YOU SELLOUT

“You’ll never understand exactly what kind of man I am til you wear my shoes,

You think I envy your life, but you never realize I always live the way I choose,

Feel so much regret, but you never let that which makes you live the truth,

You point fingers and lie, the harsh truth you deny,

Life is a game that you don't want to lose,

Sellout—you want to sell your soul,

Sellout—you want to take control,

Sellout—you want to play that role,

Sellout—I'll never sell my soul…”¹

So what if some found it hard to believe that I got accepted into Aristod, a small but notable college about two hours southeast of Pittsburgh. (Once you cross the Mason-Dixon line and pass the M-crownstone, Aristod is right next to the town of LaSalle.) But I mean, seriously, so what if despite all the chaos in the house and out on the streets I upheld my dedication to education. And so what if I took a deviant approach beginning in 9^th grade when I turned away from the standard material and started seeking outside sources. And so what if some of my “private” teachers from my freshmen year had “funny” names and taught “funny” subjects, like Vladdy Nabby for Punology; Joey Hell for Catchology; Karl M. (and his T.A., Freddy E.) for Classology; ol’ Chompy Chomsky for Linguistics ‘n’ ‘at! And so fuckin’ what if I was really overloaded that year; the lessons were free anyway thanks to Pessi and his black-‘n’-bored antics.² Not to sound all arrogant but my private teachers helped me become super-duper smart—even though my public teachers never realized it; with certain students (like me!) they were only concerned with abusing us with their paltry authority, instead of amusing us with the waltz of empathy.

During graduation (right before my principal had to hand over my diploma) the redheaded tyrant Ms. Charlton paused and seemed to be scanning through a mental file cabinet, looking for pending detentions for me to serve so she wouldn’t have to hand it over. She didn’t want me to succeed. She really didn’t! Several times she privately told me in her office that I never would, and by charlatan,³ she meant it! Well, after my name boomed through the auditorium, and I walked up to the podium, and she hesitated, I presented her with the biggest fuck-you smirk I ever gave anyone! She responded with a look of disgust and imminent revenge—then carelessly dropped the scroll in my hand. Ma had been somewhere out in the crowd, watching me with humble pride; the other one somewhere unknown—well, likely on the stumble after drinking himself out of his mind.

When I left high school with my diploma, it felt like I was holding a key that would unlock the door to a better world. Every teacher I passed on my way down to the parking lot—the ones who suspended me for questioning them both earnestly and in jest, suspended me for choosing a contumacious hip-shake as my hallway gait, suspended me for me being me—the ones who would roll their eyes if my behavior was, on the whole, unpatriotic, unjustified, and immature—well, on the way down that long black declivity, their faces seemed so contorted as if lurking shadows had vice grips on their kidneys, wrenching it every time a teacher didn’t want to remain upright and respectful. Yes, they didn’t want to see me succeed either! I pledge allegiance to the flag that united every authority in that indefensible school looked at me, even treated me, as if I was a terrorist, or at the very least, unpatriotic. But God—didn’t the red blood, white skin, and blue balls that flagged my physical existence suffice for me to have a little liberty and justice?

***

…The summer was winding down. I was leaving on Sunday and it was already Friday: my last high school-type weekend. Ma was asleep, Rick at work, the house in one of its rare tranquil moments. In my room, the sun was shining brilliantly through the window where several strips of the blinds had broken off, causing a serrated gleam to cut across the center of the room. I was expecting a knock on the window from Pessi. In the meantime, I was prostrated on the mattresses—stripped down to a black t-shirt and plaid boxers—trying, in the afternoon heat, to keep up on my reading: just started Things Fall Apart by Achebe. In a fortified circle called home, it’s the Powerful vs. the Powerless: and when the circle breaks, Civilization vs. Nature: and which side are you on?—what colors do you see: back? white? or shades or gray? To be sure, I either groomed the goutweed or gilded the lily. But like in those flowery, clichéd movies, I had this resolute flame burning inside that I was going to walk into Aristod and turn it upside-down with what I knew from reading like an Ivy Leaguer, while having what no Ivy Leaguer could ever acquire: the street smarts from growing up in Verna. Oh yeah, I was going to be the next rags to riches! the genius from nothing! straight out of poverty and into the limelight like no other! so to speak, set the world afire with the Vallanic Revolution! But the reality was: soggy thoughts of my friends were blanketing the fire inside. It suddenly blew into mind that none would be going to college. None had the means or desire to. Eddie Hughes wanted to be a DJ; he did the occasional party. Jeremiah O’Malley dropped out of high school and did plumbing with his two uncles; he was two years older than Eddie, Pessi, and me. Three years older than us youngins, Dante Zielinski was a full-time potato sacker who recently started budding herpes; evidently, from the way he picked jobs and lovers, Dante had a serious death-wish. And Pessi…ahhh! The thought of him was scrambling, twisting, and blowing away Achebe’s words like a harmattan!

A triple knock on the window.

I rose with a yawn and slugged over, peaking through the hole in the blinds. On the other side, Pessi was hunched down to level himself to where he could see in. His sun-doused hazel eyes were staring back mockingly: eyes as unfathomable and brilliant as Hawthorne’s! ‘I seeeee youuuu!’ I sang out. ‘But’—(I grabbed the blinds and gave ‘em a violent shake)—‘I’m blinded ‘n’ can’t find the lock!’ Smirking, Pessi shook his head and headed over towards the front door. I casually dove back on the bed as if he wasn’t about to join me, but we were best friends and things were always casual between us, so I didn’t need to greet him, be nice, look at him, or put on pants.

Pessi walked in holding a paper bag by the neck of the 40 inside. I’d asked him to stop by Dante’s and tell him that I needed to “borrow one from his fridge.” Pessi had nothing for himself because he didn’t drink, ever. He had on army cargos, a wrinkled hunter-green t-shirt, and black Doc Martins. On his left forearm: a white gauze covering his newest tattoo. He handed over the 40, and then, without instruction to do so, pealed back the gauze. It was a traditional mermaid: generic facial features, swirling blonde hair, and a teal tail that curled sensuously around splashes of water. Every tattoo Pessi had—predominately green and black ink (a bit obscured on his bronze skin) on his arms, chest, and back—had been done by our friend Anson, a kitchen tattoo artist who used Pessi as his manikin. Anson had inked an abstract Japanese dragon on the back of my neck, but I became cautious of getting any more from him after he messed up one across Pessi’s upper back. On a banner flowing though thick bright flowers, it was supposed to say in black cursive lettering Struck by the Fuck. (No significant meaning besides Pessi thinking it sounded cool.) But Anson, freestyling while intoxicated, began inking an extra line on the F causing it to look like a half-assed E. We always made fun of Pessi for it because if you read it as Eu- (as in Europe) it becomes “Struck by the Yuck.”

‘Man, yir still fuckin’ readin’ books,’ he said incredulously, handing me the 40.

‘Gadda get my mind right for cawidge.’

‘More like: gadda get da shit kicked oudda ya for bein’ such a yuppie.’ As he moved passed, he punched the back of my calf.

‘I’ll ‘member dat when I’m rollin’ in the dough.’ I rolled over on my side with my head tilted and eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘So idd be best if you juss keptchir mouth shut ‘n’ stuck by me.’ Sittin up, I situated myself on the edge of the mattress and twisted open the 40. As usual, Pessi was quick to knee it in front of my small television, which sat generically atop a foldout stand better suited for glassware and magazines. He started up a video game—the console placed between the open legs of the stand—and with his back to me, said, ‘Da only thing yir gonna be rollin’ around in is debt.’

