It was dark, so dark that the contrast of bright afternoon daylight and black inky depths shocked me for a moment. I stumbled in, and as my eyes adjusted to the dusky interior, I saw the bartender. He had a cigar-no, that would be too much of an honor for that plug of tobacco protruding from his lips-this guy had a stogey firmly planted in his kisser. He reminded me of a character out of some 1940s movie.
The place seemed empty. I politely asked to use the restroom, and was directed to the back of the bar, where I found myself urinating into the filthiest dankest toilet I had ever encountered. The porcelain, or what I could make out in the dim grimy light, seemed covered in fine spidery lines, and the color was no longer (if it ever was) white.
"That's some antique you got for a bathroom," I said.
"Whassamatter, mac? Not good enough for your piss?"
There were a few chuckles, and I realized that there were about three or four others in the bar.
"Say Pete," one of them said to the bartender, "wasn't you gonna fix it up for Princess Diana?"
"That's right," he replied, she was gonna stop by for a visit, but she never made it." Titters at this. "So's ok mac, fun's over, ya want somethin' or what?"
I could not escape the feeling that this was all some sort of a joke. Or maybe I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode.
"Sure, I'll have a beer," and I slid into a stool and leaned on the bar. I couldn't make out much but that everything was covered in grime and dust. I took a sip of my beer, praying the glass had at least been wiped once over the past twenty years.
"Not a bad little place, eh?"
I turned to my left. The speaker was a rather nondescript gentleman, wearing a worn sweater, from which the collar of a frayed blue shirt showed, dark dress pants, and a battered fedora, pulled low over his face; his voice had an mellifluous educated tone that seemed out of place here. Also, there was something about his skin that seemed odd, but in the gloom of the place I couldn't quite make out what was disturbing me.
"Yes, I like this bar," he continued, not waiting for a reply. "Suits Coney, and Coney suits it." He knocked back a shot, gestured for another. "'Course, Coney's not what it used to be, and it hasn't been what it used to be for some time now. But I miss what was left, little pieces of a grander time. Used to be an old ghost mural; that was on a wall near the Spookarama ride; that wall's whitewashed now. And the Spookarama ride is half torn away and-Well, why bother? I could tell you about the old baths, the Thunderbolt, and a ride that used to jerk you at such hard right angles that'd leave you black and blue; all gone now, and what the hell. I'm beginning to sound like some old fool, babbling about 'you kids today' and 'when I was your age' and who needs that?," he sighed.
"Awww, jeez, leave the guy alone," the bartender said. "Believe me, pal, it's Bellevue and a padded cell for this one. The things he tells people!"
I smiled weakly and replied, "Oh, I don't mind." In fact, in the shadow of desolate Coney in the late-afternoon gloom of this bar, it seemed natural, even neighborly, to listen to him.
The bartender shook his head. "I warned you! Don't say I didn't!"
The man to my left beamed at me.
"Proper introductions then! Call me Tom."
"William," I replied, and he extended his hand. When I grasped his, I shuddered, for his hand was clammy and unnaturally cold. I looked at it, and it appeared to be dead white. I now realized why I had found his skin odd; for as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that all of his skin had the same creepy lack of color. Jesus, I thought, is this guy some sort of albino? Maybe he used to be a Coney attraction, and that's why he still hangs out, talking of the old days. But being a freak in a sideshow didn't quite jibe with the man's voice, which spoke of a more gentlemanly existence.
"Glad to know you, William. You know, Coney's not the only place where you feel the past. All over New York there are still remnants of the old city, little reminders of what once was. Fading ads, painted on buildings, that advertise extinct products; cobble-stone streets that defy modern shock absorbers; old dark brick tenements that speak of different days and lives long gone-and ghosts, of course, lots of ghosts in a city like New York. You think not? Oh, you probably don't believe in the ectoplasmic realm, do you?
"You see," he continued, again not waiting for a reply, "some buildings aren't meant to be lived in. It's like the rain forest. The more we blunder deep into it the greater chance we get of contracting weird viruses and fatal diseases because there are some places we aren't meant to go. Well, so with some buildings. They aren't meant for human habitation, but who's to tell some developer to leave certain things alone? If I were to tell you that a certain building on John Street should never be lived in, or that the devil knocks at midnight on the door of an apartment on Bedford Street, would you believe me?" He knocked down his shot, signalled for more.
