May 14, 2004
There’s something pleasantly depressing in the sideshow decay of Coney Island. Each surface is covered in chipping, once-bright sun-bleached paint and dead neon-signs resting idly under the noon glare. Barkers call out half-heartedly to the scattered handfuls of passerbys. “Two dollars to play, every game a winner,” but nobody plays here anymore. Nobody wins anything. Benches line the creaking boardwalk, occupied by overweight middle-aged white men, skin burned past red to an aching rust from days of watching the young women walk past. Old men with lunches of rice and beans fish from the wharf; tired bodies litter the sand.