Chapter 1: The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh

A wild comic ride through the Pittsburgh of 1972 begins

Apologies to those who received this before back in the “old days of Bulletin” (like, last week). HARK Valley and its first novel have moved to Substack. Where we left off: The last email blast sent out the novel's Foreword, written by a linguist trapped in Pittsburgh by COVID. While the Foreword was written in scholastic English, with just an "appetizer" of vernacular, Chapter 1 begins a deep dive into Pittsburghese, a language as dense as a Primanti's (aka Manteez) "samich"...as such, a Pittsburghese-English translation guide is also below.

And now, we take you outside Three Rivers Stadium, on the North Side ("NorSide") of Pittsburgh, Dec. 23, 1972:

PRE GAME JAG

They wuz loafin dahn near Gate D, Clay’s black Nova pullt over, jus bullshittin n at. “Gonna pop tha question ta yer girlfrent fer Krismiss?" Clay said jagginly.

"Let me alone. She aint my girlfren so no," Scan grouchily answert; shit it reminded im he had ta call her. Clay had pullt awf tha side a tha road ta see aht tha driver winda; it dint matter, it wuz like four ahrz afore game tahm, tha whole place wuz dead as Alagenni Cemetery. Even tha early tailgaterz wua ahn lahtz up tha norside tha stadium which wuz lucky fer them cause tha wind wuz blitzin awff tha river like a lahnbacker awn speedt.

Clay wuz early, fer a change, an dint feel like goin over tha laht sittin arahn freezin his skinny ass awff waitin awn that dooshbag Frankie Gliddy. Soze he took Scanz advice an set up dahn air ta watch tha playerz entrance; wan’t bad, wif tha heat awn. Clay pullt a jelly donut aht a paper bag, abaht offered it ta Scan, but afore he did lickt it wif a grin an said, “Wanna bite?” Scan shook iz head. “That wuz funny–in high school,” Scan said.

“Grade school,” Clay said, between chompz. “High school, woulda rubbed it awn my nutz.”

Scan lookt away, grosst aht by tha powdert sugar gettin awn Clayz straggly red-brahn stash; Scan had a good thick black un but shaved it after Clay grew hiz–frickin copycat. In a grouchy mood awn accounta that plus knowin he wuz gonna have to figger aht how ta break up wif Gail, Scan stared at tha stadium an decided it lookt like a crosst atween a spaceship an a parkin garage. Tha air seemed heavy, coal-colored clahds slow-movin like a herd a buffalo; tha sky behint tha clahds wuz gray too but lighter. If it wuz a spaceship, Scan thought, it should fly tha hell ahtta here–er mebbe jus float dahn tha river owl tha way ta New Orleanz. Scan wuz born dahn air, an now he thought fer tha milliont tahm he shoulda gone ta grad school dahn Tulane steada up Duquesne. Course he still could transfer in winter quarter they said anytahm he wanted–anytahm he gaht tha ballz, they shoulda said. Toolane or Dookane, he musedt; shit ahm talkin ta myself like Clay agin, he thought.

He lookt at tha stadium again an silently apologizet ta Roberto. “Lease I still gaht my ticket,” he gruntedt, thinkin aht lawd.

“We don need no ticket, wutzizname’ll leave us in,” Clay said.

“Tha Clemente ticket, when he gaht his three thahsant hit,” Scan said, then turnin ta Clay an scowlin at im. “But I dint go cause some jafawff talkt me inta gonna ta tha dumb Pitt football game.”

Clay cackled an stufft tha las a tha donut in is maht. “He shoulda had four thahsan by now if he wuzn’t such a faker ahwayz missin gamez. Anywayz wutz tha big deal–owl he does is hit rinky dinky singlez.”

Scan bit iz lip, afraid ta say nothin; it wuz like listenin ta Jesus bein insulted–but he knew Clay wuz jus bein ignerant as ushal. “Anywayz,” Clay continyad, “baseballz almos as borin as church. Plus he’ll prolly get like five hunret more hitz so who cares abaht three thousan? An C–them Pitt cheerleaderz!”

Clay let aht another cackle laugh–like a crow er sumfin–shootin aht a crumb a donut tawardtz Scan. Scan frahnt, memberin babysittin that un cheerleader who wuz cryin ta im all night baht er boyfrent wahl Clay a course took tha hahtes un home…

Scan tried ta ignore Clay an pickt up tha six-day ole Sunday Press. Clay wuz boret an axed Scan, “Wutz in tha newz?”

Ushal, Scan said: That jagawff Kissinger tellin liez abaht tha war.

“Tell im I ain goin,” Clay said.

“Tell im yerself,” Scan said.

“Tricky Dicky said hez gonna end tha draf,” Clay said, voice risin hopefully. “You believe im?”

