Love the one youre with

Leo gives me a raised-brow look, as if he understands exactly how I feel, exactly what I'm trying to say-and that, if nothing else, at least we're in this thing together.

thirty-three

An hour of safe conversation and two cups of coffee later, Leo and I are aboard a virtually empty N train, making our way to the southernmost tip of Brooklyn. We are pretending to be in work mode, but our undercurrent remains, and if anything, is growing stronger the more we don't talk about it.

As I count the number of stops on the subway map to Stillwell Avenue, estimating that we have at least an hour left on the train, Leo leans down to double knot the laces of his black tennis shoes. When he sits back up, he gives me an incredulous look and says, 'So really? You've never been to Coney Island?'

I shake my head. 'No… I feel like I have, though. I guess from movies and photographs.'

Leo nods and says, 'That's how I feel about a lot of places.'

'Like where?' I ask, ever curious about all of Leo's thoughts and feelings-no matter how trivial, how unrelated to us.

'Like… Stonehenge,' he says. 'I mean, who needs to go there once you've seen a few photos? Big rocks in an open field. I get it.'

I laugh at his random example, and then say, 'Tell me about your article. Did you write it yet?'

'Yeah. Mostly,' he says. 'Still needs to be fine-tuned.'

'What's it about, exactly?'

'Well… I guess you could say it's about the conflict between the old and new Coney Island. The inevitable changes on the horizon.'

I give him an inquisitive look, realizing that for someone who has tried to convince everyone, including myself, that this trip is about work, I know almost nothing about the piece I'm shooting for. Or about Coney Island, for that matter.

'What changes?' I ask.

Leo unzips his messenger bag and pulls a Coney Island flyer from it, pointing to an aerial photograph of the beach. 'In a nutshell, a major developer bought ten acres of the amusement district, and plans to give it a two- billion-dollar makeover-rezone it, put in high-rise hotels, condos, the whole nine yards… Some say it's exactly what Coney Island needs. You know, revitalize a neighborhood in decay… restore its old glory.'

'And others?'

'Others take a more nostalgic view. They worry that new construction will displace the locals, obscure the classic views, kill the mom-and-pop shops and rides, and basically undermine the kitschy, old-time character of the so-called Nickel Empire.'

'Nickel Empire?' I ask, as our train slows to a stop at Queensboro Plaza. The doors open, letting in a handful of passengers, all of whom glance our way, but choose another bench.

'Way back in the day, the subway ride to get to Coney Island was a nickel. The rides were a nickel. Nathan's hot dogs were a nickel… Coney Island actually started out as a resort for the wealthy, but quickly evolved into a working-class playground, where you only needed a nickel to escape, let loose, forget your troubles,' Leo explains as we career forward, under the East River, toward Fifty-ninth and Lex. 'And I think, in many ways, Coney Island still has that feel.'

'Did you interview a lot of people?' I ask.

He nods and says, 'Yeah. I spent a few days there, hanging out on the beach, wandering around Astroland, and all over Mermaid Avenue, talking to the locals… the 'old salts' as they call themselves. Heard so many great coming-of-age stories about the boardwalk, and all the old games and rides.' He smiles and says, 'Everyone has a story about the Cyclone.'

'Is that the roller coaster?'

'Yeah.'

'Did you ride it?'

'Yeah… as a kid,' he says. 'And lemme tell you… that thing kicks your ass. Seventy-some years old, made of wood and it's no joke… I actually had a great conversation with the Cyclone manager-tattooed old guy who has run the ride for over thirty years but has never been on it.'

'Come on,' I say. 'Really?'

Leo nods.

'Is he afraid of heights?'

'Nah. Says he's climbed the thing plenty of times… he just has no desire to feel the plunge.'

I smile, thinking about how many times Leo has given me that stomach-dropping feeling.

'So anyway… Coney Island's at a crossroads,' Leo says, looking grave. 'The old versus the new.'

'And what camp are you in?' I ask. 'Old or new?'

Leo ponders my question for a few seconds and then gives me a knowing, look 'I don't know. Change can be good… sometimes,' he says cryptically. 'But it's always tough to let go of the past.'

I'm not sure exactly what he means, but I still murmur my agreement as our subway car sways along the tracks, and we fall into another long stretch of very loud silence.

The afternoon is bleak and somehow seasonless when we emerge from underground, spilling onto Stillwell Avenue. Steel gray clouds hover low in the sky, promising a downfall soon. It is not exactly cold, but I still cinch the belt of my trench coat and cross my arms tight across my chest as I look around, memorizing my first glimpse of this famed sliver of New York. Of Americana. It is exactly how I pictured it would look during the off-season-dingy, faded, desolate-but still magical, special. The stuff of great photographs. The backdrop of indelible memories.

'So here we are,' Leo says, looking stoic.

'Yes,' I say.

'To the water first?' Leo asks.

I nod, as we stride, side by side, toward the boardwalk. Once there, we find a bench and sit, gazing toward the wide stretch of muted sand and dark, colorless surf. I shiver from the slight chill in the air, the stark view, and most of all, from Leo beside me.

'Beautiful,' I finally say, catching my breath.

Leo's face glows-as if he himself were an 'old salt' with his own tales to tell. I suddenly imagine him on this very beach as a child, in the height of summer, with his shovel and pail. Then again, as a teenager, sharing blue cotton candy with a pig-tailed girl, and carefully aiming a rifle with hopes of winning her a stuffed unicorn.

He cocks his head and says, 'Really?'

I nod and say, 'Yes. It has… so much character.'

'I'm glad you think so,' he says, running his hand through his hair. 'I'm really glad you think so.'

We stay that way for a long time-slightly reclined on our bench, taking in the scenery, watching the few souls out on such a questionable day-until at some point, I wordlessly pull my camera out of my bag, slide between the bars separating the boardwalk and sand, and head for the ocean. I snap a few dozen aimless mood shots, feeling myself relax, as I always do when I start to work. I photograph sky and sand and ocean. I photograph a middle- aged, long-haired woman in a brown tweed coat, deciding that she doesn't look quite shabby enough to be a bag lady, but is definitely down on her luck, sad about something. I turn and snap the storefronts along the boardwalk, most closed, some boarded up altogether, and a cluster of seagulls, circling a red-and-white-striped bag of popcorn, searching for remaining kernels. Then, on a final whim, I photograph Leo, still leaning back on our bench, his hands clasped behind his head, elbows out, watching and waiting.

He gives me a little wave and a twinkling, self-deprecating smile as I approach him. 'That last one's a keeper,' he says, as I recall my Central Park bench shots of him, how Margot had viewed them with disdain, calling him smug and affected. I think back to that day, realizing that she was wrong about that moment, captured on film.