Everyone, Exquisite

 

Bob Pajich

 

 

There it is, the hood cracked opened wide like a wing

in front of the apartment building designed by a famous

architect,

I.P. Freely, or something like that. I know this because

years ago

I saw an ad in the newspaper and rode the bus into

the city

to apply for a security guard position. I imagined

strolling the halls past beautiful rich women, who

wouldn't

notice me or would and smile and blush and blush.

They hired me on the spot but never called with a

schedule.

I could still see myself dressed in a gray sportscoat

with a bee's nest of keys dangling from my hip,

black tie and trousers: "Good evening Miss, why yes."

I almost kiss the Blazer with my tow truck. The woman

walks out from under the overhang like she was told

how pretty

she was too many times. I turn the jazz up as high

as the speakers could take it. She says:

"Jazz, huh?" and I say: "You left the lights on, huh?"

and she says no, but I caught her in some weird lie.

She stands back as the moon shows only the left side

of its cheek.

I clamp the black pinchers on the battery's negative

nipple

and the car starts. Dead battery. Lights left on. No tip,

only a little unintentional leg when she climbs into the

SUV and drives off.

A second won't start blips over my screen. If you know

Pittsburgh

as well as I do, it's nothing but a small town. The

Crawford Grill

expands like a hot furnace sucking oxygen on a block

of abandoned businesses. I find the white car

parked on the side of the club, the steering column

split open.

The huge black bouncer sends me through the doors

and inside

everyone, exquisite. The barmaid's white ruffled shirt

looks like she just pulled it out of the plastic bag. Women

in skinny dresses lean and look. The smooth men

stir and swivel. Some of the men even wear hats.

The bartender's face is like teakwood. Her eyes

hit mine with sadness and distrust of a catfish on a hook.

Nobody she knows called a tow truck, she says,

but she'd ask around. A quintet cruises on the tiny stage

next to Roberto Clemente's favorite booth. I'm close enough

to the door to hear a car swim by, the bass lower and

just as mean as Hades, and it's gone. The bartender

says: "Hey," and I turn and now I'm looking at myself

in a mirrored column, hat on backwards, greasy hair,

greasy face,

greasy belly splitting the work shirt with my name

written in cursive over my heart.