"Oh, but let's talk more of the old Coney, ahhh, let's talk of a place you'll never find written about in any history, guidebook, or travelogue." He knocked back another shot. "Oh, let us talk of the Statue in the Garden of Love."
Okay, I thought, let's, but as I sat there rubbing my glass I began to think that maybe I should've taken the bartender's advice.
"My friend, this was a statue that was rumored to have been discovered on an obscure Grecian isle, of an age incalculable," he began, and his tone reminded me of an educated version of a carny barker's spiel. "It was of a nude female figure, quite complete and lifesize. It was said to be an early representation of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, but others claimed it had a darker ancestry, and was from a time before the great gods of Olympus were born. Villagers would not approach it, and if they did, they'd spit and make signs, signs to ward off the devil. The man who brought it to America, Matthew Doxley, under, shall we say, not the most legal of procedures, ended his life in a sanitarium," and he smiled at me, and suddenly his smile struck me as vaguely sinister. "How the statue found its way to Coney is a mystery, but find its way it did, and in the 1920s along the Bowery at Luna Park, one Bernard Cooglan unveiled it for all the rubes willing to shell out for the privilege."
He suddenly held his glass up to the light, examining it as if it were some fine jewel.
"Well, at first, Cooglan's statue was a sensation! But certain rumors developed about it, stories of men hearing whispers as they walked around it, and swearing that it's eyes would suddenly glow, as if some demon were imprisoned within. It was even said that some men were driven mad by it, driven to take their own lives. Gradually, no one would enter the exhibit, and Cooglan himself fell to a bad end."
"Sanitarium again?," I ventured.
"Hardly that-Cooglan wandered out onto the beach one midnight, when the moon was of a pure white, and kept wandering, until the dark waves covered his feet, then his knees, then his shoulders, and finally his head. Then the bubbles stopped." He paused, then whispered into his glass, "The price of beauty," and suddenly fell silent.
I ventured, after a few moments, "This must've been some statue."
"Statue!," he snapped. "That word won't do, for a statue is dead and cold, and those who saw it, those who lived to tell of it, said the marble had a texture like skin! If you touched it, it seemed warm. It was claimed that some men, overcome by its beauty, would reach out to embrace it, to even kiss the marble lips, which were slightly parted, and seemed to dare one to approach."
Well, I thought, this is certainly not the usual barfly story; I've got to give him points for originality. I figured I'd humor him a little while longer before heading home.
"But what exactly did the statue look like?"
"Ahhh, that's a curious thing-no one who saw it could clearly tell. Oh, they had the impression of being in the presence of unearthly beauty, but none could say, for example, if the hair be sculpted long or short, braided or straight; none could say if the eyes were round, or slanted; or if the arms were set on the hips or beckoning in front; all came 'way with different ideas. Artists tried to sketch it to no avail; and when a photograph was attempted, something would go wrong with the film, and the image would be naught but a white smudge when printed. The only details all agreed was that the eyes seemed alive, and that the lips beckoned."
My beer was almost finished.
"So, uhhh, what happened to it?"
"It's still here, my friend, still here for those who dare to look," and now he turned on me a look that was quite sinister. As silly as it sounds, it made me nervous. I had taken this story for a pleasant bit of urban legend or carny myth; but this look spoke of something deep and buried, and, even, something real.
"You see, after Cooglan died, his exhibit vanished over night, and another man, whose name I do not know, took the statue and installed it in the garden courtyard of a house not far from here. He named his courtyard 'The Garden of Love' and the statue was the centerpiece, the glowing centerpiece, of this garden. It was said he would stare at the statue all day, never daring to approach, but at night, when the moon was of a certain angle, and the light just right...," and he trailed off, looking into his glass again.
Suddenly, the bartender interrupted.
"Awww, go on and finish," he chuckled, "we're all adults here."
"It was said he had knowledge of the statue, you understand? That under the glow of the moon, he would spend the night in its embrace. Sometimes he would be found in the morning, eyes wide open and barely alive, naked upon the grass."
He stopped talking, and we sat in silence for awhile. I noticed my beer was done.
