Going to See the Elephant  *
So big the ocean, thinks Moish, not at all like a bathtub or even a swimming pool. Moish is taking a dip in the waters off Coney Island Beach. A small man he is not. The hot dogs are yelling from the boardwalk; the Wonder Wheel is a rainbow of Bethlehem steel parading through low heaven; tenement children on roller skates, at this very moment, are racing from their homes all over Brooklyn toward the ocean and its accompanying promise of a horizon without end. The fish are practically nibbling at Moish’s feet and it is all he can do not to nibble back.
Moish lifts his eyes to the sky. His eyelids have grown brittle like onion skin in the past years. Once thick and wavy, the hair on his head has come to resemble the beard his grandmother Pesya had worn in her senility. To the adulterers and terrified green-faced boys straddling the sky at Luna Park, the Jewish man, becoming old before his very own eyes, looks like a sickly beaching whale. The irises of the fat one’s eyes are discs of darkness spinning in the blue water’s eternity.
Once, many moons ago, I took a girl here and touched her skirts under cover of darkness. How long ago that was. We both were new to the love game. I breathed hard when she took off my tzitzis. Now, I breathe heard when I take off my tzitzis. How porklike I, a Jewish man who squeals at the sight of a pig, have spread and grown. How life can make a khazzer out of any of us. Moish dreams and dreams as he soaks in the salts of G-d’s greatest puddle. Oy, Miriam Roizenkish, I touched you on the beach when we were twelve. One more year and I was already a man, wearing a black hat, rising early each day to accompany Father to shul. In two years I was saying kaddish for him. Four years after that and I could no longer tell you who was at the top of the baseball standings. What made me so stupid to think that life was more important than playing stickball with my pals? Last ballgame I saw? Cleveland Blues, visiting Uncle Peysakh.
When Moish was nine, he remembers, the sun tickling the back of his neck with its cottony August afternoon-evening fingers, some men began building a mammoth hotel near the beach. When he was ten, it burned down. But for one glorious year Moish would hop on his bicycle and race down the broad streets of Brooklyn—What streets didn’t seem broad then, to a skinny little boy on his sister’s bicycle?—and go see the Elephant. Higher than the tower of Babel, wider than the river Nile, too large to fit into Noah’s ancient cruise ship, the Elephant Hotel rose nearly to G-d’s shoulders, and on the Elephant’s back there was a – – a what? Was it a pagoda? A café up there? A private viewing space for the city’s rich and famous? Did men go up there and pinch their girlfriends’ fannies, showing them the arc of the ocean in the geometry of their short lives?
It lasted a year and then, by the time he was ten and three months the Elephant Hotel was like a bad word, an arsoned fairyland that made his mother’s face go sour as a pickle whenever he mentioned it. Today, Moish can fathom what must have gone on there, but then, in his youth, before anybody had ever lifted up his tzitzis – this is how he divided his life – back then he only felt awe at the structure, and fear of the spirits which must have inhabited it.
The Elephant Hotel. It is only nineteen twenty-three but that seems like so long ago. I am not a man of forty, but I am fat enough to be sixty-five. Still, it is nice to be here, off the coast. Unfindable. I am piggy, I am fat; I am weightless in this water. Nice, so pleasant here. An elephant feels like an ant in the Coney Island Ocean. And the hotel was already ashes when I touched Miriam Roizenkish on her pretty little nose. Yesterday Hymie Cohen told me she was dead.
 “Going to See the Elephant” first appeared in the 1927 collection of short stories A Raisin in My Pocket!
* Built on Coney Island in 1985 and victim of a fire in 1986, the Elephantine Colossus housed a hotel and a concert hall. The expression “going to see the Elephant” became shorthand for visiting a prostitute, as the many nooks and crannies in the structure allowed for discreet relations.