Sarah Hall - The Electric Michelangelo

There were a few ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, a cough or two at the unpleasant odour produced by the execution. Then a grumble swelled through the big top, as multiple unkind comments about the show were made.

— I expected her to explode! Brought a hat in case of a mess. You ever see a squirrel catch a stray current? Those things ‘splode like firecrackers!

— I rode her when I was a child, you know. If I’da known she was a killer elephant I never woulda let my Pappy lift me up on her. When I think how close I musta come to … well, it don’t bear thinkin’ about.

— Phew-ee! Smells kinda like liver-mush frying.

Cyril Parks put his head in his hands and rubbed h eyes. Then he softly addressed himself and the grizzling crowds.

— Lancashire or Yorkshire, sir? Meat or fat?

Perhaps only the final show, the death of the Island itself, would give the public a fix large enough to sate their habit, so that the dome of whitish light consuming the horizon on the edge of Brooklyn one night or week or month or decade in the future would once again and for one last time have meaning to it, validity. And until then the desperate carnival would continue its spluttering, groaning wind down. And Cy would just have to choose his moment to bow out.

The booth on Oceanic Walk was tiny, and looked more like a cupboard for fishing equipment or brooms than a place of business. It had something reminiscent of that section of the Pedder Street shop behind the curtain that separated browsing customers from the union of artist and canvas, a private enclosed realm. It was located at the scaffolding base of the bobsled ride so the wooden walls rattled and shook when the carriage whooshed past and occasionally flash fell down and had to be re-mounted. Cy usually arrived in the mid-morning and unboarded the booth, stacking sections of wood against the outer wall. He had overlaid as many pictures on the inside as possible and there was room for only himself and one other person to sit or lie down. There was a power outlet, a bright overhead light, and a drawer for extra equipment. And that was all. But he needed no more. On busier days he would try to have his customers line up along the alley, past the hotdog vendor and the shooting range, so that they were kept busy with frankfurters and targets while they waited, past the dental practice with the huge, floating, long-rooted molar on its sign and down to the cigar shop at the end of the Walk. But the crowd would inevitably curl round the booth’s

doorway, breaking up its queue to watch the proceedings and he’d have to instruct them not to push in.

— Back up there. Watch out sir, if you spoil this gentleman’s work he’ll no doubt want to spoil your face. Back up now, ladies and gents. Mind the door. I must have some room.

And again an orderly line would form, and again it would disassemble. Some of the other parlours and booths had hired a bouncer to keep the crowds organized. It made only a temporary difference. Customers were curious to watch the work being done, they wanted to see the proceedings as they got to see every other marvel in the fair. So they came and they pushed and they looked around the heads of others and tried to fit into the booth itself. If someone had rolled back the roof of the booth on a turn-twist key they would have seen them all jammed together, like sardines in a tin.

In the first half of the twentieth century, every budding tattoo artist worth his salt on the upper East Coast gravitated to the Island or to the Bowery to get apprenticed or to get ideas or to gain notoriety. At Coney tattooing was the fine art of the place. Like a portrait painter recording noble faces and mansions for posterity’s drawing room, the tattooer was a cheap, modern-day equivalent. Arturas had explained it thus, on the wall outside the Gravesend warehouse.

— We are the poor man’s illustrator. We bring art to the working-man and he has a picture gallery of his own, like the mansion house or castle is his body. It’s beautiful, yes? We do good.

Cy would rent his summer booth for several years and through the winters, when Coney quietened down and became foggy and forlorn and empty, he’d work from the back room of a barbershop in his neighbourhood owned by Den Jones, an old black man transplanted from the America South. Den Jones would have him when trade was slower and the rides were unplugged and the parks shut, when only the maddest of the mad and the indestructible members of the Polar Bear Club took to the sea, but hair still grew in Brooklyn and people still bought tattoos. The off-season work was pleasant, a tidy arrangement. A kid named Joe ran a shoe-shine pedestal outside the store, so they could charge two-dollars all round for a cut, a shine, and a tattoo. The smell of citrus pomade and foam and wet gamey hair was comforting and Jonesy always had the radio tuned to a station with good old-fashioned tunes, or sometimes the Yiddish station if the waiting room was full of old Jewish men. Things slowed down. Customers sat around and chatted about the ponies and their dreadful families and second-storey guys flummoxing the authorities. The frenzied pace of the summer froze like ice on the sidewalks. In the barbershop there was no need for the incessant patter and haggling and tense brokerage for the benefit of the customer, like with Coney’s masses. In terms of professional barkery the year was peaks and troughs, feast and famine. In any case Cy was used to turning it on and off, and used to seasonal work, he had grown up with that structure to his life, and to him it was as natural a change as the weather. Come October he transferred his pictures to the walls of the backroom in the barber shop. Asiatic eyes, hourglass girls, dragons erupting from nowhere, the new pieces with all that New York style and colour — there was a now a trend for heavy black bordering that gave new designs, variations of the standard, a sharp, comic-book, cartoon feel. Cy would wander through into the shaving parlour when he was not busy and listen to the stories told by Den Jones, good-humouredly resisting the man when he tried to coax him into the chair to trim his unkempt locks up off his collar. He got the sense that old Jonesy liked him just for the ambition of wanting to take away his long hair.

— Look at that crazy mess on your head, no wonder no lady ever steps up to greet you. You look like some damn nineteenth-century throwback, do you know that? Well, it about gives me the ju-jus, truth be told.

Occasionally the police would come round and make their presence known. Cy had not the strength of numbers to defend what was seen as slightly wrong and slightly freakish here as he had at the Island, which was left to its own devices, or maybe the barbershop set-up was still too controversial an enterprise, mixed raced and cross religioned, it was never made clear. The cops did not seem to want anything other than to stride around the place examining things. Once they removed his equipment and did not bring it back, saying something about a sanitation check, blood diseases and infection control. Rumours had been flying around New York since Cy’s arrival on the scene about a total ban on the trade that was coming, though nothing had been publicly announced. It did not matter, in New York what was outlawed was often still as available as what was legal, he had quickly found. He apologized to Jonesy for the inconvenience, offered to leave, but Den just laughed and shook his head and told him to cut his hair. Cy got hold of new parts, a drive shaft with a trapdoor mechanism, which made cleaning easier, there was a network in the city which provided most everything a person could want for, and he continued decorating bodies.