Scup

The Night that Coney Island Steeplechase Pier Roared

This is a true story that happened more than fifty years ago.

Allan was an 18 year old lad of Jewish/Irish parentage. His father drove a truck for a living and was as tough a truck driver that ever lived. Living in the Eastern Parkway district of New York he had broken a few skulls in his day. Allan was a chip off the old block. He was a big lad, friendly smile, pleasant disposition, Irish temper, strong as a bull, and had baby like face. His pleasant appearance could easily delude one into thinking that this was a person that could be trifled with.
I myself was a product of the Bushwick/Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. Fishing and the water always attracted me. The problem I faced was transiting at night through some of most dangerous sectors of the city in order to go fishing. Allan lived to go fishing. We quickly became close friends and as a bonus, I had acquired the toughest bodyguard anyone could have wanted.
The whiting were running one crisp November evening. This was a major event in Brooklyn. Hundreds of people would flock to the Coney Island Steeplechase pier to fill their buckets with whiting (a small silvery fish). The bait of choice was small minnows that abounded where the sand met the water. While one could chase the minnows down with bait nets, it was far quicker and easier to use a small seine. The water being cold mandated the use of hip boots. After the bait had been caught, a decision had to be made. Back then, as it is today, parking was behind the boardwalk. The pier was 700 foot long. The question was should one backtrack to the far off parked car and offload the no longer needed hip boots and nets that were used to catch the bait, or should one take all of his gear and hike with to the end of the pier. We always decided to drop off the unneeded gear back at the car as I was glad to get out of my poor fitting hip boots. However, others would quite often walk to the end of the pier laden with everything they had.
This particular night, the very end of the pier was exceptionally crowded. The preferred fishing area was, of course, at the very end of the pier. Mobs accumulated here and there was simply not enough rail space to accommodate everyone. Fishermen had to wait their turn to get a place at the railing. Things were so crowded that lines were forming two or three people deep just so one could get to a preferred place. I would look for a line that held a young fisherman whom had brought his girlfriend along. It would not be long in the crisp autumn night air before he would be at the receiving end of some nagging to leave. Another good choice would be to get behind a fisherman who had his fish bucket nearly filled as he would soon be likely to depart. And, then was always the direct approach of just asking politely, “Sir, are you going to be fishing much longer”. It must have taken the better part of an hour but Allan and I finally got our turn at the railing. We ended up only about fifteen feet apart from each other.
The fishing was great! No sooner than I had gotten my line down I had a bite. I glanced over my left shoulder to see how Allan was doing. Allan was in the process of flipping a whiting over the rail. Then horrors to all horrors, it happened! When Allan left the railing to pick up his fish and place it in a bucket, some idiot in hip boots who appeared to be somewhere in his forties, grabbed his railing spot. I started reeling in my whiting far faster than one should, visions started to flash through my mind that Allan would toss this idiot off the end of the pier. I heard Allan say very politely “sir, you are in my spot”. The response was “once you leave your spot you have lost it”. The idiot never really looked squarely at Allan but sort of turned head partway around and when he finished his reply he placed his back squarely to Allan as if to say this is how it is going to be and that is that. At this point I had stopped reeling in and put the fishing rod down with the whiting still dangling halfway up to the pier. I knew Allan was going to toss this idiot into the drink and somehow he had to be stopped. You just do not insult an Irishman, jump his spot, humiliate him in front of hundreds, and turn your back on him and without so much as even looking him squarely the eye. Yep, the idiot was going to be tossed off the end of the pier and I was the only one that could stop Allan. While we had been fishing only a few feet apart, I still had to negotiate the distance between us and get through the crowd quickly. I knew I was not strong enough to stop Allan; what I was planning to do is to get behind him, arm lock his arms as tight as I could, and hope I could hold on long enough so the moron would realize his error and have the opportunity a beat a hasty retreat.
I do not believe Allan ever realized I was right behind him slightly off to his right and in position to arm lock him. I hesitated! Allan was still standing about three feet behind the line jumper, but had not made an aggressive move toward the moron, at least not yet. I really was not too keen on the idea of trying to arm lock Allan especially if it was not necessary. Besides I was now in position to take the required action if needed. One could see that the expression on Allan’s face revealed he was in a thought process. I relaxed somewhat when his baby face showed a slight glimmer of a smile. He had his Irish temper under complete control.
Keep in mind that there were hundreds present that night at the end of Coney Island Steeplechase pier. There were men, women, and children present and the pier was well lighted. Allan quietly took a step toward the back of the line jumper, unzippered his fly, and relieved himself right over and into the top of the moron’s right hip boot. This brought the response from the moron “what are you do….” He never finished his reply as Allan finished up his tinkle put his equipment away and zippered things up. They were now face to face, and apparently Allan had now gotten his attention. No more words were said between them as Allan put out a smile that was as pleasant as I have ever seen any Irishman put out. The moron simply slipped away toward the head of the pier as one could hear a muffled squish every time his right foot came down.
Unknown to Allan, everyone at the end of the pier had been watching and hearing what had transpired. Their approval was unanimous. Allan had become their instant hero. There was cheering, applauding, shouting, yelling, and such a loud clamor was raised that I am sure anyone on the distant boardwalk must have wondered what had happened at the end of the Steeplechase pier the night it roared.

JackC

That was a nice Turkey Day read. Different era. Everyone have a great holiday.
Jack

ChuckA From "Land of the Lost"

WTG Allen Thats funny

Andy

Great read funny!!!!!!!!!!

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