Monday, September 08, 2003 7:01:43 AM

Live fast, die young, and have a good looking corpse.
Nick Romano - Knock On Any Door. - Willard Motely

You can spot them in the morning. Like a line of arrogant ducks on the penny arcade shooting range, leaning casual, stern ever moving eyes with their backs arched and heavy pushing against the plate glass that advertises cigarettes for a hundred bucks a pack, milk - more fresh and frothy than from the udder of Elsie, slurpies, and deli sliced humps of chipped ham; displayed, chockablock next to posters of marshmallow peeps or chocolate turkeys complete with stuffing or rainbow lollipop christmas trees or sugar sweet valentine hearts or horrible halloween hostile hysteria. Egyptian Civilization was formed and guided by the predictable swelling of the Nile. Our civilization is equally served by such bright and cartooned advertisements taped as temporary decoration on the aluminum trim double glazed picture windows in a strip mall.

What is it, do you suppose, that makes freelance workers line up at the automatic sliding door and contiguous windows of the local C Store? The thrill of blocking customer traffic? What is it that makes this blacktop curb the perfect starting place for those who put roofs on houses, mow lawns by the millions, unstuff the kitchen sink and bathroom toilet, add supposed ozone depleting refrigerants to the cooling side of your air conditioner, set and install the picket fence, paint same fence and the side of a house, cover the paint with aluminum siding. Fixit handy guys, all. Does this mooring in the morning take the place of matins?

They wear bandanas made from old snot rags and tee shirts that prior to dismemberment had perfectly good sleeves. Each pick-up truck, one has the emblem of a small boy peeing on a Chevrolet, another the small boy pisses on a Ford, has a gun rack fashioned in the rear window, witness to the fact that these Minute Men are as ready as those who bedeviled the British on their long march back to Boston from Concord. Each has a cup of tepid coffee in hand, testimony that they have been in position since at least 4 AM when the twenty-four hour operation changes both staff and personality. They laugh large and swear in loud voices, hawk spittle that we can only hope is that cold coffee from their warm mouths as it lands perilously close to our newly shined brogans.

Isn't it hard enough just to get yourself to work without these local tradesmen making you run the gauntlet of rude approval because you were too lazy to fire up the coffee pot? Isn't it bad enough that the coffee you are served has, although hot, the consistency of something scrapped from tar paper and the taste of something vile and long boiled, but have to hear the following dialog.

"Can you believe that Gino's wife left him?" Bravo, you think, Mrs. Gino. "Yeah, she ran away with his girl friend Lottie!"

or

"I went, hey dude, leave me alone. He went; you can't tell me who to leave alone. I went, look buddy, just leave me alone. He went, I don't think so. I went, pal, apparently you don't know who you are messing with. He went, duh! I went, Oh yeah and clocked him cross his chin with my right. He went down..."

My old man would take me in the summers to work, with Sofis, the plasterer and Barney and Betts, painters both and we would sit at the 6 AM counter of an all night diner in East Liberty. They would talk about women and kid me with little mercy. Discuss the jobs for the week and the Pirates and stupid politicians. It was quiet chatter in a busy place that had pies in slices on stainless steel and curved glass display, succulent large donuts on a tray greasily staining a scrolled paper doily, proud rows of Cheerios and Cornflakes high above on a shelf in individual boxes that could be cut down the sides and the middle and filled with milk a banana cut in slices atop the flakes, eggs and sausage and flapjacks spitting on the iron brown grill.

In the evenings I would join my friends at the corner of Frankstown and Verona Roads and line up in front of the porthole windows of the men's room of the Eastwood Movie Theater and talk about girls and boast about fights like we full fledged members of the some mob. We formed a gauntlet that blocked paying customers from entry. The cops would come and chase us away and we would scatter like fleas and then after twenty minutes regroup with even more vicious stories.

The only places that resemble the 24 hour diner now are MacDonald’s and they are overrun by retired folk who voice their own cluck of disapproval if you invade the space. There are no breakfast counters at C-Stores. The Eastwood Theater closed over thirty years ago. I guess these guys need a place to go in the morning. My real question is: Do they ever go to work? They are still there at noon, when all you want is a fast bite to eat. A chicken skin on cardboard with paste, please.

I yam what I yam!
- Popeye to anyone who would listen.