Chapter 7: The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh

Manteez Don't Got Progiez

Click here to read more or buy The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh, a wild comic novel written in “aggressive Pittsburghese.” Click here to catch up on previously emailed chapters. And now, the morning after the action-packed Dec. 23, 1972, in which Clay pulled a pre-game prank on the Stillerz star quarterback, battled with the unctuous parking lot manager Gliddy and convinced Scan to leave the game early (thus missing “The Immaculate Reception”…) so they could go to a Market Square bar, where the roommates met a couple yinzer babes…

CRICKLEWORLD

Clay had him a shiner, tha nex mornin.

When Scan gaht up, Clay wuz at tha lil nook next tha kitchen, eatin Count Chocula aht tha bawx at tha rickety kitchen table they gaht fer free–like owl tha other mismatcht furniture Clayz dad gaht em. Scan axed abaht iz eye, an Clay tolt him a long story abaht how he takez tha Hanratty chick aht Morninside where she lives at, then awn tha way back they hit Manteez dahn tha Strip. Some jagawff iz workin tha counter so Clay decidez ta jag him, axin fer a chipptchoppt ham samich. When tha jagawff sayz we don’ got that owl smirky, Clay sayz why not, aint yinz loyal ta Picksburgh? Then tha doosh goez Showz how much yinz know–Izleez invented that crap aht Ahia. So Clay goez Yer so fulla shit yer eyez r brahn jus gimme a haht dahg. Tha guyz gettin pisst he goez We don got no dam haht dahgz cmon ya jagawff yer holdin up tha lahn, so Clay goez Ah-k, gimme a progie. 

Tha guy goez Where tha frick ya think yer at, Blumfeeld?–I’ll give ya five secondz ta order sumfin we gaht or yer ahtta here.

So Clay goez I see cheesesteakz yer number two seller–well wutever yer number one seller is, make it ta go–up yer ass!

“So he eighty-sixted me,” Clay said, talkin wif his mahf fulla chocolate cereal. “I go Smell ya later an he goez Not if I smell ya first.”

“He pop ya?” Scan axed.

“Naw–he dint pop me–tha Hanratty chick did.”

After they leavedt aht Manteez he stopz er car fronta tha jail an startz gettin aht, woun’t tell er iz name er where he livez at er nothin. “So she poppt me–hey, speakin a gettin poppt, lookit that doosh Frankie Gliddy!”

He shovedt tha Post-Gazette over ta Scan, who read tha lil story buriedt dahn tha back a tha Newz section:

“The miracle Steelers game ending was not a happy one for all. Frank McGliddy, 44, of Munhall, formerly of McKees Rocks, was knocked out and robbed as he collected the day’s revenues at a parking lot just outside Three Rivers Stadium.

“Police found a Raiders hat on the victim, who many walking back to their cars assumed was inebriated. 

“McGliddy told police who responded to the scene he was assaulted by ‘at least five big black guys from Oakland–not ours, theirs,’ he said, differentiating between the Oakland a few miles away from Three Rivers Stadium and the one across the country.

“He refused assistance.”

Scan shook his head. “Weird,” he said. “Big Nick an Mike G an them are gonna be pisst.”

“Hopefully!” Clay said, laughin. Then he thought a sumthin an muttert: “He prolly faked gettin hit upside tha head.”

Scan shruggt an lookt at tha cover a tha paper, which had a huge photo a tha play wif arraz owl over tha place, showin Bradshaw after he throwedt an a long arra goin over ta Tatum jus after he drillt Frenchy who wuz dahn awn tha groun–an then a arra goin from Tatum ta Franco, who wuz reachin dahn low ta catch tha ball.

Scan tosst tha paper dahn disgustedly. “Shoulda stayedt,” he grumblt.

“Then I woulda misst my catch–Hanratty!” Clay said an laught, spittin cereal everywhere an almos chokin. After he stoppt coughin, he added, “An you woulda misst whatever I heard goin on las night–wuz that Gail?”

Scan shook his head No an lookt away.

“Dint think so! Sounded like a…she still here?” he said, droppin his voice dahn ta a whisper.

“Took er home las night,” Scan said, prayin Clay woun’t press im for details.

“Nice! I hate them clingerz,” Clay congratulated. “Thatz tha way ta ring-n-ditch.”

Scan pretended ta be payin attention ta tha Sports. “I dint ditch er,” he said, quietly. “She had…things ta do.”

“Oh oh!” Clay cacklet excitedt. “She gaht a boyfrien?!”

“Nope–shez marriedt,” Scan said, afore he could stop izself.

Seein Scan wuz serious, Clay frahnedt an shook iz head grimly, stood up, carried tha cereal box over tha kitchen an slammt it dahn tha counter. “That ain’t good,” he said, refusin ta look at Scan.

“Whatre you talkin abaht?” Scan whined, defensively–but feelin his defense wuz gettin run over. “Yer alwayz pickin up chickz wif boyfrienz–like yesterday!”

“Boyfrienz’ll beat ya up a lil–maybe, mosly jus try ta scare ya,” Clay lecturedt. “Husbandz–theyll feed ya ta tha catfish.”

Never shoulda tole him, Scan scoldedt izself.

Clay shook his head in disgust an walkt quiet dahn tha hall, leavin Scan feelin desertedt. Clay stoppt an axed wifhaht turnin, “Wherez she live at?”

“Craftin,” Scan said. “Ill give ya money fer gas–”

“Save it,” Clay interruptedt. “You’ll need it fer yer funeral. Craftinz a buncha mean motherfrickin Eyetalian bastardz thatll take ya dahn tha mill, melt ya wif pig ahrn an make rimz fer their tahrz aht ya. Scan, Scan, Scan,” Clay mumblt, enterin his bedroom an quietly closin tha door, like he wuz in a hospital an dint wanna disturb a dyin patient.

It wuz weird–Clay never went ta his room, he wuz always awn tha cahch watchin TV.

Scan leant his hot forehead awn tha colt winda a tha livin room; big surprise–another gray day in Pa., at 10 a.m. tha sun nowhere ta be found–maybe aht in California comfortin them Raiderz but certainly not hangin aht in dark, grim Pittsburgh. Lookin dahn Frobez, iz gaze fell as it often did awn tha jail, which lookt like a cross between a church an a fort, huge, light gray rawkz somehow stuck ogether–an tha Medieval-lookin bridge acrosst Ross Street.

In his Pittsburgh History cakewalk undergrad class, Scan learnt its name: Tha Bridge a Sighz.