The Ballad of Washington Irving

I rapped three times on the white plastic door with a bag of cheese curls under my arm and a radio clutched by the handle. The door creaked open, and I gave a genial wave to the man who had just opened the door before walking in and setting my radio down on a pile of clothes baskets that served as a coffee table. It was impossible to tell what color the rug had originally been, as it was covered in stains ranging from black to white. Clothing and bottles were strewn about the room; the former must have been dirty, as the wet odor of human perspiration filled my nose. A dilapidated table that was missing two legs was propped up by the wall to the left of where I now stood, and it was loaded with luscious, fat-filled, coronary-disease-inducing treats such as salt and vinegar potato chips, brownies, cookies, several brands of soda, hot dogs, hamburgers, multiple layer bean dips with chips to accompany them, and alcohol. On a couch covered with clothes sat some of my best friends, eyes plastered to the flickering television with a myriad of crushed beer cans resting on top of it. The T.V. was now giving statistics on the first string players for the Steelers, who my friends affectionately referred to as “da boys.”



I was impressed—they had cleaned for the tailgate party.



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I must confess that I become a bit gullible when drunk, so I hope that the reader will not judge me too harshly when I tell him I believed every word of the story that Doug told me until the next morning. (Unlike me, Doug does not need alcohol to be gullible; he is talented enough to be gullible all by himself.)



It had been a great game. Every run made by Ward was wonderful, and Polamalu’s passes were phenomenal. We spent three-quarters of the game on our feet, cheering to the T.V, hoping somehow that we could be heard along with the crowd actually at the game. After the third Coors Light, I believed that we were.



Presently, I was staring at the carpet, enjoying the stains blending in my blurry vision to make fantastical colors. In the corner, my radio was playing some auto-tuned pop song my daughter had assured me was popular. Out of the corner of my ear, I hear Doug slur, “Do yinz’all want to hear a story?”



Doug interpreted a few drunken grunts from my comrades as a “yes.”



“Woll, I don't know dese people that good, but my cousin has a reg-a-ler customer dahn at Hank's who know dis one guy. Jano abaht alls dose newkyaler factories that they built after World War II? Turns aht, da radiation can make yinz into a super hero like in dose fancy cahmics. Um...sort of. Ya see, it donnit happen instantly. Da mother needs radiated-ifed while carrying a baby, n'at baby will have a very small chance of ‘coming a superman. It's such a small chance that it on’y happened once, to dat guy who knows da Hank's reg-a-ler customer guy.



“They knew he was special da day he was born, as he walked two minutes after comin’ aht from his momma. At only five, his father took him aht hunting, anna baby done suffocated a moose. Wit his beer hans! Yinz ain't never seen nothing like it! Dem folk—I think dey called themselves da Irvings—never even had ta go to da Giant Eagle cuz little Worshington—that was da boy's name—could jest strangle up a beaver fer dinner.



“He was da strongest boy in skul. By second grade, they had already let him join da high skul wrestling team, and he won da most medals! He was smart too. He graduated skul wit perfect SATs and at da top of his class. He was da popular football team quarterback who everybody jest loved fer his smile. In fact, some other guy dahn at Sims told me he won allsa awards in da yearbook. He done showed me da book, and his face was dere fer most talented, most likely to succeed, most musical, most scholastic, best smile, and even prettiest girl. I'll tell you: I thought he was beautiful. Not romantically ‘ttracted o’ course, but I wouttent mind if my daughter were paired up wit him. Yes, life was priddy perfect onnat dere Worshington Irving.



“And it got better. In jest a week, he got allsa degrees dere were to git from Harvard. Da next week, he received every degree from Princeton. Wit da work he put ferth, some places—like Oxford—jest haned him a degree. No skuling or nothing. They jest done haned da diploma to him. Have yinz ever heard of such a ting? Eventually, Albert Einstein himself offered to teach young Worshington Irving. He done taught on Worshington how atoms work anna universe and millions of other tings yinz and I could only dream of knowing. He learned fast from Einstein too. Twelve weeks later, he knew everything wor’ knowin’, including wah he wanted to do wit his life—Worshington Irving wanted a football player fer his hometown—for da Picksburg Stillers.



“He knew wah he wanted to do cause of his time dahn at Geneva, which was his favorite cawidge, being local n'at. He played fer dem Golden Ternados football team at Geneva, and he was rilly like a ternado—nothing was left standing his way. Da feeling of exhilaration he experienced whenever running over that turf was da best ting he ever did feel. Of course, da Stillers axst him to show up fer auditions after he had won Geneva da Rose Bowl, Orange Bowl, and Super Bowl alls at da same time. Don't ask me how he did it; I don't know.



