Welcome to the Arcade

Michael F. DeConzo

Description

"Stand by Me" meets "A Bronx Tale" in an arcade on Staten Island, NY, where three friends try to solve the biggest mystery of them all: growing up. This is story of "Welcome to the Arcade."

Living in South Beach, Staten Island, the “forgotten borough” of New York City, best friends Johnny Romano, Ralphie Molinaro and Giulia Stringer struggle to understand a world that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to them. They're searching for answers to questions that seem impossible to figure out: why are their parents so crazy? How do they live with the hole left in their hearts when someone dies? Why is the gravitational pull of their neighborhood, a beach town next to the Verrazano Bridge that still hasn't shaken off its past, so powerful? What peculiar shapes can love take? And why has a rundown arcade two blocks from the beach become the center of their universe? But the people they meet--from Joey C., the local mob enforcer, to Luke, a transfer student at Tompkins High School, to Dinino, the mysterious owner of the arcade—all have their own secrets to hide. Covering a decade of their lives, from ten to twenty years of age, WELCOME TO THE ARCADE follows Johnny, Ralphie and Giulia as they move through the kaleidoscope of childhood to the insanity of young adulthood, always keeping one burning question in their minds: How do we figure out the greatest mystery of them all—growing up?

Sujets

• Nueva York
• Verrazano
• Catholic school
• New York City
• South Beach
• Giovanni da Verrazano
• Staten Island
• Fiction
• New York

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 08 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665736831
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Welcome to the ARCADE
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Michael F. DeConzo
 
 
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2023 Michael F. DeConzo.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3684-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3682-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3683-1 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900585
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/28/2023
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Sunrise
Part One     The Early Years
1     Arcade
2     Knucklehead
3     Dog Days
4     Outside Cat
Part 2     High School
5     Friday Night Fever
6     The Last Days of Catholic School
7     Luke
8     Waiting Room
9     Cousin Frank
10     ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?”
11     Three Quarter Time
12     Travolti
13     Scarface
14     Mary the Blonde
15     Graduation Day
Part 3     Changes
16     Pink Flamingo
17     Pink Flamingos
18     Card Game
19     “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”
20     New Paltz
21     Cabaret
22     “Rag Doll”
23     Ciao, Joey C.
24     “Ride My See-Saw”
25     Aniko
26     Recital
27     Morrison Loses a Shoe
28     Sydney’s Cafe
Part IV     September 24 th , 1988
29     “Twilight Time”
30     “Roadhouse Blues”
31     Welcome to the Arcade
 
