Roman Holiday

chapter Ten

The Strand smells like old cigarette smoke and greasy fair food. Vendors hawking painted conch shells and oriental fans litter the boardwalk in front of old retro diners and ice cream shops, beach museums and gaming pits. The entire boardwalk is built on rotten planks of wood hovering precariously over the waves. I used to be scared one of the planks would break and I'd fall into the ocean, but I think they replace the rotten boards with fresh ones every so often.

"Didn't there used to be a roller coaster here?" Roman asks, frowning at the expanse of weeds and dirt that takes up an entire block.

"Yeah," I reply, shrugging. "They tore it down. Owners couldn't afford to keep it open...but I think the roller coaster moved to another amusement park down the street."

"The really small one with the weird kid rides?" He makes a face.

"I know, right? Ghastly."

"I hate that everything changes." He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking across the hills of grass and dirt that used to the The Pavilion. "Sort of unfair, you know? Everything changes and suddenly you feel like one of those bent puzzle pieces."

"Yeah," I reply, surprised because we feel the same way, and set my eyes down the Strip of colored lights and people, "unfair."

At night, the strip turns into a whirling, twisting stream of lights and colors. Carnival bulbs and neon lights illuminate everything as the pops and hisses and boings and whirs of games and cooking grease and children playing skeet ball crash together in idiosyncratic harmony. When was the last time I came to the Strand? I can't remember.

Maybe it was when the magic of deep-fried Oreos wore off, or maybe it was when I realized that the carnival games were rigged, and the moving statues that line the boardwalk are really people.

Everything is achingly familiar, as if I can just turn around and Dad will be right behind me, asking to shag at the bandstand or share a corndog. It was on this boardwalk that he taught me how to dance, my feet atop his, as we shimmied to "Good Rockin’ Tonight" and "Brown Eyed Girl." Do they even play shag music on the Strand at night anymore?

I rub the ache in my chest, hoping Roman doesn't notice, and lean against the railing. Waves knock against the boardwalk, trash mixed with the flotsam and jetsam. A flock of seagulls swoops overhead, picking abandoned French fries and corndogs off the ground.

He leans against the railing next to me, and spits over the edge. Like a kid, I swear.

I turn around and gather my hair over my shoulder. “What’s it like singing in front of a crowd?”

"Odd question. What brought this up?"

I shrug. "My family owns a bar—the Silver Lining. Bands play there sometimes, and I've just wondered. I'm a shitty singer, and I can't play an instrument worth my life, so I'll never know."

"That's an odd name for a bar," he comments.

"So is Roman Holiday for a band."

He tips further over the edge of the railing, giving in. “Imagine being blinded by stage lights. Not knowing where anyone is, but you can feel a million eyes on you, staring at you, like you are the middle of the universe. And the noise...it roars." He pulls himself straight again, closing his eyes, as if he's there, imagining the sound. "It drowns out everything—absolutely everything. This sound...it's transient and consuming. I feel alive when I'm up there, Junebug, like my blood is on fire and every note just consumes me. It’s crazy.”

I cock my head. "Then why don't you go back? You and Boaz? Start over? The Madison Square gig, I'm sure you could still play."

He finally opens his eyes, and his eyebrows furrow. For a moment, I don't think he'll answer me, but then his shoulder slump a little and he shakes his head softly, as if even entertaining the idea makes him tired. "We can't always get what we want."

Timidly, I set my hand on top of his on the railing. His hand is warm and soft, as I curl my fingers into his palm. "There's a silver lining to everything," I say.

He looks down at my hand and smiles, bringing it up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. A thank you. Warmth blooms in my belly, and flushes against my cheeks. "How about some pizza?" he asks instead. "Agreeable enough?"