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The last time I visited Coney Island was early in November of 1961, when I was twelve. I hated the hour-long trip from our suburban home in West Orange, New Jersey into the city, which was dreary that time of year. In the summer we’d occasionally eat outside at Nathan’s hot-dog stand or go to the beach near my grandparents’ apartment or stroll the boardwalk, where I’d look up to the dizzying parachute jump, a ride only teenagers loved, or enter the penny arcade where a plaster gypsy told my fortune for a nickel. Now that it was cold and