Epilogue     “Beyond the Sea”
About the Author
 
To Elsie Juhasz DeConzo, the greatest mom of them all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to David Reuss and his extraordinary talent for designing a book cover that captures the way I remember South Beach.
Thank you to Dr. Allen Ascher, whose friendship and guidance never fail to inspire me.
Thank you to the wonderful people at Staten Island Arts, who have supported the publication of this novel through a DCA Premier Grant, with public funding from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.
Thank you to my own great Gatsby, who provides me with several opportunities a day to walk the neighborhood and wait for the muse to find us.
And, as always, thank you to my wife and children, whose unconditional love and support have made this book possible, along with everything else.
Salute!
For your listening pleasure, please check out the WELCOME TO THE ARCADE playlist on Spotify. The username is Juhasz300.
For updates, photos, and bonus content, please check out www.mfdeconzo
PROLOGUE
Sunrise
Giulia, September 24 th , 1988
It’s not the kind of beach the poets write about.
Mary Oliver’s not taking in the rotting pier and penning “At the Shore.” Neruda’s not standing on our boardwalk staring at the traffic on the Verrazzano Bridge and writing “The Wide Ocean.” Maybe Ferlinghetti, since Coney Island’s right across the bay, but even that’s a stretch. He’s got that great bookstore in San Francisco. I don’t see him coming to Staten Island anytime soon.
This was always a big topic of conversation: if we could invite one person to our beach, dead or alive, who would it be? Johnny was all about Bobby Darin. He swore that “Beyond the Sea” was written about South Beach. It didn’t matter that everybody knows it’s based on an old French song. Darin’s family had a bungalow a few blocks from here when he was growing up, so for Johnny that was all he needed to hear. Ralphie voted for Julie Andrews, who I’m pretty sure never set foot anywhere near South Beach—probably anywhere near Staten Island. But at the time Ralphie was obsessed with The Sound of Music , so we had to give her some serious consideration.
I voted for the poets.
Alright, I know, there are worse things in the world than my favorite poets not showing up. But this is what happens when you’re studying to be an English teacher. Or at least I was, until I had to drop out of SUNY New Paltz last spring. But it’s still nice to think about—all these brilliant people whose words make my heart flip wading into the surf at dawn, notebooks in hand, writing about our imperfect beach.
I lean my back on the boardwalk railing and look towards Sand Lane, the street that leads straight down to the water. The neighborhood still has the feel of a beach town, only all the resorts and most of the rides burned down fifty years ago. The only attractions left are a tiny amusement park with kiddie rides and Dinino’s arcade, both across the street from the boardwalk. And whatever attractions go on under the boardwalk. Funny how that never changes. From the empty tequila bottle in the garbage pail by the opening, it looks like it’s still a pretty popular destination.
Way back before the bridge opened in 1964, South Beach was a big deal. People would take a special train from the ferry and stay here for the season. They would actually “summer” here. That’s pretty amazing on two fronts: people not from Staten Island coming here as a vacation spot, and also people using “summer” as a verb. Interesting—is that the only season we can use as a verb? I guess people can “winter” somewhere, but should we “spring” in Los Angeles, like my maybe future husband wants us to do?
I’ll admit it—I’m not sure about the idea of springing anywhere. I’ve had enough surprises sprung on me these last few months. Maybe it’s not a great move to pack our bags for California. I know—he wants to make movies. That’s his dream. And he has other reasons, too, very good reasons. Reasons that broke my heart when he finally told me. But I have my own surprise that I haven’t been able to spring yet. And after that, who knows? Maybe the baby and I will “fall” right here.
There are a few shadows at the end of the boardwalk. I walk down the wooden ramp, take off my sneakers and step across the wet sand, which at any other time of day is more orange than the usual color of sand, for reasons that none of us could ever figure out. Then I put my own feet in the surf—the water is warm, even though it’s the end of September and it’s only six in the morning.
Here’s what the poets are missing.
The sunrise over the Narrows, which is the name of the water between Staten Island and Brooklyn, is just about ready to go. And it always starts with the stars. Unlike the lights on the bridge, which refuse to give up, the stars know enough to bow out gracefully. They’re disappearing into the beautiful grey-blue air that’s only going to last for a few more minutes. That’s okay. I don’t have too much time, either.
We’re all staying with my mother right now—I want to get back to the baby before he starts to cry and wakes her up. And my California dreamer will sleep right through it. I can’t blame him for that, either. The whole thing’s been exhausting—getting pregnant, finishing up my classes in May, having the baby in June. Maybe getting married tonight. The last five months have been, as my mother likes to tell the nuns at St. Joan’s, “Eventful.”
My eyes take in the orange-red ball that’s rising straight into the sky east of the bridge and west of Coney Island. It’s turning everything different colors—the water, the sand, the boardwalk. Even what’s left of the pier looks romantic: two dozen purple popsicle sticks against waves the color of cotton candy. When things would get bad—or even really, really good—the three of us—Johnny, Ralphie and I—or sometimes just the two of us—would come down here and watch the sun pull itself over Brooklyn. Sometimes we’d bring coffee. Once in a while, we’d have a bottle of Mateus, when we were feeling sophisticated, and Ralphie would remember to put the corkscrew in his bookbag. We’d stretch out on the sand and read poems (I would read poems and they would humor me) or sing songs at the top of our lungs. Then we’d go back up the hill. I’d head to St. Joan’s, and the two of them would wander off: mostly to school or the arcade, when Dinino would let them stay. Sometimes they’d take the ferry into the city to watch movies. That was only a few years ago, but now that I’m twenty and things are a little more complicated, it feels like five hundred.
The whole thing happens fast—the sun is already more white-silver-yellow than red and is moving west over the Belt Parkway. The soft grey-blue air has turned into sunshine and spreads across the beach. The boardwalk wakes up: a couple on bicycles, a few dog walkers, and a pair of loud crows that share the top of the light post. One optimist paddles into low tide with a surfboard. The sand looks orange again. The pier is still rotting. The shadows disappear. Saturday morning has arrived.
I take a few steps backwards, then pick up my sneakers and move into the parking lot, where more cars h