"Jesus, that's some story. And what happened to this guy?"
"That, young man, is another mystery among the mysteries. But the house still stands, and the statue still rules in that garden, if you dare to look." He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and with the stub of a pencil, scrawled an address. "Here, if you have a mind, is the address. But beware the moon, and the light in the eyes."
I took the address and casually crumpled it into my fist, but I felt the same uneasiness I felt before. This had to be a bit of nonsense, a woozy tale spun to entertain the passing stranger, and yet I could not shake this feeling of strangeness that tickled the edges of my brain.
"Tell me, have you seen this statue?"
He turned abruptly and seemed to stare right through me, the whiteness of his skin making his visage all the more appalling.
"Oh, indeed. I have seen the statue, and the moon, and the light. And I shall live out my days in the shadows, the shadows only." He continued to stare, then jerked around to the bar.
"That's all you'll get outta him, mac, trust me," and I looked to see the bartender making the crazy sign. "I warned you, didn't I?"
I shrugged, tossed a tip on that bar.
"Well, I've got to be going. Tom, let me thank you for that story."
He looked at me.
"The moon will be right tonight, young man, the moon will be right tonight."
What could I say to this, but: "Yeah, okay, well, goodnight all."
I left the bar quickly and was glad to breathe the sea air; darkness had fallen and the moon was rising, a large full moon. I headed towards the subway, but I realized I had something in my fist-the paper! I opened my hand and stared at it. I don't know why, but I walked, almost unconsciously, in the direction of the address written there.
It wasn't far, and it wasn't pleasant. It was a ruinous block, with burnt out houses competing with dilapidated tenements for the prize of most decayed structure, but there, stuck in the middle of this no-man's-land (for I passed no one and felt strangely free of the fear of being attacked-by a living being, anyway) was the house I sought. It must've been something in its day, but was now a riot of broken glass, rotting wood, and tall weeds. Here and there survived a bit of intact molding or bright paint that made the decay all the more grotesque. There was a fence in front, and someone had attempted to lock the gate, but the chain was as rotted as the rest, and I easily pushed it open. And then I stopped, for modern fears intruded. Couldn't this be the perfect hide-out for drug dealers? Or homeless people? Or any number of unsavory characters, for god's sake? I stood there, watching and listening. But all was silent; so silent, in fact, that the silence began to unnerve me. Nothing seemed to move in there, not hidden foe, or rat, or insect.
As I continued to look around me, I discerned a sort of depression in the growth that seemed to denote a path. A breeze rustled the weeds, but it seemed as though only the weeds on the path moved. Another breeze, and I found myself slowly edging my way to the house itself, with that unconsciousness of intent that seemed to mark my whole journey here. The path weaved to the side and straight to the back, which was shrouded in darkness. I took a deep breath, and plunged in. As I approached, the darkness seemed to dissipate, and my eyes seemed to sense something luminous in the distance. I walked carefully, to avoid broken glass and nails and who knows what else that lurked on the ground, and occasionally I looked up to see the moon. It seemed unearthly white to me, and unusually large; and the light it cast on the side of the house made me shiver, for I had that feeling of being watched that sometimes afflicts us when we pass a derelict structure. But still I walked on, walking towards the luminescence that grew brighter with my every footfall. Suddenly, I was through the overgrowth and in the garden. My mouth dropped, and I froze with astonishment. For here there was no decay, or weeds, or rot. The garden was as it must've been, perfect and trimmed; and even in the chill of October flowers still bloomed in carefully arranged plots. And then my eyes fell upon-
The statue!
It was as described, but more, oh god, so much more. It glowed a hue that was sometimes a rich golden yellow, other times a sheer pure white. Was this some trick of the moonlight, or something more fantastic? I was transfixed, lost in the wonder of it. And as my eyes adjusted to the glow, I slowly began to see the statue, to make out its lines and curves and textures, and it was of a beauty that no living woman could ever possess. Yet, like the men described by Tom, I couldn't say for sure what form the statue was, only that it was of the deepest beauty, almost as if it were the very essence of beauty, distilled into solid marble, glowing and-beckoning. For as sure as I stood there, it called to me, through lips that were slightly parted. Not in language, no, not words, but through a feeling, a yearning that seemed to burn me.
