We started a tradition that every time I would get too critical about my ability or performance or get too in my head about a part, we would make a date and jump on the subway out to Coney Island and forget real life for at least a little while.
It’d been almost a decade since the last time I visited the old-timey amusement park, home to the notoriously rickety wooden coaster the Cyclone. Despite Marisol’s words of encouragement on all our trips, I’d never been brave enough to actually ride the ride. But the faint smell of Nathan’s hot dogs, the haunting melody of tinny carnival music, and the taste of the ocean’s salty breeze were calling to me. Maybe it was exactly the type of distraction I needed to overcome the mounting self-doubt and get out of my head.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
From the moment we met Christmas Day my freshman year at NYU when Gabe took me home to meet his family, Marisol and I became fast friends. Like her brother, she was confident and sometimes brash. She told it like it was and never made apologies, honest and loyal almost to a fault. I admired her confidence and fearlessness and used to hope that some small fraction of her self-assuredness would rub off on me, if even only by osmosis.
Back then, she was a junior at The New School studying filmmaking and, much to her brother’s chagrin, believed art was as important a calling as politics or policy making. I remember one time she and Gabe got into a particularly heated argument, which she ended by flashing a tattoo of a Tolstoy quote she’d recently gotten across her back that read, “Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is a great matter.” I don’t know what shocked him more, the sentiment or the size of the tat.
The last time we took a trip to Coney Island together had been a few days before my ill-fated Wicked audition. Marisol stood waiting for me outside Gabe’s and my apartment, wearing her iconic shit-kicking boots paired with a cute pleated miniskirt and a vintage rocker T-shirt.
“Hey!” she greeted me. “No offense, but it looks like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“More like two,” I replied with a small shrug and a side smile. “I can’t believe I’ve even made it this far. The other auditioners have agents and long résumés. I’m completely out of my league.”
“If you want to run with the big dogs, you can’t piss like a pup. You’re a freakin’ bullmastiff, you just aren’t seeing it. You will, though. All right, Coney Island, here we come!” she said, linking her arm into mine and leading me down the steps into the subway station.
An hour later, we emerged in not only another borough but a whole other world, the briny air floating off the nearby Atlantic Ocean coating the insides of our mouths and nostrils.
“What do you think? Boardwalk first, then that frog slappy game I always kick your ass in, and then we ride the Cyclone?” Marisol asked.
I raised my right eyebrow. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
“C’mon, live a little, Lawrence,” she said, guiding me toward the bright-yellow awning of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, the iconic Coney Island landmark.
Marisol marched up to the counter and ordered us each two hot dogs with the works, two Cokes, and a basket of fries to share. “Go find us a spot outside, I got this,” she said.
I reached into my pocket for a twenty. “You sure?”
She shooed me from the counter. “Put that away. Your money’s no good here.”
I stepped outside and found us a table on the boardwalk. The gentle wind coming off the ocean made it feel about ten degrees cooler than in the city, a welcomed change considering how unseasonably warm it was for May. Coney Island was packed to the brim with people enjoying the summerlike temperatures. Fishing enthusiasts dangled poles over the edge of the railing while kids dipped their toes in the waves, screeching at the tops of their lungs when the cold water climbed up their shins. I turned my face into the sun and soaked in the rays. After spending the last week in a rehearsal studio getting ready for the Wicked audition, the fresh air and sea breeze felt amazing.
Marisol approached, one hand holding the tray, the other shielding it from any rogue seagulls eyeing our meal. She set down the food and took a seat on the other side of the picnic table bench, swiping a fry off the top of the pile and popping it into her mouth as she sat down.
“Okay, we got hot dogs, kraut, relish, a little mustard, and a little ketchup. And I couldn’t help myself, I grabbed two knishes for good measure. I mean, is it even a trip to Nathan’s if we don’t get knishes?!”
My mouth watered at the mention of the potato-filled, deep-fried snack. I reached for one and ripped open the crispy crust to allow the steam to pour out. I squeezed a glob of deli mustard from a packet onto the logo-emblazoned wax paper, plunked the corner of the knish into the condiment, and took a healthy bite. Swallowing it down with an ice-cold gulp of Coke, the sweet bubbly drink contrasted the salty food, creating the most perfect combination—like every other time.
“This was a good idea. I don’t think I’ve eaten an actual meal all week,” I said.
“Nerves?” she asked between chewing.
“Nerves . . . terror . . . dread. The audition is the best opportunity I’ve got. I can’t blow it. I’ve worked too hard.”
“You’re putting way too much stock in this one moment. You were an actress before this audition, and you’ll be one after. Don’t they say the road to success is paved in rejection?” Before I could give it another thought, Marisol slapped her hands on the table and changed the topic. “So, what do you think?” she asked. “Should we sit here and digest or live dangerously and go ride the Cyclone?”
“I think I need to digest,” I said, hoping to put off riding the coaster for as long as I could.
“Wimp. Fine, let’s hit the arcade, and then we can go scream our heads off on that old death trap.”
We let the Nathan’s settle in our stomachs while we played a few rounds of Whac-A-Mole followed by Skee-Ball and then ring toss. Marisol won a huge green stuffed animal she promptly named Elphabear, which she offered to me for good luck. I was having such a good time I’d almost forgotten about the audition and nerves.
Marisol checked her watch. “The Cyclone closes in a half hour. It’s now or never.”
“I’m good. We had Nathan’s, I kicked your ass in Whac-A-Mole, you got me out of my head for a while. All in all, I’d consider it a pretty successful day. Best friend mission accomplished.” I nudged her before wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “But seriously, I am feeling a lot less stressed about everything, so thank you. You always know just what I need.”
“Exactly, which is why I am insisting, no, demanding that we ride the Cyclone before we get out of here.”
“I hate roller coasters.”
“This is not a roller coaster. I mean, yes, it’s a roller coaster, but really it’s more of a spiritual experience.”
“Next time, I’ll ride. I promise.”