With apologies, you won’t find the obvious here. Having served as literary critic of the Philadelphia Inquirer for twenty-five years, and written more stories on “Philadelphia literature” than anyone living, I thank my contributors for their very limited references to hoagies, cheesesteaks, water ice, soft pretzels, and waitresses who call their customers “Hon.” There’s no glimpse of Claes Oldenburg’s Clothespin or the rowers by the Waterworks, and only one passing mention of Rocky. Truth is, we don’t talk much about those things. We just live our lives.
Carlin Romano
Philadelphia, PA
August 2010
PART I. CITY OF BURSTS
PRINCESS BY AIMEE LA BRIE
South Philadelphia
It’s Saturday at three a.m. and I’m coming off a hellish shift at Ray’s Happy Birthday Bar. It’s pouring rain, no taxis in this part of town, and the 23 bus runs about every two hours now. My feet hurt from standing and my mood is black after spending most of the night serving a crowd of out-of-towners-a group of prickish frat boys slumming it and cracking racist jokes. I let them get good and drunk, even send a few shots of Jack their way, and then, when one of the jerk-offs slaps his Am Ex on the bar, I add $100 to the tab.
I know they are too drunk and too cocky to eyeball the final tally. Good thing, too, because they leave behind a five-dollar tip and some change. When one of them asks for directions to Washington Avenue to hail a cab to Center City, I send him south instead of north, deeper into darker territory not so friendly to their kind. But hey, they said they were looking for an authentic Philly experience. I am just making sure they get what they asked for.
So, I’m standing at the curb, weighing my options, when a car pulls up, splashing filthy rain water over my sneakers.
Now, I know better than to jump into a car with a near stranger, but it’s raining hard, in the way only a summer night in Philadelphia can deliver-appearing out of nowhere, flooding the sidewalks, sending Styrofoam cups and discarded cheesesteak wrappers from Pat’s careening in a river of water down the curb. Lightning cracks the sky like the end of the world is right around the corner. And I see from his crag-nosed profile that I do sort of know this guy-he’s the uncle of a kid I used to sleep with. Uncle Tony (one of many Uncle Tonys in this part of town). And a former regular at Ray’s before Lou, Ray’s son and the owner, banned him from setting foot in the place ever again.
He sits in his big maroon Chevy Cadillac, a fat man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut wearing a too-big, shiny Eagles T-shirt. The passenger window rolls down. “Hey, doll,” he says. “Get it the car. You’re soaked.” I hesitate. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t be stupid. It’s not like I’m some douche bag from Trenton you never met before.”
I check the street again. The back of my T-shirt smells like a cigarette butt after eight hours of serving cheap beer and shots. It sticks wetly to my back. What the hell. I get in the car. He has the heater running full blast, which I appreciate. The interior is a deep plush maroon and stinks of stale cigars and cheap cologne. “You South?” he asks.
“Yeah, just drop me at 8th and Morris, and I’ll hop out.” A rosary hangs from the rearview mirror with a sad-looking Jesus dangling forlornly on the end.
“Hey, let me ask you something.” The car idles. “You hear what happened to my nephew Johnny?”
I shake my head. I haven’t seen or thought of Johnny in a couple of weeks, not since I kicked him out of my bed.
“Smashed by the 147. No helmet, not that it woulda mattered. Run him over while he was on his bike. F-ing SEPTA buses.” He drums his pudgy fingers on the steering wheel. “No chance even for any last words.”
“Jesus, sorry, Tony.” Too vain to wear a bike helmet. I am starting to remember more about Johnny now. His long curly hair was one of his best features. Though I could be remembering one of the others. They blur together after a while.
“Yeah, well, what can you do?” Uncle Tony doesn’t seem that busted up about it. “He left his journals behind though. You ever read them?”
“No.” I am starting to think it’s time for me to take a pass on the ride and be on my way.
“He ever talk to you about a key? He leave one at your place? I’m wondering, because in his journals he hints a lot about where this key might be. It’s the one that opens that garage across the street. Where he stores his bikes, right?” The car begins to feel a little too warm. I see that I’ve made a mistake accepting this ride. Maybe a big one.
I grab the door handle. The automatic lock clicks shut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you lunatic. Let me out of here.” I remember now why Lou banned him for life from the bar. He’d started a brawl one night about the lack of paper towels in the men’s room. After getting no response from Lou, he hurled a bar stool at the big-screen TV behind the bar. He missed the television, but busted the neon Bud Light sign. That was his last night at Ray’s. He was crying and wailing, “But I’m a Mummer!” when they tossed him out onto Passyunk Avenue.
“Listen, just tell me where the key is and I’ll take you home like I said,” he pleads.
I reach in my purse to take out my pepper spray. He lunges forward, and, for a second, I think maybe he’s going to kiss me. He takes my face in both of his hands and whacks my head hard on the dashboard. Then it’s lights out.
I wake up to the tickle of something licking my ankle. I’m sitting on a cushioned chair with my hands tied behind my back, feet bound together by what looks like a dog leash, and duct tape covering my mouth. The something washing my foot is a fat brown dog, one of those pugs with the curly tails and popped-out eyes. It wears a fancy pink collar. I jerk my leg. The dog looks up at me, eyes rolling stupidly and blackish tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth.
At least my clothes are still on; all except for my shoes.
I struggle against the ties and look around. I’ve descended into the middle of South Philly grandmother-land. My best guess is that it’s Tony’s mom’s house. It’s an old-school Italian living room with thick, pink shag carpet, a blue leather sofa and matching armchair covered in plastic. The surfaces are decorated with doilies and throw pillows with fluffy white kittens stitched in needlepoint, along with afghans, Virgin Marys, and multiple Jesuses-Jesus and a lamb, Jesus on the cross, Jesus flashing the peace sign and looking like a hipster. The best is a picture featuring the holiest of holy-Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Pope John Paul II. How they got the three of them together for that photo op is anybody’s guess. Underneath it all is the trapped-in smell of old lady. Part Jean Naté body wash, part pancake makeup, and part getting closer to death. No wonder Johnny never brought me here. He had mentioned he was crashing at his gran’s for a while, but didn’t say he was living with an old-fashioned stereo as big as a spaceship, giant fake flowers in an even bigger shiny vase, and a crappy oil painting of the family hanging in a gold frame above the couch: Grandma, Tony, and Johnny. Another unholy trinity.
I’ve got to make sense of this somehow before the lunatic returns. I am starting to recall a little bit more about Johnny.
I don’t usually chat up customers, but Wednesdays are slow at Ray’s. He wore low-slung jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched tight across the muscles of his chest and back. I was new to the joint-the first female bartender, but I didn’t need to prove myself. Lou, Ray’s son, was a friend of my dad’s. I just wanted a job where I could get paid in cash and stay off the radar of the IRS for a while.