Suddenly, I desired that statue-desired to embrace it, to feel the hard marble upon my flesh, with a passion that embarrassed me in its ferocity. I wanted to press my lips against it, and kiss the dainty fingertips; I wanted to lick the curves of the breasts and suck on the hard, perfect nipples. I wanted to sink down and worship at its feet, kissing each sculpted toe, then prostrate myself and pledge my eternal worship before its eternal beauty. As I walked to the statue, I found myself removing my clothes. The cold didn't matter, nothing mattered but that I should have this beautiful object in my arms. As I approached the base, I found myself completely nude, and my organ was hard, harder than it ever could have been with a mere mortal; for was this not some goddess before me, some goddess whose rites I must now perform? I would consecrate my love before her!
And I knelt down before her on one knee and began to masturbate, stroking myself with such fury that it seemed I would strip the skin off-but this rite I must perform, this frenzy was required of me. She must have my essence!
Yet somewhere, even as I brought myself to climax, some small part of my brain remained sane; some voice inside urged me to run, run in peril of my mortal soul; but the sheer whiteness, the sheer whiteness made it impossible for me to obey my own instincts; and I climaxed upon the base of the statue, and I was lost to myself, and must obey this glorious beauty, glowing in the very fibers of my being. I bent where the sperm had fallen and began to rub it into the base, and my mouth sought blindly until I found myself gamahuching her, licking and sucking upon her finely sculpted private parts. The marble seemed to yield to my tongue; and I swear I felt my mouth close on the clitoris. My hands were gliding up her legs, smooth and muscular, and the perfect hardness of them only drove my desire. Every inch of her pubic area was glistening with my saliva, and I licked her with a deep longing rhythm. My hands were upon her ass cheeks now, caressing the crack, pushing into it, and as my tongue licked on and on, my eyes glanced upwards, and I saw her eyes, oh, those terrible eyes!
They were a-fire with light, with that inner light that scared lesser men-but I must have that light, and the lips that beckoned, and slowly I inched myself up her body, my hands savoring every contour, every carefully sculpted muscle, while my lips never left her, and I continued to kiss and lick every gorgeous surface. When I came upon her hands, I tenderly kissed each tip, and licked along each finger, nuzzling my mouth in one palm, then another. I finally came to her breasts, which were of an unbridled perfection. I used my fingertips to tenderly caress the eternally sculpted globes, then used one finger from each hand to trace the outline of each delicately chiseled aureole. I gently played with the nipples, the marble hardness of which were indescribably thrilling, and I knew I must taste what milk might be sucked from their perfect points. My greedy mouth eagerly sought each breast, and I sucked with the intensity that a newborn must suck when hunger first overcomes it. With my teeth I grated the nipples gently, and as unyielding as they were, swore they became larger with my ministrations. I kissed each breast, licked each one completely, and thrilled to my wetness glistening on the perfect whiteness. I rubbed my face against them, tingling with desire as the nipples pushed into my cheeks.
"Oh mistress, oh goddess," I murmured, over and over, until the words had no meaning to me. My lips pressed on, and I touched the indescribable neck, a swan's neck, the neck of the perfect ballerina, a neck that I gently, tenderly, kissed as my hands caressed the delicate curve of her back, the spinal bones gently sculpted into the wondrous marble. I was nibbling my beloved's ears now, whispering, babbling, I don't know what-and my eyes were suddenly caught by her eyes, her blazing unfathomable eyes, and they held me and filled me and commanded me. My body was completely pressed against hers, and indescribable thrills waved through me. My penis was savagely erect, aching and throbbing. Her eyes continued to hold me, and slowly, unbearably, my lips slowly approached hers, to that mouth that beckoned, to those sculpted lips half-parted with permanent desire. My eyes slowly shut, and our lips met. The earth shuddered, and our lips met. Time skipped, and our lips met. The universe spun, and our lips met.
