Chapter 3: The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh

Clayz Catch

After a Foreword, in which an acclaimed linguist trapped-by-Covid in Pittsburgh discovers a tattered manuscript, the first two chapters of this wild comic novel take place on the legendary day of Dec. 23, 1972. In the first chapter, a perturbed Scan witnesses his roommate Clay pull a pre-game “jag” on a star player (dismissed by Clay as “that dum redneck”); in the second chapter, Clay faces off against his nemesis, racist parking lot manager/low-level crook Gliddy. And now, Clay seeks vengeance, as Chapter 3 takes us up to and into a football game Pittsburgh will never forget. Glossary attached (you’ll need it)

CLAYZ CATCH

Tha las carz come in–a rusted-up 69 Duster an a 73 LeSabre right awf tha laht–afore tha laht fillt, then Scan counted tha money wahl Clay took his gym bag back tha Nova. 

When Clay come back, Scan tolt im tha take: Four hunredt fity bucks.

“Soze how much we get?” Clay axed. He wan’t good at math–Scan explaint they gaht ten percent total so that was forty-five an divided by two twenny-two-twenny-five each. Tha mos they ever had made afore wuz eight buckz each–but Clay dint seem imprest, he jus shruggt; Scan wuz in a hurry ta get dahn tha game, which had awready started. He locked tha lock box an tha door, then when he double-checkt tha padlock said, “Hey Clay ya lef yer whiskey.”

“Jus let it in air,” Clay said.

Scan said he should put it up in tha Nova er Frankie would drink it.

“Hope that racist motherfricker does,” Clay said. “I hawkert in it.”

Scan dint have tahm ta figger aht if Clay wuz jaggin er not so they joggt over tha Stadium. Clay knew a guy who let em in fer ten buckz an they gaht tha ushal spot standin in tha end zone secon level smack atween Franco’s Eyetalian Army an Gerelaz Gorillaz.

Clay ammediately started complainin abaht how borin tha game wuz, how there wuz no chickz jus ole ladiez, how turr-ible that hick quarterback wuz he coun’t hit tha side a a barn, this in’t no football game itz a pilla fight, if he wanted ta watch kickin he’d a gone ta a Bruce Lee flick blah blah blah.

Scan wuz so nervous he kep feelin like he wuz gonna puke. Ever since he wuz a kid watchin em lose an lose an lose an lose but now they wuz so close…

Nuttin nuttin at tha half.  Everbody wuz good an buzzt if not sloppy drunk awn Ahrn an booze now.

Some medieval ugly guy in a fu manchu wif a Raiderz hat an silver n black No. 41 jersey wuz makin the rahnz, wavin iz huge armz, givin the finger ta owl tha Stillerz fanz booin im. He standz dahn front by Scan an Clay wif his armz crosst his big fat belly; guyz abaht 6-4, lotta tats, leather pants, big black biker boots, glarin at tha crahd.

“That Villa-piana been eaten too much pasta –hez slow as Heintz ketchup!” one a tha millhunkz near dahn front a Scan yellt at tha Raiderz fan.

Fu manchu dude jus smiledt, thinkin a sumfin.

“Hey, iz yer runnin back Eyetalian or Black?” he finely said. “Cause hez greazy like a daygo but runs ahtta bounds like a n—”

He dint get ta finish afore they wuz on im–not Scan and Clay, but abaht a dozen a the millhunkz jumpt dahn an started given it to him, punchez an whackin him wif their construction helmetz. He jus standz there laughin evil wif blood comin dahn iz face–then someone snuckt up ahind an give im a roundhahs right sendin iz cap flyin–Clay reacht dahn an catcht it awff iz shoetop like he aspected it an takes awff runnin, up tha ramp headin ta tha concessionz n at. Scan shruggt at Clay runnin an turnt iz attention back ta tha brawl wif tha fu manchu dude fightin back now gettin some good elbaz an forearmz in–a cop come over an broke it up, shovin people away as they reacht over tryna get some las cheap shahtz  in. 

Tha cop wif big bushy sideburns an a huge schnazz startz pullin tha bloody guy away but tha guyz resistin, complainin “Some pussy Pissburgh punk stole my hat!”

Tha cop prolly dint like im sayin Pissburgh an givez him a baton in tha gut which shutz him up…

One a tha millhunkz grabz Scan, breathin beer n onionz at im like a dragon. “I’ll give im Pissburgh–I wanna piss on that hat! Wherez yer skinny ass buddy?” tha guy in a ratty ole Stillerz jacket an a construction hat demandet. 

Scan shruggt. “Prolly went ta take a dump an wipe iz butt wif it,” he said, tryna get away.

All a sudden there wuz a distraction–some naked skinny guy wif hair halfway dahn iz back run awn tha field wif a American flag in one hand an a lighter in tha other. “Lookit tha hippie streaker!” someone yellt; everyone lookt an tha guy in tha construction hat leavedt Scan go. The hippie made it ta tha 50, kneelt dahn an tried ta light tha flag awn fahr–but a buncha security jumpt im.

“Frick that hippie commie up!” tha millhunk wif dragon breaf yellt.

“Light iz weiner on fahr!” someone else screamt aht.

“Ya–if they could fine it,” the first guy crackt.

But they jus wrapt him up in some tarpaulin like a rug an carriet im aht.

“As a reminder,” a voice on tha PA come cacklin, “any unauthorized fans on the field will be ejected and arrested!”

“An sent over ta Vee-yit Nam!” hahlt aht one a tha millhunkz.

….

Meanwahl, Clay made it dahn tha laht an crept up awn tha boof; he seen Frankie wuz passt aht, drool awn iz chin froze like a slobber-cicle.

Clay lookt arahnd; dint see nobody.

Clay seen abaht half tha bottle he lef wuz gone. “Mr. Gliddy itz tha police!” Scan yellt in iz ear, then give Frankie a wedgie ta test im; Gliddy jus gurgledt but dint open iz eyez. Laughin, Clay took tha ratty Piratez hat awf im, pourt some a tha bottle awn Frankiez head, then stuck tha Raiderz hat bassackwardz awn im. Grosst aht, Clay lifted Frankiez  head up which had fell sidewayz awn tha lil shelf, grabbt tha cash bawx n let Frankiez head drop wif a thud awn tha shelf. Tha bawx key wuz on tha table next ta Frankiez Buick keys; Clay grabbed em both, then joggt stiff-leggedt back tha Nova, set tha cashbawx under tha driverz seat an drove closer ta tha stadium, idlin an thinkin. He heard owl kindz a racket an figgert tha secon half startedt. Clay put YDD awn tha radia, leant his chair back an listent ta Steely Dan. “Yeah, I’d do it again,” he said, laughin til snawt come aht iz nose.

They wuz playin some good unz: Walk on tha Wild Side, Tumblin Dice, Take it Easy…Thank Gawd no John Elton an no frickin Neil Diamonz, Clay thought. Then tha hippie DJ said he wuz gonna play some Moody Bluez an a song Clay hant never heardt come on: Isn’t life strange? the singer wif a funny voice axed.

Sure frickin is, Clay agreet, lookin at izself in tha rearview. It wuz kinda slow, then come a big chorus: I’m gonna fly, fly, fly….

Clay thought abaht flyin–then figgert he should prolly go get Scan. He turned tha Nova awff, lockt it up an started walkin slow up tha stadium. He could hear booin.

Good, he thought; mebbe they broke that dam redneckz ankle…