My cousin Vincent recently had his Dear Diary entry posted in the New York Times, Metropolitan Daily. He is a mechanical genius and man of many talents but I had no idea he was also such a good writer.

Dear Diary:

If I had a few bucks and the weather wasn’t terrible, I would bundle up and take the subway from Bay Ridge to Coney Island.

Truthfully, this was about all I could manage. I was 17, and my mother had just died. Soon, I would be on my own.

At some point along the way, the train exited the tunnel’s darkness into dazzling daylight. Then on to Coney Island and Stillwell Avenue, the end of the line.

Downstairs, Philip’s Candy was my source for chocolate licorice. The windows were darkened with dust from the station above.

Across the street was the Cyclone. According to a childhood legend: “Once kids were playing with the controls in the first car, and the coaster left the track and got chopped up in the Wonder Wheel!”

To the right was the original Nathan’s. They had crinkle cut French fries and hot dogs with snap. My mom once bought a crinkle cut potato slicer to make us fries like the ones at Nathan’s.

To the left was Eldorado Auto Skooter: bumper cars with disco lighting and a body-slamming sound system. Possibly the greatest invention of all time.

Further down was the carousel. Majestic and fast-moving, a menagerie of surging, vivid animals amid a harrumphing organ with castanets and cymbals. It was operated by the world’s saddest-looking man.

On the boardwalk, if the sun was shining, people of every stripe would be out and about. Some were ancient residents, their skin like leather from years baking in the sun.

Coney Island is best in winter, when it’s in quiet repose. It’s soulful and shabby and old. And timeless like those residents in their sun-blasted skin.

It was all there for me.

— Vincent Barkley