‘Nah, I gadda scholarship thit’s gonna help a bit. Plus, I’ll be startin' off makin' a decent amount, so it won’t even madder da debt I’m in.’

Waiting for the video game to load, Pessi set down the controller and pulled from his pocket an orange prescription bottle. With an intent focus, he rotated it around in his hands as if looking for directions in fine print.

‘Catch a summer flu?’ I joked after taking my first bitter gulp. Whatever Pessi had I knew it wasn’t prescription medicine. He turned half-around on his knees as if wanting me to watch. He carefully tilted the orange bottle into his palm…til three yellow horse pills fell out. ‘What’s ‘ose?’ I asked. I was astonished by their size; I didn’t know much about the latest trend of pills because I’d quit eating ‘em years prior.

‘Umm, like Gorilla Biscuits,’ he replied. ‘Big ludes for big dudes. But since I ain’t all that big a dude maybe dill put me under for gude.’ A quip that straddled the line between morbid humor and dead seriousness. Maternally Russian with paternal quarters on Irish and Italian, Pessi was christened Zachary Alan Pessini, and as Life worked its wonders, he zapped right into the name: the most pessimistic person I knew! But that aside, if you subtracted my self-motivated erudition from the equation, we were basically the same. Then again, I hadn’t imbibed my equilibrium of Sicilian fluids from Archimedes, so my math isn’t to be trusted.

‘Need a drink for deez puppies,’ Pessi noted with a devious smirk. He went out into the kitchen to quaff down the horse pills…and when he returned, wide-eyed, he exhaled as if he’d just swallowed three elephants, or gorillas.

‘So yuppie boy,’ he resumed. ‘Cominna fair tanight?’

‘I guess. Ju talk da anyone?’

‘Yep, everybody’s goin’. ‘N’ I think Anthony’s comin’ too.’

‘Man, I hate that stupid fuckin’ whore.’

‘Yeah. Guess Zielinski cawed ‘im, ‘n’ ya know how der all buddy-buddy now.’

‘Well he’s in for a rough night.’ Shaking my head, I grunted like a little fear dearg at what I had in store for our “friend” Anthony Dunsan. Pessi didn’t bother responding; he kneed back down on the floor and picked up the controller.

‘Eh, I wanna play too. But let’s get high first.’

‘Spark it up, bro. Spark it up like uhhh, uhhh—’ He couldn’t finish the simile.

I set the 40 down on the three-door dresser next to my mattresses, reached in the top drawer, and retrieved half a blunt from an old cigar box. Putting the blunt to my nose, I took in a deep inhalation. Ahh! what a pleasant scent flooding my nasal! Nature’s antediluvian redolence! ‘Even as the green herb have I given you all things!’⁴ Thank You! After searching around for and finding my missing lighter, we stepped over to the window. I drew the blinds up halfway and lifted the window the same. Then we got high, blowing the smoke outside, even though it hardly mattered. Ma had already caught us ten thousand times. Her typical reaction was to tell Pessi: ‘You need to teach him good sense!’ Meanwhile, looking right at her, Pessi would be taking in a hit, gagging back heavy coughs, and, with his boyish smirk shinning in all its grandeur, saying, ‘I will, Ma; I will.’ Then Ma would walk away as if she’d heard exactly what she wanted to hear.

Already feeling good (the world upon my shoulders provisionally removed), I shut the window and sat back down on the edge of the mattresses. Pessi kneed back down in front of me, and we began playing a video game. It was a football game and whenever I wanted or needed Pessi to mess up I would kick him in the back; he would gripe and threaten to restart the game. About thirty minutes in (not long after I finished the 40) Ma woke up. Peeking in through my cracked door, she said, ‘Ciau, Pipi! And youuu, Mr. Tappiceddu,⁵ spray some fragrance in here! I can smell it! Your fauter comes home soon!’—(I just smiled.)— ‘Don’t smile! Do it! I’ll close-ah door; you keep it closed!’ So she closed the door and I kept it closed. I also sprayed fragrance and lit a cigarette to normalize the smell of my room. Meanwhile, Pipi was wrapping up the controllers angrily after losing 31-7. He was dispirited because he’d been Da Stillers, and to lose with them on a video game brought the same sentiments as if it had been a game for the books: that’s how deep Stiller Spirit runs in Pittsburgh: very intoxicating!

‘So, Tapp, when you leavin’ exactly?’

‘Umm, Sunday afternoon sometime. You gonna come over ‘n’ eat?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Just then, a nondescript but vicious thought struck my mind. I let out a prolonged noise of distress: ‘Ugghhhhh!’

‘Wha’?’

‘I dunno; juss gonna be a whole new life at cawidge, ya know.’

‘Yeaaah, prahblee.’ He set the controllers atop the console, then pushed it back. ‘So how’s yir major thing work? Jardee pick it out? or ya decide that wancha get dere?’

‘Well, most go in undecided. But iddle prahblee be English. But I might double whadever my main one is with—Fffuck!’ Unknowingly, I was burning a hole in my boxers. I put the cigarette out and began picking at the hole, trying to rip out the blackened frays.

Pessi stood up. Yawning, he stretched his muscular arms up and outward, allowing a myriad of reflections from the window to seep into the spaces between his ink. ‘Ya know what you should, V—go inda Law or Business. ‘At’s where da rill money is. See, if ya rilly wanna get “dough da roll in,” ya juss gadda putchirself where da dough is,’ he concluded sententiously, cracking his knuckles fist-to-fist.

‘No chance of me doin’ either.’

‘Why’s ‘at? ‘Cauzshir stupid?’

‘No, ‘cause I’m goin’ da cawidge da akshly learn a thing or two,’ I replied with an air of conceit. ‘I don’t give a fuck about money; I’m gonna do whad I wanna do.’

Pessi turned away and began scratching his pipi, digging deep, hard and fast, back and forth, through the dark almond-brown peppered across his all too circular head. He’d never had his hair cut or colored any other way; our old-school barber, Zippi, loved Pessi’s reliable simplicity and made fun of my requests for fades and thinning-scissors to enhance my little spikes. After the scratching ceased, Pessi stuck his finger in his ear and rocked it back and forth like a wobbly ship. With his back to me, mocking my voice and words, he said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about money; I’m gonna do whad I wanna do.’ He let out a short grunt of laughter. ‘Man, you rilly are stupid for someone goin’ da cawidge.’

Taking no offense, I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I fell straight backwards on the mattresses, scooted up towards the wall, and locked my hands behind my pillow-resting head. On the television, a fat loquacious cowboy was rambling off once-in-a-lifetime deals going on at his car lot this weekend. Next, a bald attorney with petite glasses was assuring no fees! absolutely no fees! unless he gets money for YOU! Then the scheduled program came on: dramatized court cases, small claims. Not knowing where the remote was, and not wanting to move, I watched it unenthusiastically. Meanwhile, Pessi was pacing around, flipping through a magazine he’d found on the floor. Minutes passed before he carelessly tossed it. He walked over to the window, peered through the blinds, turned around, then went into a staring contest with Darby Crash: a poster hung to the right of the television. As I looked Pessi on from the side, his face turned strange and inquisitive; straight on, Darby’s remained young and feral. They eyed each other…til Pessi gave up and snatched another magazine off the dresser, the one I bought because it had the newest college reports and statistics. He flipped through it attentively, perhaps looking for information on Aristod, but suddenly stopped, laid it back down, turned around, and, unprovoked, bitterly said, ‘Searcly, V: fuck cawidge.’