“Nope.”

Clay frahndt. “Yea I trust that doosh abaht as far as I could kick im. But he ain gettin me.”

Scan coulda tole Clay how since this paper come aht, Nixon gaht pisst at Hanoi an broke tha cease fahr by bombin tha hell ahtta them–but talkin politics wif him wuz useless. Clay swore Jane Fonda gaht elected general a North Vietnam, among other thins, an anyway owl he wanted ta talk abaht wuz how hed kill izself afore they sent im over ta get shawt. “Owl you gahtta do is go up Canady,” Scan would sigh. “Let Tricky Dicky an Kissinger-my-ass go up air an leave me awt it!” Clay would say.

Flippin ta page 2, Scan seen a story on tha explosion at tha coke plant dahn Weirton las week; twenny-one dead. If they don’ get ya in tha dam war…

Scan flipt past pagez wif Krismiss adz–then stoppt awn page 7. “I dint know you wuz a model,” he jaggedt Clay, holdin up a Gimbelz ad wif a smirky-face guy wearin a big fat tie. He kinda lookt like Clay.

“Aw go poop awn a Fruit Loop,” Clay said, self-consciously lookin in tha rearview an fixin his sandy brahn, feathery hair–which wuz never ahtta place, no matter if he worshed it er not. “Lease I don’ look like no lil Mikey Jonez from tha Monkeez n at.”

Scan started ta correct him–but he wuz sicka correctin Clay, who made more errors than Gene Alley an Jackie Hernandez combinet.

“Check it aht,” Clay said.

Scan lookt pas Clay ta see a couplea huge guyz in matchin long black leather coatz get aht a Caddy. One wif a beard pullt dahn his watchmanz cap an said, “Colt as a witchez tittiez.”

Clay laught, then turnt ta Scan ta protest: “Tha’s my lahn–they stoled it!”

“Yeah, well go bitch abaht it ta Mean Joe an Mad Dog,” Scan said, watchin them huge dudez lumberin tawardt tha entrance.

Clay rollt dahn his winda, an Scan clencht, figurin he wuz gonna say sumfin stupid as ushal. “Hey Joe kick some Oaklan ass!” Clay yellt.

Joe dint look, jus put his right fist up. Clay put tha winda back up, sayin “Dam, colt as–” afore catchin imself, embarrasst.

Gettin aht old Lincolnz an Oldsez an pickupz, a bunch a O lahnmen neither a Clay er Scan knowdt followt, then Scan recanized Jack Ham who lookt likea mill hunky an Andy Russell who lookt like a cop an then L.C. who lookt like a giant green bean in a cowboy duster coat. Then a flood a carz come–Scan seen huge Mel Blunt in a black cowboy hat over iz cool bald head get aht a big pickup, Mike Wagner lookin like a lil accountant gaht aht a VW bug; Franco combin aht iz Fro gaht aht tha back a sweet Buick wif Shanklin an Lewis up front…

Clay watcht a bran-new black an goldt Tranz Am come roarin in, skiddin ta a stop; tha driver gaht aht shakin iz long blondt curly hair. “Whoze that?” Clay axed Scan.

“Dunno,” Scan said. “Prolly taxi squad.”

“Nice taxi,” Clay said, starin at tha Tranny like a all. “Wish Santa come dahn my chimley an let me have that.”

“Take a pitcher it’ll las longer,” Scan jagged.

“Say it don’ spray it,” Clay said, hiz brahn eyez still oglin tha sportz car.

Tha scene completely died dahn fer like fiteen minutez. Then a beautiful, shiny, light green Pontiac Le Manz shot by Clayz Nova, jumpt tha curb an screecht ta a stop–makin itz own space an prolly blockin in a buncha carz. Aht tha driver door poppt two high-heelt platform shoes–“Them hiz goldtfish heels?” Clay axed. “Can’t see,” Scan said; then aht come goldt pantz an finely tha rest a a smaller dude in a long white fur coat. He quietly curst, holdin dahn a wide-brimmt hat wif a feather.

“Frenchy’s gaht tha Shaft look tadee,” Scan said.

“Almos gaht my lid Joe!” Frenchy said wif a laugh ta the guy gettin aht tha passenger side; tall n lean, Joe wuz wearin a long denim jacket, head uncovert.

Clay rollt dahn his winda again. “You tha man Joe Gilligan!” Clay yellt.

Tha tall, lean dude noddedt wifaht lookin as he strolled ta tha entrance, his long, slow stridez keepin up wif Frenchyz short, fast steps.

“Itz Gil-ee-um,” Scan correctedt, instantly regrettin it.

