K. Constantine: Pittsburgh Noir

She was behind him, no backpack of her own, just a plastic bag that she said held some Dixie cups and snacks. He didn’t know if she’d brought condoms or not, but he had a pocketful. He’d never gotten anyone pregnant in his life that he knew of, and that was a good thing. At her age, he wasn’t sure if she could even get pregnant. But since he didn’t really know her, there was always the tiny possibility that she was worried about her biological clock, and saw him as a possible sperm donor. I just want my seed spilled where it won’t do anything but lie there, he thought, realizing that the metaphor was a strange one, full of double entendres, and he almost laughed. The thought of disease didn’t worry him at all.

Behind him, she said, “You’re about to put your hand in a bunch of poison ivy.” She was right; the three-pointed leaves quivered in the slight wind from his breath as he drew his hand back from the weak part of the fence. Her voice was quiet, but not a whisper; there didn’t appear to be anyone else around. Careful to avoid the poison ivy, he pulled up on the fence, which bent obligingly up, till they could walk through if they stooped. He led the way, and then held the flap of wire fencing back for her. Once she was through he carefully put the fencing back in place, the way he always had. They stayed silent as they made their way across the parking lot, across asphalt so cracked and uneven it looked like an earthquake had stirred up the dirt underneath.

The night was fine and clear, with sharp, bright stars overhead and the red glow of the city just visible above the trees to the west. The entire vast parking lot could be seen with one turn of the head, and it was clear that they were alone. The only sounds were distant ones: the buzz of an air-conditioning unit outside the closest house; a motorcycle bursting loudly up to speed on Ardmore Boulevard, only two blocks away but remote over a tree-covered rise; firecrackers popping on a concrete driveway. All distant sounds, all benign.

He took her hand then, and looked her in the eye. Now was a critical time; he needed to make sure she continued to think this was fun, a romantic adventure they were sharing, not a sordid episode, which it could easily morph into if it wasn’t handled with careful, experienced hands. He smiled, she smiled back, and he felt himself relax.

“Let’s go up on the platform,” he said in a soft voice. He pointed to the rusty metal steps that began in shadows at the base of the atom smasher, perched on the unlovely rectangle of corrugated steel and concrete.

“It’s really big when you’re right next to it,” she whispered.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked.

“Not really. But I’m not a kid anymore, you know? I’m in pretty good shape, but still, all those stairs.”

“They used to be pretty sturdy. Even if they’ve rusted more since I was here last, the metal was really thick. They should still be okay.”

They made their way to the base of the stairs, and he put out a hand to find where the railing started. It was rough with rust, and he waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he could get a better look to see if the metal staircase had deteriorated in the decade since he’d last climbed it. It was too dark to see well, and although he had a flashlight, he didn’t want to use it unless he had to; there was a good chance that it would be seen by neighbors if anyone was near a window. He shook the railing, but it didn’t budge, so he put his foot on the first step. It too felt firm, and now his eyes were darkadapted enough that he could see the sturdy gray outline of the staircase reaching up to the bulge of the dome. He went up two more steps, and then turned and reached his hand down to her. She took it.

There were two platforms: one at the widest part of the inverted pear shape of the atom smasher dome, and a smaller one at the very top, like a widow’s walk. The steps ended halfway to the lower platform, replaced by a ladder; this too seemed in good shape, still firmly attached, and so the rest of the climb to the first platform was no harder than he remembered. After stepping off the ladder, he reached down for her hand and helped her the rest of the way onto the metal floor. Fortunately, it was a solid steel sheet and not grillwork, or he would never have had the success he’d had up here; no sleeping bag would have been thick enough to make it comfortable. The sinking of the sun had cooled the hills, and so they’d each changed clothes since the afternoon; both had on jeans and running shoes and long-sleeved shirts. Hers was black and plain, his was a Steelers jersey.

He pulled a blanket out of his backpack; it was the spare one kept in a box under his bed, so his mother wasn’t likely to miss it, even if she went snooping. He spread the blanket over the metal floor of the platform and then reached into his pack again for the magnum of wine that he’d managed to cadge from the cookout. Dana pulled a handful of cloth handkerchiefs from her plastic grocery bag, whispering an apology that she was a “clean freak” and liked to be able to wipe off her hands. She put the handkerchiefs in her jeans pockets, and then produced two Dixie cups circled with little purple flowers from her plastic bag, separated them, and handed both to Ronnie. He unscrewed the bottle, joking about the fact that there was no cork. He filled a cup and handed it to her. When he had his own, they toasted silently, the cups making no sound as they touched.

“I think we’re safe now,” he said.

She laughed softly. “So what made you think of this place? Do you bring all the women you meet up here?”

He shook his head, taking another sip of the paper-flavored wine. “Only the special ones.” He laughed too, feeling the air brush him, seeing the stars on the carpet of trees in the valley below them that were really the lights of the eastern suburbs, North Versailles and Turtle Creek. The exotic names of the not-very-exotic places that had created him. “The truth is, I haven’t been up here in almost fifteen years. Not since my senior year in high school.”

“Really? I guess I really am special.”

He laughed again, not telling her that he hadn’t been home enough since then for it to become an issue anyway. “Didn’t you ever sneak in here? Maybe climb up to the top on a dare?”

“I don’t take dares,” she said. “Of course I’ve been here. Everyone comes here sooner or later. But not in a long, long time. And even when I was a kid, I believed all the stories about radiation.”

He was about to mention the ghost of Boneless Bernie, but thought better of it. Her hair was still up in that cute bunchy ponytail, and he said, “I’d like to kiss you.”

“I’d like to kiss you too,” she replied. “But not yet.”

He nodded and leaned back, resting against the curved metal behind him.

“Are you sure it’s not still radioactive?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he said. “But I’m not interested in having kids, so I don’t think it matters much.”

“Still, you don’t want to die young for a dumb reason like that — because you leaned against a building that happened to poison you.”

“I think it’s shielded,” he said, although he didn’t really know. “I can’t believe they’d leave it just sitting here if it was spraying radiation all over the place.”

“Well, they don’t expect people to be up here rolling around in it.” There was a smile in her voice, and he could tell she wasn’t really worried, so he decided to change the subject.

“I’ll tell you about my train wreck if you tell me about yours.”

“What train wreck?”

He poured them each more wine, saying, “Both of us have just moved back in with our parents. I didn’t do it because it made my life more worth living. I did it because I have to. I don’t want to assume the same for you, but the odds are, you’re not back home because it’s your life’s ambition either.”