‘Yeah: fuck ‘at bitch.’

Just then, someone came in the front door; Razzle was barking out back. Pessi promptly said, ‘Well, I’m out. I’ll caw ya in a bit.’ He left out the door, although I’m surprised he didn’t crawl out the window; nobody liked to face my father.

Lying there motionless, looking up at an old orange rain stain, I found myself absorbed in what I just said: ‘Yeah: fuck ‘at bitch,’ meaning college. Some days—well, in past days, I would’ve said the same thing in all seriousness. Although I was usually sarcastic with just about everybody, Pessi loved whenever I was serious and inflamed. He loved provoking me into preaching my “revolutionary discourses,” no matter how pubertal and unpolished. He enjoyed that kind of thing: listening to tales of utopian battles, intensified by the drugs, experiences, and vendettas burning inside us. And I liked to make him smile, comfort him in my own twisted way. But it was starting to feel old. Touting this, by criticizing that. Hoping for this, by battling against that. I thought about how I would be leaving for college in two days, and no matter what, Aristod had to be a haven compared to Verna. I felt that I had finally reached the age of retirement from rebellion, criticism, and despair. In the amiability of my imagination, life at Aristod would be like an affluent retirement home; in other words, the environment (like how it’s shown in brochures and on commercials) is located in such an aesthetic, peaceful place where any problem is promised to be a trivial one. One problem: you still get beat there.

***

…We were laughing boisterously. Taking random shots at each other. Yelling over yells. Jeremiah, Eddie, and Dante seated on a couch embroidered with swirling earth tone flowers; Pessi and I were in metal foldout chairs, one on each side of the couch but closer to the television. We were watching a Buccos game. Cheering for homeruns, acrobatic catches, and the mad-eyed batter who just got hit in the shoulder with a wild fastball. All the while, throwing curveball chips at each other. Getting up just to tag-out the person furthest away. Umping nonsensical rules. Swinging around an olive-green blunt. Coughing and laughing. Everyone but Pessi taking shots of whiskey and gin. United once again: Da Hoolies, a simple name for our crew, but very fitting of our collective disposition as hooligans.

Although our spirits were bright, the lighting was dim. In front of us sat a bulky old television, flush against the wall, with the corners of the screen besmirched with indelible grime; it couldn’t help but emit a dull, listless light. Precariously fastened to the ceiling was a dual socket holding one naked light bulb. Behind us, to our left, a tangerine haze filled the kitchen. The place had the feel of sitting in an alleyway except in lieu of bricks were gator-green walls, so obscure that it was hard to tell they were even there. By nature, Dante Zielinksi’s first-floor Section-8 smelled like dewy cardboard. By habit, Da Hoolies smelled like dual intoxication: three innings in.

Eddie stood up from the sofa to take a shot of whiskey. He perched one leg on the carved-up coffee table before him. Holding his smile, he waited for our attention so he could imitate how the jocks from our high school partied in their swaggering way. Eddie was of a deep brown color, and at 5’8”, three inches taller than me. He had a square head sporting a high-fade flattop (we all made fun of it for being old-school), and below, long smooth checks with high cheekbones, broad shoulders and pecs, and chicken legs: all upper body, but a strong, fast, athletic kid who wasn’t an athlete. All smiles, we turned our attention to him, ready for his imitation. He tackled the shot then roared like a linebacker, shaking his head with his long tongue hanging out in mocking fashion. After rolling it up, he dumped the residue from the shot glass on Dante’s skinned head. We all laughed and began throwing chips ‘n’ ‘at towards Veteran Zielinski as compliments from the rest of the team.

‘I’m about da kick yinz assholes out if ya don’t stop throwin’ shit.’ Since we didn’t stop throwin’ shit, Dante settled with grabbing Eddie’s white wife-beater to shine his head dry. After the buff-job, Eddie slapped Dante’s dried head and attempted to sit back down between him and Jeremiah. But he had to push…throw ‘bows…and squeeeeeeeze in because Dante was being difficult in making room. Once situated, Eddie looked like a helpless black kid stuck between two skinheads: Dante’s head was skinned to the bone, and although Jeremiah’s wasn’t quite to the bone, his hair was a faint blonde. To boot, both had muscular bodies covered in tattoos, and regularly wore Ben Shermans, straight-legged blue jeans, and black Docs. Neither were skinheads, but back in the day both had ridden that train for a few stops, from which we made (and still had) older friends who were dedicated working-class skins; that is, the non-racist kind.

I was sitting in the metal foldout chair closest to the door, close to being drunk. I was typically a loquacious drunk. Jeremiah was a quiet and poised drunk; you could hardly even tell he was intoxicated. Eddie was a buzzer, never getting wasted on booze; he liked to smoke more than drink. Herpes-infected Dante had a serious death-wish, as I already explained, and drinking himself into blindness, as he frequently did, only brought his dream that much closer to fruition. Of course, once Dante acquired, we required him to keep his lips off the bottle, and I think everybody kept a conscious eye on the matter. Although I wasn’t there, one time Dante had been drinking at a bar in West Eaton, a rough suburban neighborhood. (He was eighteen at the time, presently twenty-one.) Anyway, he got wasted, went out on the street, beat up the first person he saw, pulled his penis out, then urinated on the guy. Instead of zipping up, Dante took off his pants and began running down the street, taunting everybody in the vicinity, til he was arrested and sentenced to thirty days in jail, two years of probation, and fines out the penis. That’s Dante’s drunkenness. And although Pessi didn’t drink, his reckless synergism with everything else he did sometimes caused his intoxications to be far worse than our drunkenness: a tense, cold-eyed, jaw-clinched look that suggested someone was “really gonna get it” but no one would ever find out about it.

As I was about to suggest that we head to The Square Fair, Anthony Dunsan walked in. Dante sprang up from the sofa to greet him with enthusiasm, which only heightened my disgust for Anthony. He said what’s up to everyone, and to me he said it very timidly; he overstood my feelings for him. Then he moved into the room like a timid turtle. Even the way he walked bothered me: so effeminate and cowardly! He was anorexic-looking with owlish eyes and an unshaven face; not fully bearded but it looked absurd paired with his scrawny frame; he recently grew the scruff in an attempt to hide his womanliness. Anthony had always been the kind to dress according to whoever he’s around just to fit in; his closet probably looked a microcosm of the mall. And whatever Dante said, Anthony said. Whatever Dante wanted to do, Anthony wanted to do. Whenever Dante had to shit, Anthony had to shit. If Dante got herpes, then Anthony had to get herpes, which he hadn’t been able to do yet—unless he’d been making out with Dante behind our backs which I’m sure he was burning to do, and not out of homosexuality but because he so desperately wanted to be somebody’s little bitch. That’s Anthony’s sobriety.

He grabbed the fifth of whiskey on the table and asked whose it was. I said mine; it wasn’t. He asked if he could take a couple shots; I said sure. He took a shot, glancing at me timorously—I nodded approvingly—then he sat down on the sofa where Dante had been sitting. Yeah, I forgot, wherever Dante sat, Anthony had to sit.

‘Well, yinz about riddy?’ I asked.

‘Been riddy,’ replied Eddie.

‘Whadever,’ said Pessi.

Jeremiah nodded.

