With Hopes of Candied Apples and A Cyclone Ride
 A column, a poem and
illustrations by Ryn Gargulinski
Ryn's Archives: Ground
Hog Day, Order in Brooklyn Court, Dear Mom, Merry Season's Greetings from Brooklyn, Brooklyn Votes,
Spooky Stuff: A Brooklyn Halloween, Rotting Fruit Store, Summer Time in Brooklyn, Graduating from Brooklyn College, Biking in Brooklyn, Nature
Calls, Brooklyn Answers, Why I live in Bensonhurst,
Bill Bradley in Sunset Park, New Cat, Brunch with
Mom
 I went to Coney Island on a muggy
evening after work with two intents. The first was to write a bittersweet column on
the death of a neighborhood icon -- Philip's Confections -- the candy store on Surf Avenue
which will have sold its last chocolate-covered [insert morsel of your choice here] on
Easter Sunday. It had been in business for roughly 70 years and its closing has
caused enough hoopla to merit a feature story in a major newspaper a couple of weeks back
and a slithering mention on the evening news on at least two occasions.
But it's hard to be bittersweet when the only one who would talk to me was a homeless
woman named Gypsy who, although she was very generous with her information, bilked my
boyfriend and my coworker out of all their change and a quarter-pound of salt water
toffee. She also had the bitterness down in a different department. Not that
she was particularly angry about Philip's closing -- which she will miss since her dad had
taken her there since she was "up to here" -- but the reek of bitters...and lime
juice...and vodka...and gin...and whatever else she may have been drinking for the last 17
years. But I must say she was pretty pleasant and more than willing to help me out.
In fact, after she almost charged headlong into my coworker thereby forcing him to
give her all his change, I even told her she was good. She said, between slurps on
her ruby red candied apple, that she wasn't good -- she was a survivor. "That's
what makes you good," I countered. She liked that and then went on to yell at a
fat lady who was eyeing her wares stored in a red milk crate, saying get the [insert
expletive here] away from my stuff can't you see that it wouldn't fit you anyway.
Actually, another man did talk to me, asking if I were a journalist. Since I cannot
tell a lie, I said yes. He then asked for what publication. When I answered
"12 Gauge," the online publication for which I write a Brooklyn
column, he started pantomiming cocking a shotgun and then sang a song from an old cartoon
about being in Dreamland after giving me the peace symbol when two sets of geese flew
overhead in the "vee" formation. I liked him. I also thought I would
get a good scoop to add to my column when he admitted that, although he was a
"Flatbushite," he was a regular of Philip's and this will be his last visit so
he even went to the ATM to finance his last fudge purchase. Which ended up being a
disappointing $16. (I was hoping for a figure in the thousands -- or at least
hundreds.)
The people inside of Philip's didn't seem particularly eager to talk to me, especially
hearing that the publication I normally write for sounded like a deadly weapon (and seeing
the man earlier cock the air gun). They did slow down their scurry of orders enough
to say that they will reopen they just don't know when or where and
maybe-yes-ok-if-they-can they will certainly keep everyone posted.
The second reason for visiting Coney Island on this dreary eve near twilight was to ride
the Cyclone. This urge came to me since we were hitting the landmark area for
nostalgia's sake and, as it is with such sudden whims, I have to strike when the iron is
hot for the urge may never come again. But to the disappointment of me, my cohorts,
a group of Hasidim and the three teens trying to hop the fence, it was closed for the
evening. As I sit here with a stomach ache after two chocolate marshmallow sticks
(which Gypsy had said are to die for), one caramel apple, one caramel marshmallow stick, a
55-cent glob caramel cashew thing and three-quarters of a chocolate-covered pretzel, I
guess it was better that the Cyclone was closed.
 But I am not happy about the death
of the candy store. When I read about Philip's closing I called my boyfriend in a
panic. "You know that candy store by the terminal in Coney Island?"
"Oh, the one you won't let me go in every time we're down there?"
"Yes, that one -- it's closing -- now we HAVE to go...."
Well, he still didn't go inside (since it was not a place you even had the option of
entering -- for the public it was a window full of confections only), but he did
have some fudge and the rest of that chocolate-covered pretzel.
And although we might not always have Paris, we'll now have a sort of memory of Philip's,
of Gypsy, of the Cyclone being closed at dusk on a Thursday in early April, (not to
mention the 95 points worth of junk we got from playing skee ball at a boardwalk arcade to
the rolling eyes of my coworker)...and the last soulful notes of the Dreamland song
cascading through the Coney Island of our minds.ON HEARING THE CANDY
STORE DIED
By Ryn Gargulinski
I.
we had to rush there -- where -- to the
candy stand there by the Stillwell Avenue
subway terminal in Coney Island the one
when we walked by you never let me go to
asked my boyfriend Yeah, that one
upon hearing it was going to die on Easter Sunday.
II.
so we rushed there after work one day
in the April rain with a camera & coworker in tow
to record the memories (I'm writing this before we even go)
III.
the NY Times said the man wasn't bitter
how can you be bitter all day when
you sit around stirring sugar and
selling fuzzy pink bags of air bathed in
sweetness, home-made frothy syrup and
frozen bananas -- chocolate-covered
[insert morsel here], marshamallow goody two shoes,
floating fancies, hopes and dreams on a licorice stick,
lemon-flavored blow tarts --
IV.
I think it's a sin
to eat so much candy
V.
so we rush there -- x days later -- make it six --
(now I'm writing this after)
and my camera wouldn't flash and
the homeless woman -- a picked-up informant --
thankfully didn't (she wasn't even wearing a raincoat)
but she did say, as she reeked of gin, that she'll miss it
don't all the good things die and go to heaven
as she bilked my coworker out of all
his change, my boyfriend out of some of his
and a quarter pound of salt water toffee.
I have a close-up of her hands,
red with the stains of her candied apple
which also got to her cheeks which were
red with the stains of her candied apple,
and her eyes, orange in the dusk but
bright and alive as the candy stand
lay dying --
VI.
and a man sang
a song to Dreamland
that rang Coney Island in our minds --
the dying Coney Island of our minds.
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