico to fuck off. They went to play some games. She huffed and puffed, rolling her eyes: pink heels, pink skirt, white tank, pink tits, khaki skin. Hair crackled and straightened until it fried. Bubble gum, sweet, she moved it between her teeth. She told Rico he didn’t have to win her anything. Really, he didn’t need to. But he insisted. Don't tell me what to do, Rico said, his arms and hands playing a game with the air. But he laughed. I’m getting you that penguin. I’m gonna get you the fucking penguin.

Even when she was angry with him, and he was being his Siciliani stubborn self, she loved to watch him. His neck was sugary and burnt. His back, curved, croissant-like, flaky, tan. Legs, long, so long. Laugh, deepest thing... A joy so palpable, something she wished she recorded and could play on a loop. I don’t care, she had been repeating this as a mantra to herself. I don’t care. I’m Snooki of Coney Island. I don’t care about Rico. I don’t. Fuck him. He tossed the rings. One ring. Two. Six. One away. He was one away.

Witler, up behind her. "Hey, sexy," he whispered, hand on her lower back. He had pimples, blond hair, and blue eyes—the dead kind. He reminded her of the Hudson. He was always sunburnt, even in December. He was a heavy breather, Irish, used to bring beef jerky to lunch, and had a powerful handshake. Everyone knew not to mess with him.

Witler slithered past her. He dug into his pockets. Tapped Rico on the shoulder. Rico turned, expecting Brandi. Witler shot him. Rico died.

At the funeral, she kept her tits away. That was the last time anyone saw her, Brooklyn graveyard, Avenue U. Her mascara blackened her face, charcoal toothpaste reminiscent. Her lashes in the grass. Heels, muddied. Tan melted away. There was no Rico to provide wipes. Rico was dead.