Dante was in the kitchen but hearing me yelled, ‘Yeah! Hold up a minute! Dere’s sum’n leakin’ from the fridge!’ Since we have a minute, one last crucial exposition: In Da Burgh, the use of there/dere/‘ere (like the/da/‘ah, that/dat/‘at/dit/thit, and the singular you/ya/ju/ja/chu/cha) depends on the tempo, tone, and preceding word. Yinzers tend to compound words; overemphasize the beginning of a sentence while underemphasizing the ending; and replace dental Ts with cacuminal Ds. Based on my observations, the generation of yinzers before mine are among the last to speak in the staccato flow unique to traditional Pittsburghese⁶; us youngins aren’t as crisp and choppy: our flow is more dismissive and slurry.

Man, when I slid my eyes left towards my avian anathema, I noted that he was the only one wearing shorts. He probably felt so uncomfortable because he couldn’t stand to stand out, couldn’t handle the concept of individuality even in its most pathetic and provisional forms. He had the fifth resting on his shaking thigh, with a firm grip around the neck of the bottle. He was looking deep into rocking copper ocean as if making an internal decision whether or not to throw back a bunch of shots before we left. In the meantime, he decided to take another one: his face winced with a red glow.

‘Bedder hurry up ‘n’ get drunk,’ I advised, trying not to let my smirk be seen by rubbing my face during a fake yawn.

Without looking over, he weakly replied, ‘Yeah, I know. I’m tryin’.’

‘Juss start firin’ ‘em dahn,’ suggested Eddie. ‘Come on, Ant; do it!’ Suddenly the red piss-ant laughed as if to say, ‘Great idea, Eddie! I’ll do whadever anybody tells me to!’ And so SycophAnt put back nùmmiru tri.⁷ Pressing into him, with bulged eyes, Eddie was egging him on for his own little entertainment. ‘Another one!’ he yelled. ‘Do iiiiiiit!’

‘H-ukk, ughh, hold on,’ hacked Anthony. He was already so splotchy in the face, trying so hard to hold back his grimace—but his owl eyes were about to capsize! HA! ‘Hey, V. Can I bring ‘iss with me? I’ll give ya ten bucks for it.’ About two-thirds down, the eleven-dollar bottle was actually brought by Jeremiah, who didn’t care to speak up, probably just content I was about to con the stupid whore out of ten bucks.

‘Ar’ight, you stupid whore. Juss keep it dahn ‘cause ‘ere’s gonna be pleece everywhere.’

‘Stupid whore?’ he repeated.

‘I fuckin’ studder, you dumb owl-lookin’ prostitute?! Why dohncha go home ‘n’ shave ‘at fuckin’ shit off yir face? You stupid fuckin’ whore.’

Everyone laughed besides Dante because Anthony was seriously his little bitch…

…Outside we began walking towards the squares: about a ten-minute walk from Dante’s, but with the way we were staggering and bantering, it was bound to take longer. The sky was swirled with vibrant pinks and blues…opulent with tender clouds…an hour and a half before nightfall. A cool, gusty air had supplanted the heat of the afternoon. It felt and smelled unusually clean whenever it whipped against my face, as if the local sky was a freshly opened bandage. In some of the stronger drafts, I could smell the nearby foods. That’s what brought most people to the fair: restaurants ‘n’ ‘at from the metro area, as well as traveling food hobbyists, set up booths offering their specialties, some at reduced prices. Although we had good food in mind, our main objectives were picking up chicks and gambling alla carnevale.

Walking in threes, me, Pessi, and Jeremiah, were up front; Dante, Eddie, and Anthony in the rear. Surprisingly, Eddie was the only one being too loud, pushing Anthony to finish the bottle. He really had it out for Anthony but in a joking way. I didn’t care if Anthony got caught or dropped to the ground vomiting because if the police should happen to appear I didn’t know him and he wasn’t with us three; I would keep on walking with a sincere smile, glad he’d been taken out of the picture by any means.

As we neared the midway point, the streets were becoming more crowded. Most bodies were moving in the same direction, which was good because it helped us blend in with all the flesh and noise. Only the elderly were working against the current as the bridge and canasta tournaments (held in tents set up in the inner squares) ended. Occasionally glancing downward, I saw the cracks in the sidewalk beginning to heal: the area of boxes and boxes was phasing into the sleek, white, plastic strips.

‘Eh, V,’ (hiccup!) ‘ya know, I can searcly see you joinin’ a frat dahn ‘ere,’ remarked Dante, laughing and hiccupping simultaneously. Without hesitation, everyone laughed at the idea and began discussing it casually, but progressively the conversation escalated til, suddenly, like a riotous burst of debate, everyone began sharing hypotheticals of me at college as a frat boy. Our pace considerably slowed down as the conversation prevailed with a maddening gaiety. Into my ear, everyone seemed to be speaking so fast and loud now! Their tones sounded reproachful as if they were intentionally trying to make me pose questions to myself and come up with the answers right away or else there would be hell to pay! I—I—I—izzer rilly a chance I’m gonna become wha’ der sayin’?…at the thought my head began spinning in a frenzy of delusion and intoxication…scores of people were suddenly enclosing in on me, melting and twisting, breathing on me, staring, laughing…laughing, laughing, laughing…ha-ha-ha! why won’t dey stop laughin’? ha-ha-ha! who said that? who juss said I’s tuwa sum’n? dey know sum’n about my existence I don’t? wha’ did Pessi juss say he could see? why’d he juss slap the back of my head?…a flash of heat began sweeping over me in rhythmic waves of nausea, tingling, and a fatal trepidation so severe that I knew Death had arrived to take me away…and although the sweat was pouring out freely, the stinging heaviness pushing at my skin from underneath couldn’t quite make it through—it hurt—I locked my left hand akimbo, kept thumbing at my jaw with the other hand, trying to figure things out, or save myself, or conceal my imminent death…with each second I was becoming hotter, the air thicker, the light blurrier, as more ponderous thoughts, some in alien languages, assailed my consciousness with no remorse…suddenly another heavy thought of another me somewhere else, a me I couldn’t control or overstand, was indefatigably prodding the inner side of my face, trying to push outward through the back of my eye sockets…but I could still see it eyes open, that other me…then everything was—why’s someone behin’ me screamin’ sellout! sellout! sellout! is ‘at Zielinski? Anthony? everyone?—yes! it’s everyone!—everyone’s after me!…

For the rest of the walk, their vindictive judgment exploded throughout my head like tossed grenades: SELLOUT! SELLOUT! YOU SELLOOOOOOOUT!!!

‘Wagers closed! Hands back! Haaaaands back!’ shouted Gary the dice-thrower. Under a blue canopy, he rolled two oversized dice out across a wooden board decked with months and numbers. (“Die Trying”: a rather complicated game for a fair, but I already conned it out of ten bucks. Luckily, once the anxiety attack ended, I was in a position to indulge in food and festivities since Dante finally paid up the hundred he owed me. He actually owed two hundred but I told him to give half to Anson who had a fake ID made for me so I could drink at college, alone.) With a clunk, the dice banked off the wooden side and rolled back haphazardly like two jagged rocks…til stalling on their respective squares. ‘Twelves! Sixes! and March!’ announced Gary the dice-thrower. A collective moan rang out. He went around to all three sides, scooping everyone’s money into a metal bucket besides Jeremiah and a fat furrball leaning over three spots down…

