The Boardwalk Argument

(I'm back at the Coney Island boardwalk again with a memory and a smile. For everyone who knew our friend Steve, you'll appreciate how much he loved this and his laughter)


Late in the afternoon after one of the Mermaid Parades, we were walking on the boardwalk and found ourselves behind a woman with a little dog on a leash. It was hard not to notice her. She was statuesque, dark haired, and wearing loose gauzy white pants and a long top that caught the wind, alternately billowing out and then wrapping around her frame. The dog was a fluffy white little number in a red jeweled collar who kept disappearing into the legs of its mistresses’ pants when the wind blew in that direction.


The woman looked back and then strode faster ahead of us. A few moments later, a short, chubby man came abreast of us obviously trying to catch up with her. He stopped, dramatically put his hands out to his sides and leaned back, palms up as if he was ready to belt out an aria. "Sheila!.....Sheeeiiillllaaaaa!" She didn't stop. "Shheeeilllaaaa!" he bellowed again to her, to the heavens, and to the crowd. She walked faster.


We then learned that apparently his name was Dickhead. "Dickhead!" she yelled back at him over her shoulder without losing her long-legged pace. He ran faster. "Shheeeiillaa!," his arms still outstretched. "Dickhead!!" she screamed back. It continued back and forth between them with everyone watching the ambulating argument as it passed by. She'd stop. He'd stop. The dog would stop and try to lay down for a rest. He'd croon, "Sheeiilla?"and she'd tug the dog up and shout back over her shoulder, "Dickhead!" with her arms waving like white sails.


She stopped for lemonade. He got on line next to her and moaned, "Sheila." She took her paper cup and hissed "Dickhead." She took off again. He persisted, stamping his feet. "Sheila??" She walked backwards for a moment jabbing her lemonade in his direction and enunciating the two syllables screeching-ly succinct. “Dick..Head!" He dropped to one knee, his hand on his chest. She glared and turned her back. They were oblivious.


I can't tell you how long the Coney Island boardwalk is by yards, but we walked the length of it absorbed in this argument consisting of two names by two passionate characters in an unwitting performance. When they reached the steps to walk down to the street, he put his arms out once more. "Sheila?" She stopped. "Dickhead." Suddenly, it was over with no other words spoken. We watched them step down to the sidewalk and disappear around the corner, arm in arm, the dog trotting next to them.


For years afterward, and most importantly after Steve became so sick, I could always make him laugh by saying, "I wonder whatever happened to Sheila and Dickhead?" I hope they catch the good thoughts I send them now and then, thanking them for making the memory that enabled me to laugh with my friend just a few more times.