Lost Yinzer
“Is he serious, Cal?”
Calvin looked at me. He was as pale as a ghost.
“Yeah, I’m damn serious!” Dave stepped toward me and I clinched my fists. “Security tried to stop us inside. That’s why we runnin’!”
“Fine.” Steve smiled. “Give us back our money and we’ll all be on our way.”
“Fuck that!” Dave snapped. He sat down on the toppled flowerbed. He crossed his legs. “What money? I don’t know you. I was just sitting here mindin’ my own business when you college boys come along looking for some pussy.”
Dave was calm and remarkable. He had his alibi down flat. A second later a security guard stepped out. He signaled to someone on his walkie-talkie. Then I heard the sirens wailing. I pictured the defeated expressions on my folk’s faces when they picked me up at the jail on solicitation charges. First a worthless English Lit major, next a pervert with a record.
So I took off up Seventh Avenue and hid underneath an overpass. I could hear Steve, as he continued to argue with Dave. I felt anxious and nervous. The overpass was littered with molded copies of the Post-Gazette, shopping carts, and a few random, dirt-covered blankets. The excrement of the American dream was littered all around me. I slumped down next to the material of shattered dreams and unfulfilled promise, and waited. Moments later, Steve and Calvin showed up. I shook. I thought the grim reaper had found me.
“Damned Pimp,” Steve panted. “He’s just sitting there being a defiant little prick!”
“Cops come?” I asked. I listened into the night air, but the sirens were gone. Steve shook his head.
Calvin was sitting on the dirty garbage-covered ground with his head in his hands, shaking. He didn’t look up at me. He just sobbed. I let him be.
“Ripped off by a piece of shit, low-life pimp!” Steve shouted. “What were you thinking, Cal? I had it all worked out!” Calvin began to sob harder. “Dude, stop crying! It’s fucking embarrassing!”
Calvin stopped. He lifted his head and it was streaked with dirt and water. He had a look of hatred in his eyes for Steve Scanlon. I’d never seen him look so intense.
“Don’t give me that look,” Steve continued. “This is your fault. At least I tried to get your cash back.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Calvin said. “This is so screwed up. We were almost arrested tonight. I’m sorry, guys. Really I am. I think I just had too much to drink.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Now you come to your senses!”
“Jay, I’m sorry, man.”
“It’s alright,” I answered, calmly. I walked over and helped Calvin up from the ground. I took two cigarettes out and I lit one for each of us.
“I-I was just tired of being the virgin and always teased. You know? I thought maybe this would be different, and I could have some kinda validation.”
“Pussy is over-rated.”
“Yeah, but you already got some so you can say things like that.”
“I suppose so.” I said. I didn't really know what to tell Calvin. “Let’s just head back to the car. I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“Whatever,” Steve answered. He walked out from the overpass and began descending Seventh Avenue alone.
We retraced our steps through the city. We walked in absolute silence. Then Calvin whined a little bit more. I got him talking about Amanda Evarts, this co-worker of his that he was in love with. The idea of her seemed to calm him down. Steve kept a good distance from us. Oddly enough I felt calm and stone sober.
The last ten months of heathen living had run their course. I’d begun to feel pull of creeping adulthood the moment I turned to see that pimp’s face. I'd probably known it before then, but I just wasn’t ready to accept the truth until that moment. Yet as we drove around empty Pittsburgh looking for Dave the pimp and Calvin’s lost forty dollars, I tried to find clear signs that the fun life of kicks was still as engaging as it ever was. But all I felt around me was exhaustion.
John Grochalski is a writer formerly from Pittsburgh. He lives in New York now with his wife and two cats. Grochalski's book of poems The Noose Doesn't Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is forthcoming via Six Gallery Press.
