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No, Get ME Outta Here!
/ If you haven't already done so, I highly recommend you go read @DoTheFreddie's bulletin as this is a response to that, and it will help the story make more sense. Enjoy.
October, 1964.
Foot tapping upon the metal leg of the table she was seated at, Ophelia hummed a new Beach Boys song that she had heard on the radio and doodled within her notepad. Fellow journalists were seated around the dilapidated table as their rumbustious, cigar-smoking boss Tony went over their assignments for the upcoming week. His eyes surveyed the gathering and finally landed upon the blonde novice who was still scribbling without a care in the world.
“WHITLEY.”
She perked up immediately, dropping the pen to the table with a clang. His use of her surname was his way of treating her like 'one of the fellas', and he warned her that he wouldn't go mushy or easy on her just because she was new to New York. She would learn the ins and outs just like everyone else with no special treatment. “..sir?” She gulped.
“You'll be going to Coney Island. Walk around the Boardwalk. Some band's playing there. Frankie and the Dreamers? Freddie? Something.” His tone was dismissive. Smooth, Tony, real smooth. You don't even know the name of the group you're sending me to interview.
“Coney Island? Isn't that where the —.”
“.. the freaks are, yeah. You'll be fine. Shows tonight but go to a few of them. Get the full experience. Take a pocket knife.”
Laughter echoed through the room and Ophelia sank into her seat. It may have been meant in jest but she couldn't bring herself to laugh. A sheepish smile was offered and she stood and gathered her things. The journalists seasoned and new all scattered about to research their projects. Most had interesting things to write about and barely had to leave Manhattan. Poor Ophelia, however, was tasked with finding her own way to Coney f***ing Island. Poor Man's Paradise.
It took her a good five hours of debate before she decided she might as well take this opportunity by the horns. Maybe she'd have a good time. Venturing down to the subway station at 57th St and 7th Ave, she forked out the 15 cents and began searching for information about which train she was meant to take. N train.. N train.. what the hell was an N train? Why were they all different letters? Seemed easier to plaster "this train is going to Coney Island!" on the side of it, but she digressed. After a fifteen minute wait she boarded and sat as far away from anyone else as possible. It was a nauseating ride. The seat was cold but the air was hot — then again, maybe she just wanted to complain. The subway car stopped with a jerk and flung the long-legged blonde practically out of her seat. The sign upon disembarking read Coney Island and Stillwell Ave. This was it.
The building itself was easy enough to find. To some it had allure, to her it was a giant eyesore smack dab in the middle of the Boardwalk. The streetlights guided her way, luckily, and she maneuvered herself inside. It smelled like stale body odor, and by the lack of people inside she deduced that she'd missed the show. Brilliant. Well, at least she'd be able to interview the band in their dressing room. She could wing it and pretend she'd seen them perform. How hard could it be? An inkling of newfound confidence surged through her and she headed to the back of the building. Doors marked "restroom" and "janitor" sent her further back until she found one which had only a crudely written on sheet of paper tacked on reading Freddie and the Dreamers. It felt so eerie that her confidence was depleted.
“This must be the place..” The lights flickering in the hallway of this venue told Ophelia all that she needed to know. The paneling on the walls looked like it had ripped in a few places and her nose scrunched. The boys at the paper must've known these conditions. The question was — why in the hell did they send her of all people and not volunteer themselves? Sighing to herself, she rapped on the door. There was no telling who or what was waiting for her on the other side. A few seconds of silence made her suspect that there was no one inside, but a crashing noise caused her to wince. Damn, she thought, are they destroying the place? Spiral notepad clutched tightly within her hand, the thought of getting out of dodge was becoming all the more appealing.
Knock, knock, knock. This time her attempt at getting the attention of whomever was inside was much more apparent. Perhaps they hadn't heard her the first time. After such a racket, she certainly wanted to make sure the party was alright. Once a croaked out confirmation was given, Ophelia haphazardly turned the knob and pushed the door open. Jet black. What was going on here?
Her nostrils were met by the pungent scent of alcohol, and immediately she tugged her cotton blouse up to cover her poor nose. The pitiful sod that she was there to interview was probably passed out drunk on whatever raggedy furniture was there to accommodate him. She had to be careful where she stepped in the event that some of that alcohol made its way out of the body, and wished in vain that she knew where the light switch was to this damn room. Against her better judgement, she continued her venture inward and looked every which way for the smallest beam of light. No such luck was to be had and she mentally cursed herself for ultimately agreeing to this article.
Lack of light and fully inside of a room that was seemingly the size of a linen closet, feelings of claustrophobia arose. 'Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. I've got to find the lightswitch.' Hurried steps forward, broken glass crunching beneath her shoes, her toes hooked upon a mostly firm figure and she surged forward. Her limbs flailed about as she searched for something to break her fall— where they found nothing, her chin surely did and her tongue became fast enemies with her teeth.
This had to be someone's idea of a sick prank or an initiation process given by this group to a reporter. She would have laughed to prove she could take a joke but right now her poor chin and tongue were throbbing in a tango together.
“Hey, what give-th?” Ophelia managed to speak to the darkness, an unintentional lisp on account of her unfortunate meeting with the dressing room floor. The answer that she received, if one was to be given at all, better be a damn good one.
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