…After playing for half an hour, I stepped back a few feet to have a smoke. As I turned the leaf into a cherry, the thought of tainting the fresh balmy air with smoke passed through my mind disagreeably…til I inhaled a second time and it mildly restimulated my buzz. Meanwhile, I was taking in observations of the festive street: Fleeing from their parents, children were flying past with disheveled hair and cotton-candy faces twined with the sky. Flying all around, so free, so breathful while breathless, everything around them, which was rather mundane to me, must’ve seemed like the magical wonderland they fantasized about during the day or dreamt of at night because they were screaming with such excitement and curiosity that it brought to their small virginal faces a strong incandescent blush. The sounds of innocence and euphoria—(I believe it was the sounds)—flushed me with the sensation of déjà vu although I couldn’t recall having had such experiences. Perhaps it was an anamnesis mistakenly gapped together by a fantastical paramnesia caused by unconscious disingenuousness? Or perhaps the primitive energy of my id buried too far within to allow conscious accessibility yet striving upward to bring about “the satisfaction of instinctive needs”?⁸ Or perhaps, on a similar thrust, the complexity of a wistful reflection of another reflection I’d had when I was younger: a nostalgic void (although not void of the sensation itself) creeping back up on me demanding some kind of fruition? But as the great wistful sensation dissipated and frustration set in from not being able to isolate and soothe the cry of the former sensation, I surrendered to the most hopeless conclusion: ignotum per ignotius!⁹ I felt drained, sobered—rejected. Taking in a deep drag, I focused my attention elsewhere with a renewed breeziness. I observed better-disciplined families strolling closer together—much closer than the feral ones—taking time to enjoy their food and the musical neon atmosphere. And middle-schoolers hanging around in private groups, doing immature things like spitting pop at each other and giving each other sudden wedgies from behind. And high-schoolers (with that extra strand of maturity) walking in large defensive packs, eying others their age with spite as if no else belonged there besides them. The realization of such absurdness brought a tender laugh. Then a larger laugh came as I extinguished my smoke and spotted one of those imbeciles who’d won a gigantic stuffed animal just so he could haul it around with a proud struggle as if someone else actually gave a shit he won it.

I blinked. Passing before my internal eyes: a loose-lipped Anthony Dunsan devouring his second Italian roast beef sandwich because Dante Zielinski was also on his second. That was almost an hour ago, before Eddie, Dante, and Anthony went off to scout chicks. Anthony was supposedly drunk, but you never knew with a slimy fake like him. I was looking forward to harassing him, but also glad he wasn’t around. Besides, it was still early, so I had all night to treat him like a masochistic whore. But hold be blown, here comes Eddie, Dante, and the masochistic whore trotting towards the better half standing at the “Die Trying” tent, having, as Dante explained, “a liddle problem.”

‘What’s ‘at?’ was Jeremiah’s response.

With his large bald head, Dante directed our attention to five kids standing arms-crossed and cocky-eyed in front of a closed clothing store thirty yards away. Already knowing the situation, I rolled my eyes. In a quick simulated conversation in my head, I was saying to Dante, ‘Lemme guess: one of ‘em bumped inda ya ‘n’ started sayin’ shit.’

‘Fuckin’ me ‘n’ Anthony were waitin’ for Eddie takamaudda da baffroom,’ Dante began fervently, his attention focused mostly on Jeremiah, ‘‘n’ah one widda red hat walks by ‘n’ kicks my boot—‘cause we were sittin’ dahn on a bench. So I stan’ up da say sum’n. ‘N’ he comes ‘n’ gets up in my face. So I’m like, “Gih’da fuck oudda my face, kid.” ‘N’ ‘en Eddie comes out, standin’ ‘ere not sayin’ a word. ‘N’—’

‘‘N’ah one kid says sum’n like, “Oh, I thouchinz two were on a liddle date together,”’ Anthony chimed in.

‘Yeah. So I told ‘em if ‘ey wanna run ‘er fuckin’ mouffs let’s take a walk. All a sudden da one wearin’ah blue shirt lashes at me like he’s gonna hit me, but dey grab ‘im back, ya know. But I’m like is ‘iss kid fuckin’ searis? I’ll—’

‘Fuck ‘iss,’ I interjected. ‘I’m not tryin’ah get in trouble two days before I leave.’ Aware of how loud we were being, I guided us away from the tent to prevent Gary the dice-thrower from hearing anything else. Da Hoolies, plus the whore, formed a circle in the middle of the crowded street; our potential enemies stayed put.

‘Look,’ Dante addressed everyone, ‘I didn’t start da shit, ya know. But der gonna come inda our neighborhood ‘n’ run ‘er mouths? ‘N’ fuck—der da ones dit kept followin’ us, basically provokin’ us.’

‘They did follow us here,’ affirmed Eddie, ‘‘n’ were sayin’ shit da whole time.’

‘Yeah, bahchu overstand how many cops are out tanight? I’m searcly not tryin’ah get arrested righ’ before I leave. ‘N’ you wanna go back on probation?’ That was directed towards Dante Zielinski.

‘Fuck it. We’ll go over da the ball field. Iddle be dead around ‘ere anyway, ‘n’ ya can’t rilly see it fromma road, ya know. I mean, wha’, you scared or sum’n?’ Dante’s big-jawed face jutted then went sober. ‘Come on, liddle Rocky; one lass time—’ He stopped to observe the five confirmed enemies walking towards us. Right away, I realized they weren’t the jocks, the necks, or the metalheads we’d fought with in high school. They kinda looked like us: all in rebel-logo t-shirts; three in rough blue jeans; two in baggy skater pants; piercings in their ears; tats on their arms; three muscular, tough-looking ones but two skinny ones. Anthony was the only one with us small in girth, but more so, the only one who couldn’t and probably wouldn’t fight on his own will.

As they approached with apathetic limbs and confident smiles, we broke from our circle and formed a rough line. All the fairgoers, who’d altogether left my attention, were passing by inattentively as if we were only street statues they had to sidestep. But it still felt like I was in a scene spotlighting us, melting me right into sobriety.

The big-chested kid with the red hat spoke directly to Dante: ‘So yir boys dahn or wha’? See yinz even got one up on us. Yinz’ll prahblee need it.’

‘Oh he’s sittin’ out,’ Dante said with a smirk, tilting his head towards Anthony.

‘Don’t worry ‘boudit, bro,’ said one of the skinny kids in the back.

‘Well, look: I ain’t gonna stand’ here ‘n’ talk shit all night. So why dohnchinz follow us do a ball field a couple blocks away ‘n’ we’ll see what’s up.’

‘Aww, yir ball field? Dat’s cool,’ said the kid in the red hat, pretending to swing a bat, his soft blue eyes so provoking in the shimmer of his turn. ‘You’ll be up against some sluggas from Rockwell.’ His friends found that amusing. So did Pessi, probably because he was thinking the same thing as me: how lame this kid is for thinking Rockwell (a middle-class housing plant) is hardcore. Then the kid in the red hat turned to a smirking Pessi and said, ‘What the fuck you smilin’ at, faggot?’

Like a Mitch William’s fastball, I lost it and went straight at him; we interlocked and a mini-scuffle broke out for a few seconds…til Jeremiah pulled me back by the neck and the kid in the red hat got pulled back by two of his friends. But he kept acting crazy and running his mouth, causing a scene. It didn’t phase me or suck me into a shit-talking contest; I was already calm again because I was too cop-conscious.