“He got through da preliminaries easier dan tying a square knot to carry yinzes fahrwood. Da people who tested him were real condescending like. They jest says, 'Oakel-Doakel sweetie, do yinzes best.' Yinz should of seen da looks on dere faces whenever Worshington Irving hiked da ball through two metal bars. Not da goal post, no. Through da frame of da Rachel Carson bridge! They let him into da Stillers instantly. I mean it. They jest haned him da papers right dere on da filled.



“He became a international sensation. Not only did he win da Super Bowl single-hanedly so many times that da rest of da team was fahrd anna Stillers was renamed da Headless Horseman, but he also won da Stanley Cup anna Baseball Championship. He was on da cover of Time, Reader's Digest, anna New York Times every day. Eventually, he jest wrote allsa newspapers in da world. His words inspired lunch heads anna ingenious alike. Jano da U.S.S.R.? They fell cuz Worshington Irving did alls of’em dere political talks to dem and stuff.



“Then, on da way to da stadium one day, sumpin terrible happened. A truck carrying radioactive contents spilled alls over Worshington Irving and made him a million times pahr-fuler. He became so pahr-ful that he couttent be witin ten foot of anything, or it would burst into fahr. Yinz could of known wheres abahts he was gowen based on da uge craters he left whenever he tramped. He could point at sumpin, and have lighting shoot right aht of his fingers and disintegrate wahever he was pointing at. He couttent open his eyes, or else lasers would come aht of’em and melt-a-ma-vaporize anything they touched. His body became so tough that dose dem rhinos at da Picksburg Zoo couttent even give Worshington a paper-cut.





“Worshington hated this life cause he couttent sleep or eat or do nothing. Anybody who would talk to him abaht it—doctors and fancy philosopher folk—would jest run away cuz he was honestly rilly scary. Worshington Irving decided da only way aht was suicide, but he couttent keel himself. He throwed himself from da U.S. Still Tar, but alls he did was make a mighty big crater. He dunked his head in da crick, but da water evaporated arahnd his head. He bought alls kinds of fancy medicine, but it would pass through him as if he had only eaten a hot dog from da Brigh’en Hot Dog Shop. After nine days of this, he decided to throw himself into that newkyaler pahr station near Beaver, hoping his positrons woulda gamma radiation in da nucleus of da reaction core...or sumpin like at.



“So he throwed himself in da newkyaler pahr plant, and his atomical structure or sumpin was reconfigureified. Da sky and water arahnd da plant turned blood red. Da water boiled akshooly, and a bunch of fish, cooked perfectly, rose to da surface of da water. Da foundations of every building in a one-hunnerd mile radius crumbled. Buildings in a twenty-five mile radius burst into fahr. Cars flew through da air and fell back dahn two-hunnerd mile away. A chocking dust covered da trouble, and it was on fahr. Everybody in da plant died, expect Worshington Irving.



“Worshington was cured of alls super pahrs. Lookin’ at da death he caused, he decided to do nothing anymore. He died three days later of dehydration, and it took many years to ‘populate da area. Finally, we were able to return to norm’lcy, but da scar Worshington Irving craved into dis great country can still be seen in da uge crater wheres abahts da pahr plant was. N'at's hauscome yinz should never trust da guys dahn at Berry's to do any repairs to yinzes car.”



Too drunk to care that the power plant was still standing and that Berry’s Car Repair had nothing to do with Doug’s story, I fell asleep on the smelly sock-laden sofa. The next morning I chastised myself for ever believing a story so romantic (but not before vomiting several times into the toilet). I bid good-bye to my friends and took my radio and myself to my car to discover that my headlights were broken. Sighing, I decided to take my car to Berry’s Car Repair, as I was much too hung-over to attend to the issue.



Walking into the grimy interior of the gas station that served as Berry’s Car Repair, I noticed the man taking my keys was a new worker. I could tell because he didn’t have a nametag, instead having half a piece of notebook paper taped to his polo shirt. Berry didn’t give his workers nametags unless they’ve worked for him for a year. For this reason, nobody worked at Berry’s for more than a year. The notebook paper identified him as “Washington Irving.” The name sounded familiar, but the thumping headache the beer had given me made thinking of where I heard it hard. I thanked Mr. Irving for his services and headed for the door when I heard him call my name. He said he had finished.



“You’re done!?” I said.



“Yes sir. Ah was blessed wit an unusually high intellect.”



I started the car to be sure, and the headlights shone as bright as the sun. I thanked Mr. Irving with a large tip and drove to my home. To this day, I don’t know how he repaired my car so fast, but I also refuse to give credence to such a ridiculous fable as The Legend of Washington Irving.



Disclaimer: I am from Pittsburgh, so I think I am allowed to poke a little fun at myself. Please don't post any comments longer than this story calling me racist; I don't even read them.