I was giving to her now, my deepest energy, my essence, my soul. For we kissed and kissed and kissed, a long unyielding kiss, and as we kissed, something passed from me to her, something real but as evanescent as my breath. I could feel a pure horror deep inside myself, for was it not the most primal fear of our race that the soul should not be defiled? That some things ought not to be touched? Yet yield my innermost being I must, for had I not consecrated myself to her? My body was now pressing hers tighter, my penis rubbing against her, rubbing with such a hot burning that I swore I was inside her, that my penis was actually in the marble, and the feeling drove me to thrust wildly while my lips continued to be held in that long supernatural kiss. I began to shake; my orgasm was only moments away. I thrust with deep strokes against her, and my tongue pushed wildly against her mouth. It felt like I was burning, like I was one with the unearthly glow that came from within the marble. My brain was boiling, I lost all reason and madly continued to thrust until I came, from deep within I came, an orgasm such as wild animals must feel, an orgasm of such dreadful intensity that my hairs stood on end and every nerve screamed and it seemed endless, this coming, it seemed I could never come enough for this unearthly thing that gripped me, but still I came and came, until all was white and hard and the moon and suddenly my lips were freed and I screamed, screamed from the very depths of my being, and felt myself flung upon the earth, where I collapsed, and all was quiet and mercifully black.
I woke with a start. For a moment my head swam, filled with confused and blurry images; then the sun hit my eyes and I was snapped into awakeness. I was lying on the ground; I was naked; I was cold, god was I cold! My body ached, and my penis, my penis burned as if rubbed raw. I moved as if underwater. I clumsily grasped at my clothes, and saw that I was in a ruined courtyard of some sort, completely overgrown with hideous weeds and noxious plants. As I struggled to dress myself, fighting a tremendous weariness, I couldn't place how I got there. I remembered the bar, but I didn't remember getting drunk. Was I knocked out, mugged, and dragged here? No, my wallet seems intact. And my clothes-they seem to form a path, but to what? And this chill, it didn't seem that cold outside, but I couldn't seem to warm myself. I continued to collect my clothes, and then, through the deep weeds, I spied white, and the memory, the feeling, that had been clawing at the side of my brain broke through-in one searing instant I remembered everything. I froze, and as my eyes made out more of that whiteness hidden by the weeds, as I began to feel what was there, the terror broke and I ran.
I ran blindly, stupidly, quickly. I blundered into things, I tripped and skidded, but I did not stop, did not stop till I recognized familiar things-Nathan's, the Shore Hotel, the Surf Hotel, even the disreputable denizens of off-season Coney were a comfort. I tried to run to the bar, but I couldn't seem to remember clearly where it was. In a panic I tried several different streets before giving up. I ran into the subway, and stumbled onto an F train. What few people there were stared at me. Some moved away. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything but getting away, away and back to my apartment on First Avenue. On the subway ride, I kept falling into semi-consciousness, but as my eyes closed, bits of memory would jolt me awake. Finally, my station was near.
As I left the subway and made my way home, children stared at me wide-eyed and hugged their mothers; even the panhandlers avoided me. I clambered the three flights to my apartment, and with shaking hands unlocked the door. There I fell upon my bed and collapsed. I slept, and thank god it was that deep sleep that brings no dreams.
When I awoke, I felt no better. I was still cold, and every inch of my body ached. I undressed, and decided a shower would do me good. I walked slowly to the bathroom, and happened to glance at myself in the mirror.
I no longer visit Coney Island, off-season or on; and when the night comes I prefer to be safe at home; and on those nights when the moon is out, especially those nights when the moon is of an angle, I block every window, and sit shivering by the tv. And I know why children run and adults look down when I pass. For when I looked in the mirror, here's what I saw:
My hair had turned completely white-the white of that unearthly moon. And my whole body was bloodless, the bloodless white of that pure marble, that pure leprous marble in the garden, but my face! It was white, as pure white as the rest! But-the horror of it! I had the skin of an old man, as if I had aged decades in one night. And that chill has never left me, my god it never will-I believe I'll take it to the grave. And the most dreadful thing of all-I still yearn for that touch, for that endless kiss, for that defiling all encompassing embrace. That too will never leave me.
But now I can tell you a story, a story of the lost New York, the forgotten Coney. And of things that should stay buried, and of pleasures not worth having at any cost. And after hearing my tale, maybe I can scrawl an address for you, an address on a white piece of paper, as white as marble. And maybe you'll dare to visit, dare to visit on the night of a full moon, when the light is of an angle, and an ancient thing waits to take your soul for its own.