‘Jahshah da fuck up ‘n’ let’s go,’ I said with a condescending huff. ‘We’ll see how tough you are once we’re alone.’ I pivoted around, ready to lead the way and release gallons of bottled anger. Departing from The Square Fair, we began walking against the grain of the main roads, heading north, fast. Da Rockwells were at a safe distance behind. One said, ‘Don’t worry! We ain’t gonna hurtchinz til yir riddy!’ Umm, not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chinz. Yes, chinz: an inflection of yinz, the infamous trademark of Pittsburghese. Anyway, Chinzer Rockwell’s comment only further inflamed us!—only snapped our heads back like rubberbands just to make sure they weren’t up to anything, trying to make an early move…only to see them laughing and gesturing. But we were in high spirits too! Even if I had the biggest one on my plate, I wasn’t “scared or sum’n”: the fear of fighting subsides once you’ve done it enough to win a few “confidence fights,” as well as get roughed up a few times, from which you feel and consequently overstand the mental and physical pain of victory and loss in man’s most primeval form, and thereby the enigma conventionalizes itself.

Despite its peach intensity, the sun was now waning inside a nebular shield of molten light. Shadows were sticking to the sidewalks and flitting from box to box. Enough natural light remained to see what we would be doing. I looked up deep into the heavens: aristocratic blues were gobbling up Caesarean pinks…the clouds were thick and shapely, passing one another at various speeds like fleets in a crowded sea…and peaking through in transparency, opposing the dying sun, was a full moon: what one would call a picturesque sky. I was staring back and forth between sun and moon, admiring the phenomenon. Only faintly could I hear everyone discussing whom they planned on going after, even though their plans could prove fickle depending on how things transpired. However, I thought it strange how I was the one billed in what seemed the title fight—the one who finalized the decision as if my own promoter. I was off to college in two days, wasn’t I? Well this evening I was off in the sky!

Nearing the battlefield, we marched on with confident steps. Anthony though—he was now up front with me, probably afraid to be the closest to Da Rockwells, a role Jeremiah didn’t mind taking on. Unlike me, Jeremiah had never lost a fight; a southpaw who’d knocked many out with one punch; the quiet one: the toughest one. We made the final right turn in cadence, in silence. Da Rockwells were still at the same distance behind us. From our vantage, a horizontally long gravel parking lot lay up ahead…then a small hill that hid the field except the far end of the outfield. There was only one nearby road, which followed right field and then cut left into a small ghetto which ended in a cul-de-sac lined up with center field.

‘Inna outfield, fellas!’ instructed Dante with summertime merriment.

Stopping in the shallow, we turned around and waited. With a backward glance I realized Anthony had returned to the back of the pack. I wasn’t in the right mind to confront his typical ways. Better to let things remain quiet and tense as we focused on the five Rockwells passing by the foul-line fence with energetic limbs and confident smiles…but once in the infield, they slowed to a halt. The kid in the hat was in the vanguard, so I moved a stepped forward. They began beckoning us to join.

‘Come on, pussies! Come gitsim!…Yinz fags gonna stand ‘ere holdin’ hands or wha’!…Come on!…Come on, Spike, come run yir fuckin’ mouff now!…’

I turned to Pessi. ‘Searcly, fuck ‘iss.’

‘Whaddaya mean?’

‘If ‘ey rilly wan’ their faces rubbed in’ah dirt, then let’s fuckin’ do it.’

‘Ar’ight. Eh, V!’

I was already marching forward, tired of the anxiousness that comes with waiting, tired of being called on. The kid in the hat threw his hat off and quickly put his hands up and bent his legs into position. He looked like a flaxen frog trying to shit in a toilet. His large lips were moving, probably still calling me on, but I couldn’t hear a thing besides the swollen deafness ringing in my head. When I got close enough, it was like the air in my head suddenly sucked straight out and everything began playing in fast-forward. Standing with my left shoulder in the vanguard, I balked my left elbow at him. It made him swing wide and hard. I easily dodged the haymaker and shot back with a jab to his jaw. It emitted a sickening pop. POP! As he took that critical stagger-step backward, I finished knocking him to the ground with a hard tackle. I jumped on top and began vying for leverage. In the tussle, I dug my knee up deep into his gut. When he dropped his guard for the briefest moment, I let one fly into his nose. Another grotesque POP! While trying to rearrange his face (he was already in a balled defensive position) I could faintly hear the grunts, wails, smacks, and thuds of the fights going on around me. I didn’t see who went after who once I engaged, but I did hear Dante shout: ‘What’s up now, you fuck?!’ The kid without his hat took his forearms away from his face and tried to push me backwards. I grabbed the front of his t-shirt, but he turned with the snatch, and we rolled sideways in the dirt. The dirt was kicking into my face. I could taste it. But I was trying to push the dirt out of my mind with the hope it wouldn’t get in my contacts because then I could be done for. I was having trouble controlling his weight—had a good thirty pounds on me—but I was telling myself there’s no way I’m gonna lose...no way! Back in the grapple, he threw a few quick punches into the side of my head: enough to trigger the explosion of strength I needed. I arched back, pulled myself upward, still clutching his shirt, then delivered a decisive punch to his nose. Immediately blood squirted out in two streams. He grabbed his nose out of fear—out of the rational need for confirmation. Rocks-for-brains! Well, not to sound as if I’d usurped the Power of God, but Rocks-for-brains had just sealed his fate and put the epistle in my hands, for I began delivering punches to his guarded face with relentless rapidity…til he whined: ‘Okay! enough! I’m done! I’m done!’ And despite my current advantage and anger, I only hit him two more times—then once more in the mouth. A two-minute job: sign, sealed, and delivered.

I stood up, wiping the dirt off while keeping an eye on him. My arms were bleeding a little and stinging a lot. He stood up, holding his nose, picked up his hat, then limped off towards the hillside, indifferent to the donnybrook going on around us. Amid the chaos, the first person I spotted was Eddie. He was fighting with one of the skinnier kids, rolling around second base, trading off ineffective punches. I couldn’t tell who had the ups so I ran over and said, ‘You cool?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Come on, Eddie; hit ‘im inna nose! Da nose!’ He was punching the kid in the ribs, while the other kid thumped the back of his neck. They were rolling around too much to get in solid shots: this pretzel made of black-and-white strips of dough trying to untangle its colors out of prejudice. In an attempt to gain leverage on Eddie, for Eddie was on top, the other kid tried pulling himself upward by sticking his hand up the back of Eddie’s shirt. In that moment, I could see Eddie’s back was scratched up. ‘Eddie, juss fuckin’ smash inna nose!’

‘Shudup—I…’ As Eddie struggled to reply to my instructions, the other kid gave him a solid punch in the ear. I was about to jump in but Eddie somehow shot straight up from the ground—his ferociousness sounding out—and ventrally kicked the kid in the stomach. Throwing his whole body into it, he then came down on the kid’s face, once, twice, three times, all hard shots…and the kid cried out for him to stop. Satisfied, Eddie spit on him and kicked him in the ribs once more, then backed away. As Eddie brushed the dirt off himself, we moved forward, surveying the field, ready to lend a fist, although Da Rockwells were proving no match for Da Hoolies.

‘Yo, you see Pess anywhere?’

‘Nah.’ But wiping dirt from his eyes, Eddie didn’t have the best view of things.

I jogged up between first base and the pitcher’s mound where Anthony was on the ground spooning a big kid while Dante forked his face. Out of the corner of my eye, out to the left, I could also see the kid I fought, the one Eddie fought, and another one huffing and puffing back down the hill, offering no help to their two remaining friends. Then I spotted action going on behind the fence near the dugout on the third base side. Jeremiah was just coming into my vision, pulling Pessi back by the shirt…but Pessi was tugging forward, swinging wildly. Eddie and I ran over. En route, Pessi’s forward momentum ripped his shirt right off his body, Jeremiah left holding it like a porno mag: curious amazement written all over his face. Then my heart suddenly jumped: the face and body of both Pessi and the other kid were covered in blood.

