Pleasure Beach

Every word of this story is true. Enjoy...

Pleasure Beach

It was the last day of spring break and I woke to a loud knock on my bedroom door. “Are you coming or not? We’re leaving soon,” Paul said. I knew what he was talking about, but I wasn’t sure how to answer. Relunctently, I got out of bed, put on my boots, two pairs of socks, my best blue jeans and several layers of shirts. I walked into the living room with my hatchet brandished on my shoulder and stated “Let’s kill some fuckin’ zombies.”

The destination was Pleasure Beach, a mile-long strip of beach off the coast of Birdgeport Connecticut separated from the mainland by the Long Island Sound. Pleasure Beach was formerly a vacation spot for people who can afford vacation spots. In 1993, “vandals” burnt down the bridge that connects the beach to the mainland. Rather than rebuild the bridge, government officials in Birdgeport gave citizens only a few weeks to evacuate and take with them what they could. Since then, it has been a haven for anarchists, junkies and “hooligans” to use drugs and smash things. This place is a ghost town… there isn’t a single window that isn’t shattered, there isn’t a single door that isn’t kicked in and there isn’t a single house that can be considered reparable. Understand why wanted to check it out?

Me, Paul, Jamie, and Eric packed up the beat up Accord and began our journey unsure of what we would encounter. The car ride was like all car rides: shitty music, cigarettes and body odor. After two hours and one bathroom break we were in Bridgeport. We drove around for about two hours trying to figure out how to get even remotely close to this place. Directly across from Pleasure Beach is a swamp and Paul was convinced that we could simply wade through the swamp until we found a land bridge. After about 50 wrong turns, we found a place to park and started our trek. We walked for two hours through this smelly death trap of a swamp. The phrase “land bridge” began to make me sick to my stomach… it doesn’t exist…

Finally we ran into two older gentlemen carrying cameras and what looked like surveyors equipment walking along a gravel path that lined the swamp. “Do you know how to get to Pleasure Beach?” I asked desperately. I was met with a statement that both thrilled me and disappointed me. “Oh sure… just drive past the airport on the main drag, park in the parking lot at the end of the road and hike along the beach for about a mile.”
… Fuck… two hours, precious energy, and perfectly good socks completely wasted.
We were down but certainly not out. We followed the gravel path that took us back to the car in about 20 minutes.

Let’s recap: It took us 2 hours to wade through the swamp and 20 minutes to walk the gravel path back to the car. Moving on…

We hopped back in the car and continued on. Luckily it took us almost no time to find the parking lot. We parked, suited up, and started walking towards Pleasure Beach which was now in plain sight. It was about 4pm on a March afternoon, so hiking along a beach was cold; cold but beautiful… Light waves crashed against white sand and pastel shells were stacked like staircases indicating tidal patterns. While observing the aesthetics, we almost forgot about the eyesore we were about to see. Before we knew it there it was: Pleasure Beach in all of its graffitied glory.

Without missing a beat we invited ourselves into the first house we saw. We gawked in disbelief as we stared at a sea of broken glass, pealing wallpaper and beds with questionably stained linens. We wandered through it taking in every aspect of destruction. Jamie was taking pictures to document the madness, Eric was looking for souvenirs and Paul was looking for things to break. I’ve never used the phrase “maybe you shouldn’t touch that” so much in my life. I meandered my way through the wreckage in complete disbelief. Why are there clothes in closets? Why is the furniture still in the living room? Why are there dishes still in the cabinets? Why did these people have to leave in such a hurry? Questions were floating around in my mind like driftwood in the Sound. Regardless of how bizarre the placement of inorganic matter was, I couldn’t stop asking myself what could be around the next corner. A junkie shooting up? A dead body? Maybe a psychotic squatter with more weapons than common sense… It didn’t matter. We were there and we had to take it all in.

We continued through a few more houses taking pictures and asking each other rhetorical questions. In one house the floor was scattered with markers, crayons and children’s games and toys. All I could think about was how I wish I could make more sense of it than a miniature zombie apocalypse. The fourth house was the last house we would see that day. Jamie and I were in the living room as Eric and Paul explored the second floor and back porch. Jamie heard a crash, which ended up being Eric in the other room trying to scare us. It worked… Jamie and I ran for the front door unwilling to seek out the origin of said disturbance. We were met at the door by a Glock-9 and an emphatic yell: “Get your fucking hands up.”

Without thinking I said “Shit!” and threw my hands in the air. It was the cops…

Apparently one of the houses had burnt down the day before and local Police Department had been combing the beach for arsonists. They patted us down and made snide remarks like “if something in your pocket sticks me you’re going to have a bad day.” I couldn’t help but think “if something in my pocket sticks you, you’re going to have a worse day…”

It wasn’t just one cop, it was four. And they didn’t just come in the front door they had us flanked from the back door too. They condescendingly interrogated us assuming that we read the Birdgeport Times. “Didn’t you hear about the place that burnt down yesterday?”
“What happens when a place like this catches on fire? How do you expect us to get a fire truck out here?”
“How would you like it if someone walked into your house and just started smashing shit?”
“Don’t you have things to take pictures of in New York?”

Apparently they were unable to see the appeal of a town that has been completely frozen in time. I’ve never gotten a gun pointed in my face before, so I was a bit frazzled and couldn’t come up with any intelligent answers to their questions. Paul, however, is very good at dealing with cops. He was honest, articulate, and respectful. More than I can say about myself. Ultimately we were never arrested and only giving $92 trespassing tickets and sent on our ways. Before walking away we heard one of the cops mutter “It looks like we have more work to do” as two other kids walked towards us from the horizon.

The walk back to the car was quiet. If anyone said anything it was either a profanity or something like “I can’t believe this.” I certainly couldn’t believe it. Never once did we pass a sign that said “no trespassing.” Never once did we have to hop a fence and never once did we think we were doing anything illegal. Even if we were to set one of those hellholes on fire, would it be awful? When I use the term “irreparable” I really mean it. Not a single pane of glass wasn’t shattered and the wood in the unkempt houses had been severely warped from a lack of maintenance. If visiting this place is so awful, why not put up a no trespassing sign? Why not build a fence? Why leave such a, as one of the cops said, “shithole” so easily accessible?

From this clusterfuck of events, I have reached one conclusion. It’s all a scam… God knows why they never rebuilt the bridge and shipped people out so fast, but I think I know why they don’t put up No Trespassing signs. It’s a step away from entrapment. Bridgeport is one of the most impoverished cities in Connecticut. What better way to gain revenue than leave an appealing eyesore in plain view and ticket everyone who sets foot on the property….

Fuck the Police.