Happy New Year

The prompt for the Monday Chatham Writers Group was to open your story with a sentence using each letter from the greeting “Happy New Year”, in order and with no other word between them. My letters are in bold and italics. I called for help from my reporter for the fictional Manchester Press & Journal, headquartered in Pittsburgh’s Manchester neighborhood. I finally gave my young reporter a name, Andy Wink. My story follows.

Happy New Year

“Hey Andy! Percy Pathemore Yancy’s Next Essay, ‘Would Yinz Eat A Raccoon?’, is going to be published in the City Paper this week. I’d like for you to interview that old buzzard and see just what the hell he means.”

 “Why me Chief?” I asked my editor.

 “Because you’re in my line of sight.”

 “So, if I was in the break room having a cup of coffee, I wouldn’t be getting this assignment?”

“Of course not! I would’ve waited for you to come back into my line of sight. That’s another thing. You spend a lot of time in that break room, drinking coffee and moonin’ over the view of Three Rivers Stadium, n’at.”

Normally, I would accept any assignment willingly. “Chief, I’d rather have pins stuck in my eyes than interview Mr. Yancy.”

My boss took the unlit cigar from his mouth. “You don’t mean that. You’d rather be blind than talk to a guy who seems to have taken a liking to eating raccoons? Come on, kid.”

“Mr. Yancy was my English teacher the entire time I was at Schenley High. English I, English II, English Comp and English Lit. It was four years of hell. Prisoners breaking rocks at Devil’s Island have an easier time.”

“But you must have done ok. You wouldn’t have gotten into Syracuse University journalism school if you were a hack.”

The boss had me there. “Alright, I’ll call him and see if he will let me interview him. That’s if he deems my writing skills worthy enough to grant an interview.”

“That’s the sport! Go get him, kid! Now where the hell’s my matches?” My boss stalked off.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the phone book and leafed to the Y’s section. Mr. Yancy still lived on Walnut Street in Pittsburgh’s Shady Side neighborhood. He used to walk the two blocks from his Victorian style home to Schenley High. I took another deep breath before calling. Mr. Yancy used to smoke a pipe in the teacher’s lounge. He would enter the classroom in his rumpled tan corduroy jacket, suede patches on its elbows, and pipe stem sticking out of the breast pocket. No amount of dry cleaning would ever remove the odor of his favorite brand of tobacco from his jacket. It was so engrained in its every fiber.

One more gulp and I dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring. After identifying myself, my trepidation vanished.

“Mr. Wink! It’s a pleasure. I was pleased when I read yinz was hired by the Manchester Press & Journal.”

 Did he just say yinz?  

 He was even more delighted when I told him the purpose of my call.

 “An interview? Conducted by my prize student? Of course! Of course!”

 After establishing a day and time, Mr. Yancy said, “See yinz next week.”

 Yinz again! I definitely heard that! Yinz! In his classroom, Mr. Yancy showed no mercy to students who spoke “Pittsburghese”. His verbal floggings were severe enough to bring many to tears. He even paddled several students for referring to Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple for being, in their opinion, just a “nebby” neighbor, and not a real sleuth. Use of the slang “nebby” was a sin!

I was non-plussed by Mr. Yancy’s choice of words, but his appearance when he opened the door to his Walnut Street home floored me. I wasn’t expecting to see the tobacco infused sport coat. But I was thinking something along the lines of corduroy pants with the wales worn to a shiny luster, topped by a cardigan with suede elbow patches. The transformation of my English teacher was astonishing. A Pendleton flannel shirt and Carharrt overalls adorned his lanky frame. 

Seated in the study, he lit his pipe and motioned for me to begin the interview. Mr. Yancy told me a college friend had invited him and his wife to a “Wild Game Cookoff”. They had scoffed at the idea initially. Maybe nibble on some pheasant, or venison, down an IPA or two and call it a day. None of the food was identified until after it was consumed. The Yancy’s ate snake, mongoose, beaver, and ostrich, all prepared with seasonings and sauces like most beef, chicken, and pork dishes. It was the raccoon with sweet potatoes that overwhelmed Mr. Yancy. It was one of the best meals he had ever eaten. He had an epiphany. Yancy became engrossed in the cooking of wild game, especially raccoon. He created stews, soups, fried and filets, but his recipe for maple bourbon glazed raccoon pushed him over the top. His book of recipes shot to number one, and he was in such demand for cooking shows, he shed the smelly sport coat and retired to concentrate full time on his wild game creations. 

He peppered his conversation with classic Pittsburghese. Yinz instead of you, gumbands vs. rubber bands, it’s Jumbo, not baloney, alunimin foil. Dropping infinitives was a gut punch for me; “Young Man, this story needs told”, “I can’t think of anything more that needs done, than this.”

 Mr. Yancy saw my jaw dropping to the ground and paused for a moment.

“Are yinz surprised with my transformation, young Andy? Don’t be. I was too stuffy, too harsh.”

He apologized for being so tough on me. I was the best student he had ever had the pleasure of teaching. He wanted to see me achieve good things.

When the interview ended, Mr. Yancy wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. We promised to meet again soon. I returned to the Press & Journal and presented a 1,500-word piece to my boss, which he knocked down to 1,000. 

“Maple Bourbon Glazed Raccoon. Damn, that sounds good, kid. Sounds good, but I’ll stick to a pastrami Reuben from Primanti’s. Go get me one.”

Ernie Stricsek, Chatham Writers Group, January 8, 2024