“Don’ be criticizin my annunciation,” Clay grumblt. “Sorry I aint no straight A Lebo cake eater. Anywayz I jus hope that jagawff hick breakz iz leg ta leave Joe get in.”

Scan dint have a watch awn but figgert it wuz gettin tahm. “We better go dahn tha laht,” he said.

Clay hawkert, then rollt up the winda an put that Nova in gear; he started inchin forward, then stoppt.

“Therez that dumb redneck now,” he said, pointin at a black Mustang that pullt inta tha playerz lot an dodgedt arahnd Frenchyz Le Mazs inta tha las space. Clay poppt tha cluch aht an silently drifted forward til he wuz parallel wif tha Mustang, stoppin abaht fitty yardz away.

A short, burly guy wif thinnin hair an a Army jacket burst aht tha Mustangz passenger side, hittin tha pavement at a jog.

“Les go les go les go-we’re late,” he callt over iz shoulder.

Tha grinnin driver gaht aht tha car, slappin a white cowboy hat awn iz blondt hair. He wuz wearin some kinda baby-blue rhinestone suit; “Lookit Elvis,” Clay sneert. Tha driver started walkin away, then turnt back ta tha Mustang. “Hold on, Rawk–I forgot ma wutchacallit,” he yellt.

As tha guy in tha Elvis suit opent tha trunk an dug arahn in air, Clay hurriedly rolled dahn iz winda wif iz lef hand as he grabbt the paper donut bag wif his right, blew it up an–whisperin “Duck”–lahdly poppt it, then pullt tha lever ta drop iz seat owl tha way dahn. Tha sounda tha poppt bag rung aht through tha empty laht–startlin tha guy in tha Elvis getup; he jumpt up, slammin iz head up tha trunk hood. He groant holdin his head an stumblin backwardz, turnin awkwartly awn iz lef cowboy boot heel an fallin ta tha groundt.

“My ankle!” he callt aht, clutchin his lef leg.

Mortified, Scan also droppt iz seat dahn–but could see in Clayz sideview mirror tha mustachioed guy in tha Army jacket get up from tha knee he had droppt ta when Clay poppt tha bag an hustle wif his head dahn ta iz teammate, who wuz writhin arahn like he wuz dyin; in a graceful, pahrful move, he spun him by tha cowboy boot heelz, then kneelt dahn an hoisted him acrosst iz shoulders, pickin im up an joggin acrosst tha now-empty playerz laht as tha guy he wuz carryin halt like a animal–an Clay bit his fist ta keep from bustin aht laughin.

They wuz abaht ten yardz from tha entrance when a gust a wind blew awf tha Elvis suit guyz cowboy hat–then a clumpa blondt hair. “My hat–my hair!” tha guy gettin carried screamt aht, clutchin his head but way too late. “We gotta get em!” Tha Army jacket guy paused–then tha entrance door shot open. A stone-faced guy wif a Dick Tracy jaw took one look an angrily motioned fer them ta hurry up. Tha guy in tha Army jacket put iz head dahn an sprinted tha final strech inta tha stadium, tha door slammin shut after em.

Clay took his fist ahta his maht an gaspt barely able ta breathe. “I pisst my pants! I pisst my pants!” wuz owl he could say.

He put iz seat back up, poppt tha clutch an peeled aht, spewin aht gravel.

“Yer such a jagawf,” Scan said, puttin his seat back up. “Such a frickin jagawf.”

“Im tha jagawf, huh?” Clay shot back. “At lease I dint write porn abaht them Dookane nunz.”

“It wan’t porn an you know it ya dumb Dormont dooch,” Scan grumblt.

Clay pullt over–Scan thought he might wanna fight an tensed up–but Clay jus laughed. “Wutever it wuz it gaht ya awn tha news an wuz funny as Mad magazine! But don’ ferget who come up wif tha name fer it, which wuz even funnier,” he said. “Almos as funny as wut I jus did. Hope that redneck hick broke iz ankle, tha faker.”

Clay gaht aht tha car–grinnin as he prahdly displayt ta Scan tha wet spot awn tha crahtch a hiz jeanz. He wun’t blawkin traffic but a beatup pickup goin pass lahdly honked at im. “Hey sucka my Greek dingaling yinz Eyetalian bastardz!” Clay yellt at tha truck. Then he turnt back ta Scan thru tha open driver door. “Good thing I gaht sweatpantz in tha trunk–but I’m gonna have ta go Western.”

Disgusted wif Clay fer tha millionth tahm, Scan turnt away, starin at tha river an tha construction truckz over at Point State Park; wutz the Point?, Scan axed izself, fer the milliont tahm. He stared at a coal barge chuggin dahn tha river.

Headin dahn New Orleanz, Scan thought. Wish I wuz awn it…