‘Wha’ da fuck happened?’ I asked Jeremiah.

‘Kid hit ‘im widda bawdle.’ He pointed to a nearby pile of beer bottles. I rushed over and stood before Pessi, nudging him to turn around, but he kicked his leg out around me and spat the blood accumulated in his mouth at the blonde-headed bottle-swinger now down in the fetal position. He was moaning horrible sounds, and unless my vision was tricking me, it looked like his face was grossly swelling up. He looked up languidly, ignominiously, with a face splattered with blood like he’d been shot repeatedly with a paint gun. While holding back Pessi—the blood on him rubbing off on me—I casually observed this variegated thing, almost without a drop of sensibility. But:

‘Someone help ‘im up!’ unexpectedly shot out of me. Still holding Pessi still, I tried brushing off the shards of glass stuck in his pants and arms; Jeremiah was also helping, but nobody was helping the other one. Eddie, Dante, and Anthony had gathered behind Jeremiah. Dante said something about how he wasn’t helping that fuck out. Laughing, Anthony concurred. I look up and glared at the slinking snake! the amoebic invertebrate! the sadistic bitch! His smile became indecisive. But his eyes! If I looked at his large hooting eyes a second longer, I was going to run over and pry ‘em out! I turned to ask Eddie to help the other up—but I was mistaken about Eddie being around. Who knows where he went!

‘Hold ‘im for a sec,’ I said to Jeremiah; he took Pessi into custody, and so I began creeping up on the other, keeping my focus on the blood methodically flowing from his nose like an IV drip, and—suddenly an unleashed Pessi pushed me aside, knocking me into a long blood-red lock-box behind the batter’s cage. Ding!

‘Motherfucker wansta hit me widda bir bawdle!’said Pessi, as he, like lightning, bolted back on top of the other, hammering away: blood and sweat misting into the air.

‘Guess he ain’t done yet,’ said Jeremiah.

I went back into the scuffle anyway, Jeremiah following. Pessi was flailing and swinging so violently that even four hands couldn’t establish one firm grip. It was like trying to catch and hold down a greased bullfrog. He actually turned around at one point, pushed me back by the chest and screamed something incoherent, but by the wrathful tone, I could tell it was a threat. He did the same to Jeremiah, who, frustrated, said, ‘Fine, Pess; do whacha want.’ Jeremiah threw his arms up in the air and walked away to become a spectator. I was thinking Pessi had to be stuck in a blind rage.

To my left, Eddie appeared. I told him to go over to the hillside to see what Da Rockwells were doing, to get ‘em to come carry him out, that none of us would touch ‘em, that it was over. He looked at me with a smile, as if to say, ‘Why you even care?’ Still, he abided and walked around to the side—but making a quick pivot, said, ‘I don’t even see ‘em anywhere.’

I heard Dante and Anthony laughing.

‘Whaddaya mean? Dey juss left ‘im here?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Mighta went ‘n’ cawdda pleece,’ said Jeremiah.

‘I dunno. But we gadda gih’doudda here juss in case.’ I turned to Pessi, who, winded and momentarily pacified, was lying on top of the motionless body; his head was resting on the other’s chest like the close embrace of two lovers breathing with the stars. ‘Hear that, Pess? They went ‘n’ cawdda cops.’ Like speaking to a child.

‘Motherfucker wansta – hit me – widda bir bawdle,’ he stammered with heavy breathes. Dante and Anthony, watching from the bench—standing on it for a “cool” view—laughed at this. But I found nothing funny. Neither did Jeremiah. Eddie was pacing back and forth in a straight line, lost in his own world. But fresh action on the ground pulled Eddie (and us) back into blood-gazing.

Irritated, I walked over to Dante and Anthony. ‘Yinz two think ‘iss is funny or sum’n?’

‘Oh cahm the fuck dahn,’ said Dante. ‘He’s juss pissed ‘cuzza kid cheap-shotted ‘im. I’d be doin’ah same fuckin’ thing. Kid’s even lucky we ain’t helpin’, ya know.’

‘Oh yeah? Well, say when all’s said ‘n’ done he ends up fucked up in the hospital ‘n’ somehow it comes back on us?’

‘Yeah right; dey don’t even know who we are or where we’re from exactly. Juss don’t caw anybody by their last name: ‘at’s all—not dit he’s gonna be ‘memberin’ much anyways.’ Laughing, Dante jumped down from the bench. Then Anthony jumped down.

‘Yeah, V,’ slurred the whore, ‘I didn’t hear anyone say anything to ‘em about who we are.’ He raised his bony, dismissive shoulders upward as if to assure me.

‘Whaddaya mean who we are?’ I shot back. ‘I don’t give a fuck about you. ‘N’ if ya laugh one more time I’m gonna knock yir fuckin’ teeth out.’ I turned away; my blood was boiling.

‘Whaddaya think we should do?’ Eddie asked nervously as I passed by. ‘I ain’t tryin’ah get arrested. I say we roll juss in case.’ Just then, everyone seemed to stop and put an ear to the wind for approaching sirens; we were still unsure what Da Rockwell Abandoners had gone off to do. ‘Let’s juss all jump in ‘n’ be rough wid ‘im or sum’n.’

‘Go ‘head!’ screamed Pessi, looking up at us with a crazed stare. ‘I’ll fuckin’ kill all yunz stupid faggots!’ He added in something unintelligible before retuning to his beastly work. Dante and Anthony laughed; but so did Eddie.

‘Look:’ I addressed the non-fighters quietly but authoritatively, ‘juss go back da Dante’s—ya know, juss in case ‘ey did caw da cops or sum’n. I’ll figure sum’n out, ‘cause sum’n searis happens do ‘im ‘n’ we’re all fucked. But—’

‘But dere’s no way I’m leavin’ yinz here,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I’ll stay ‘n figure out whaddado wid ‘em.’

‘No,’ I insisted quietly. ‘Ya know he’s only gonna listen’ah me. Truss me, we’ll be right behin’ jinz. But stayin’ here’s only gonna provoke ‘im inda not quitin’. Dere’s searcly sum’n wrong with his head. I mean, juss listen’ah whaddeez sayin’. Juss go back: iddle lessen’ah crowd, ‘n’ we won’t be walkin’ back in a large pack, ya know. ‘N’ don’t fuckin’ do anything stupid onna way back either.’ But everyone kept staring at me, dumbfounded. ‘Searcly. Fuckin’ go. I’ll take care of it.’ Inside, though, it felt like I was setting myself up to be stuck in a real-life Ponyboy-Johnny Cade situation.¹⁰

Just then, Dante walked up to Pessi and the other. They were wrestling around but without much energy. Dante pushed Pessi aside, bent down to the other, and said, ‘Yir friends got rocked well. But youuu juss got struck by the fuck.’ Then he punched his bloody face. I watched Dante look right into Pessi’s eyes to see if Pessi would like that…he didn’t; he pushed Dante out of the way and then socked the other across the jaw. Smiling, Dante straightened up and came back towards us in a cocky strut; but at this point, no one cared to acknowledge his wit, his hit, or his shaking hips—besides Anthony, who hooked himself right back onto Dante’s shaking hip. As if unaffected by the turns of events, Dante and his bitch began walking into the infield, talking—probably Bitch saying how cool it was that Dante said “rocked well” and “struck by the fuck.” They kept glancing back, smiling. Before following them, Eddie said something to Pessi, who was now standing up, towering over the other, arms crossed. From the mouth and temple, blood was dribbling down his cheek and chin, meandering into complex veins on his bare chest. But he didn’t care. His foe was flipped on his side, hand over his nose and mouth. By now, the sun’s sea-like facade was barely peaking out over the pink-orange horizon, bidding us adieu as the curtains of the sky’s stage drawed closed. And thankfully, it was a pretty cloistered area, so the violent matinee had drawn no audience. But who was expecting a sell out?

