Lost Yinzer : Well, They Elected Me King Of The World

John Grochalski

What are you guys doing right now? Me? I’m sitting in my leopard-print underwear and Steelers AFC Champions t-shit, nursing a scotch hangover, listening to the new Springsteen CD and trying to act like it isn’t a big disappointment. The Super Bowl is over, our Steelers have won, and by the time you read this, the Pirates will already be in last place and we’ll be talking about the 2009 NFL season, all the budding Hoovervilles, and global warming. A strange thing, time. I’m writing this article right now on a 17 degree February morning, and you’ll be reading this over an iced coffee in May or June while at work or checking your iPhone in the unemployment line. I guess its “interesting” stuff like this, time travel, that makes me return to the Back To The Future films so frequently.

It’s strange writing this column about being an exile, or whatever, from Pittsburgh. I mean I’m not in exile. I left willingly back in 2003, despite what certain bookies and landlords say. But that’s not what’s strange, except for when I’m drunk and don’t remember what city I’m in, or I hear a polka and start wailing like a baby. What’s strange is that doing this “lost yinzer” bit somehow always seems to turn into a sports column (except for the last one, which was about pimps and whores, but I’m sure one of the guys in that children’s tale was wearing a Pens t-shirt). What else are we going to talk about anyway? Diversity or some other myth of humanity?

Anyway, I’m not really here to talk about sports, at least not directly. The real message in this column is that the people of New York City have elected me, a yinzer, the king of the world. You heard it right. I’m the king of the world...at least for now. And do you know how I did it? It was simple. The NFL playoffs happened, the weather turned cold here in New York, and I put on my Steelers scarf and snowcap, and all of the sudden I became the king of the world. There, it was that easy. As king of the world in New York City, I leave my apartment in full Steelers regalia, on my way to work, passing hundreds of New Yorkers who nod at me, smile at me, slap me on the back, and give me the thumbs up. I’m the fucking king of the world.

You see, New Yorkers like winners. This isn’t an underdog city. New York sports teams pump a lot of worthless money into their rosters, and expect (foolishly usually) to be in the playoffs and/or pennant race every single season. And me living here, a former Pittsburgher in full Steelers regalia, wandering the streets of New York with a sixth championship trophy under my belt makes me a favorite person to New Yorkers. The king. My Steelers ensemble symbolizes winning to New Yorkers, legacy, a dull reminder of Broadway Joe, Giant’s Super Bowl Wins, World Series wins in the Bronx, and banners hanging high above The Garden, and they are attracted to it the way cats smell each other’s assholes. I’m willing to bet that if I were single, or a complete douche bag of a husband, I could be getting some top quality tail right now in Gotham. But I’m a decent guy, so I don’t. I just wave to the well-wishers, and ask that those who bow before me rise and bask in my Steelers glow in the full sunlight of a Brooklyn morn. It’s only right that I do. And as king I’ll have you know that I’ve been a benevolent ruler. For every five that I’ve been slapped, for every back pat, for every “Another one for the other thumb” that I’ve heard, I’ve responded back in kind.

Look, I’m not fooling myself here. I don’t play for the Steelers anymore. I didn’t fly down to Tampa Bay and support the team. In truth, on Super Bowl Sunday, I was at my in-law’s house vomiting and shitting out a nasty stomach virus, while trying to figure out, for the 5th time, why I hate the Pirates of the Caribbean films so goddamned much (they’re movies about Pirates, that’s why). And I also know that my reign is fleeting. I mean the fanfare and worship hasn’t stopped; New Yorkers will keep that shit up until it gets warm out and I have to put the snowcap away, and the guys in the bar will still keep calling me “Steeler.” The thing is, if I can be totally honest with all of you, I’m getting wary of all the attention. I’m beginning to miss the solitary joy in my morning walks. I’m getting sick of strangers slapping me five, or patting me on the back, or giving me the fucking thumbs up on the train. I can’t fetch a beer in peace without hearing about Big Ben. Why just yesterday it was 20 degrees out and windy as all hell, but some guy still tried to stop me on the street for a slap five. I just kept going. Still, he had to shout “Go Steelers” to which I responded, “Yeah, yeah, Steelers...It’s 20 degrees out, asshole!”

It’s been hard being the king. I’m ready to abdicate my throne, and let someone else have a go at it. While I love my Steelers scarf and hat, I think it would be best if I just put them away and took out my plain black hat and scarf, you know, to get a little distance from the Super Bowl and let the people of New York go about their business for a change. I know I need to go about mine. And should the need arise again for me to be noticed, well, I guess I can always go into the closet and put on my Pirates hat. That’s always good for a few laughs and a couple of Bronx cheers. Besides, a little negative reinforcement never hurt anyone.
Okay kids, I’m out. Time to put on pants, fill the scotch glass, and write Springsteen a nasty letter.

John Grochalski’s poems have appeared in several journals including The Lilliput Review, The Blue Collar Review, Modern Drunkard Magazine, Underground Voices, Zygote In My Coffee, The Kennesaw Review, Re)Verb, and The Smoking Poet. His short fiction has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Big Stupid Review, Fictionville, The Battered Suitcase, and Bartleby Snopes. Grochalski can be found at winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com, and his book of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is out via Six Gallery Press.