Mother’s Day 2020
It was Saturday, April 9th, 1994 - I was in New York meeting with clients and showing my portfolio, a practice that has been lost since the internet took control and one that I miss. A photographer friend was in town so we decided to kick around on our day off. It was raining and unseasonably cold so we ducked into the subway and eventually stepped off at Stillwell Avenue to find Coney Island to be a virtual ghost town. Everyone with any sense had packed it in but there was a lone barker in front of a tent still hoping to fleece a few tourists. Her wares consisted of a “meet-n-greet” with a two-headed boy. We had just jumped off the D train, not the turnip truck so we knew we weren’t about to swap stories with a couple of guys sharing a neck, but solving the mystery was worth few bucks. As the establishment’s sole employee, the woman stopped barking about the two-headed boy long enough to take our money and pull back the tent flap for us to enter. She tried to confiscate my camera but I refused, ever the business woman, she opted to keep the cash and foolishly insisted that I not take any photos.
Other than an atmosphere of sadness, the circus-like tent was empty except for a single banner hanging down in the center. It appeared we were the latest victims of a sideshow grift until we discovered a specimen jar on the other side of the banner. The fact that it contained a preserved two-headed baby restored my faith in carny advertising. I raised my camera, dropped to one knee and snapped a few photos as I heard our hostess scampering in to protect her investment. I quickly tossed my camera into my bag and did the old “tying my shoe” routine…I know, right? Riddle solved. Dead baby in a jar. That should have been the end of it but I was having Lynchian nightmares where this “floater” suffered a painful birth from a warm amniotic womb into a cold glass one.
It is astounding the information one could gather in a pre-Google world if you allowed here-say as one of your sources. I pieced together what I believed to be the facts - this little guy was born the same year I was which made it personal, was studied at a University and was returned to the parents who did what any bereaving couple would do - sold their progeny to the highest bidder. The specimen changed hands several more times before I made its acquaintance. I considered the woman who ran the attraction and what her reality must be like tending to the “bread-winner”. I imagined her getting up before dawn and having breakfast sitting across the table from “him” (a poor conversationalist I’m sure), carrying the jar out to the car, securing it with a seatbelt and jostling it thorough traffic as they went to work. Was he family? … Or just the family business?
Now fully obsessed, I wanted to document a day in the life of a sideshow “mama”. Eventually I made my way back to Coney Island and practiced my pitch over a dog at Nathan’s. Upon hearing my idea, not only was she not on board but was immediately outraged. I tried to calm her down and explain myself as strangers looked on and quickly realized that to a casual observer I was the one that sounded crazy.
I hope the little guy has been given some peace and has ”retired”, either way I’m sure he’s aging better me. I remain intrigued but am no longer obsessed. It’s not like I carry this picture in my wallet. Anymore.