Once Dante, Anthony, and Eddie disappeared into an alley, Jeremiah turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I don’t care whacha say; I’m not leavin’ yinz here.’ From that, I felt a little better knowing that Jeremiah refused to leave me stuck in a Ponyboy-Johnny Cade situation; deep-down, I knew he wasn’t going to anyway. So I gave him a look that said, ‘Well, whaddaya wanna do then?’ He turned to Pessi. ‘Ar’ight, P—’ He stopped abruptly, aware that he almost said Pessi’s name. ‘Come on; we gadda get goin’. Look, everyone else is gone—’

‘Motherfucker wansta hit me widda bir bawdle.’ Must’ve been the fifth time he’d say the same thing in the same morbid tone. I just couldn’t tell if he was saying it as a question or a statement. Sighing, Jeremiah went over and picked up Pessi’s gutted shirt. He tried handing it to him like a ploy to occupy Pessi’s hands and thus prevent him from hitting the other anymore. But Pessi refused to take it. Instead, he flashed Jeremiah a look of disgust, which, as senseless as it may seem, was his way of saying, ‘Wha’? you think he’s tougher den me or sum’n? You think I need yir help?’ Then he took a few running steps towards the kid…reared back his boot…and with one solid THUMP! in the ribs the other seemed to enter a state of rigor mortis because he let out a ghastly moan, cringed his midsection, then froze all over. Capitalizing on the freed mark, Pugili Pessi, ol’ Pipi, jumped on top of Ugili Other and swung away at his face.

‘Come on; gidawffavim!’ spat Jeremiah. He wrapped his flexing arms around Pessi’s neck. Legs were kicking. Backs arching. Throats grunting. Instead of helping, I watched inquisitively, unable to move, absorbed in the taste of color: flowing magentas and auburns, mixed pearls pocked with foggy gray pupils, soft pastels in the horizon but vibrantly-tongued from something clairvoyant: sights in potent taste…and subtle lunacy.

‘—hit me widda bir bawdle.’

Shaking my head, things came back into vision; an acrid taste came over my palate. Still holding Pessi’s shirt, Jeremiah had him in a bear-hug, dragging him into the infield. I was still standing on the other side of the fence, a few feet away from the lump. I didn’t want to leave him lying there helpless like his friends did; I was still shocked by that. I concluded they didn’t call the police or an ambulance because they didn’t even see how bad his condition was. Plus, judging from their character, they weren’t ones to take any risk in getting in trouble; chances are, he, the other, was the Anthony Dunsan of their crew, and thus dispensable. Alwaysthemore, deep-down I knew I should get help for him. Deep-down I knew it was the right thing to do. Which is why, when I looked over at Jeremiah (who was struggling to beckon me to follow), I turned back to the other and said, ‘I suggest gettin’ some new friends’—then jogged out to Jeremiah and Pessi, who were waiting at first base; I guess “safe at first” because, finally calmed, with his shirt held across his temple, Pessi had the look of stone-cold accomplishment. Smirking, he said, ‘You think I won?’ I said, ‘I dunno; izza close one.’ Jeremiah gave Pessi a nudge forward, and we treaded swiftly across the darkened field…crossed the street where we slipped into the same back alley the others had…then coming out at the other end, we turned right and ran discreetly for several blocks…til we made it safely back to Dante’s…

…Inside, it was darker than before: only the television and kitchen light were on. Pessi rushed into the bathroom to tend to his head; Da Early Birds asked Da Bearers to fill them with Da Grand Finale: Da Dessert. Standing in the hall, observing Pessi, we did, but in my head I was wondering if we would have to take him to the hospital: seemed inevitable, although he would have to be dying, for he’d had really bad experiences at the hospital. I asked if he needed anything; he said to ask Dante for a shirt that he could wear home; I did. I asked if he needing anything else; no—he seemed content to hold a wet washcloth tightly against his temple where the main laceration was.

‘Well? Whaddaya thinkin’? Ya feel dizzy or sick or anything?’

Inspecting himself in the mirror, he said, ‘Nah. It’s not dat bad. Don’t look deep. Bleedin’s slowin’ dahn a bit.’ After washing himself off, he turned dead sober. I didn’t overstand how he was still standing and moving around, let alone still conscious, although he’d already proven his immunity to pain via other similar circumstances; once took a crowbar across the head, remained upright, and “won,” meaning, no hospital visit.

‘You sure, Pess?’ asked Jeremiah in a gentle tone, peeking in over my shoulder. ‘I’ll take ya over da the hospital for stitches if ya rilly need ‘em.’

Shaking his head, Pessi came out of the bathroom, sat down in the chair that I’d sat in earlier, and said once the bleeding stopped he was going home. Sounded like a plan but Prognostication was trying to convince me that his head wasn’t going to stop bleeding, that we would have to take him to the hospital. I stood there, playing it all out in my head: Sure, he’ll be ar’ight, but we’ll hafta take ‘im da get stitches, ‘n’ he’ll hafta lie in a hospital bed which’ll make ‘im feel like he’s livin’ out a nightmare dit’s already came true once before…Wonder if he has insurance? I’m sure ‘ey’d fix ‘im up either way. But if we DO go da pieces might fall together for da pleece if sum’n was reported, if sum’n should happen ta da other…hmmmm…

‘It stopped,’ I heard him say some time later. ‘Tolja it wasn’t deep.’

‘Well ya bedder put some rubbin’ alcohol in it,’ advised Eddie. ‘Eh, Dante Zielinski!’ he screamed towards the back bedroom. ‘Gahdinee rubbin’ alcohol!’

Dante and Anthony appeared, Dante saying, ‘Nah, I don’t think.’

‘Don’t worry ‘bout it,’ said Pessi. ‘I got shit at home.’

He remained seated but no one pushed him to leave or seek further medical attention. Standing beside him, I looked around the room: Eddie and Jeremiah looked exhausted, Anthony and Dante didn’t. After they’d came out of Dante’s bedroom—evidently having blown coke—they sat down on the sofa and embarked on a jittery conversation, sharing esoteric laughs. At what though? What’s funny at this point? I don’t know why my anger was only directed towards Anthony but I had a torrid urge to rip the dastard’s veil off and rend apart his epic-sized retinas. But Pessi suddenly stood up, ready to go. In silence, I followed him out, letting one “See ya” suffice for everyone. It was a “one lass time” that we could brag about tomorrow, or something…

…The air was very cool now and gusting quietly from block to block. When we reached the road, we stopped and turned to each other. An unidentifiable sound was humming off in the distance. A nearby streetlight was shining on our faces like solemn actors on stage. Although dog-tired and fish-fried, I pried into his eyes as if to hash out the details of tonight’s events. But moody and mummyish—his jeans ripped and spotted with blood, scratches on his face and arms, grayish eyes twitching a bit, while he dabbed a fresh washcloth on his temple—he assured me that he was fine and would call if he wasn’t; he didn’t want me to walk him home either. Decisively, he turned the other way—(one hand shoved in pocket, the other holding the weancloth)—and began walking home in a stride quicker than usual. And so, alone, I turned the other way and began walking home, reflective, worried, and nauseous, carrying along the malaise that I’d been carrying a long time…

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