Hitting the Bricks

Hitting the Bricks

by Jay Lynch

Residents of our neighboring community, Mt. Lebanon, are proud of the quaint beauty of their yellow brick streets. They’re viewed by most as historic assets to the community, and real estate agents say they attract new residents and support property values. But, as a former Mt. Lebanon resident, I discovered that the seemingly charming brick streets can contribute to embarrassing neighborhood gatherings.

Shortly before my marriage in 1986, I scraped together a down payment and bought a small home on Allendale Place, a classic, tree-lined brick street in Mt. Lebanon. We planned to move into our “love nest” after our wedding, but I moved into our home early to begin working on self-serving renovations, like converting the game room into a man cave before my bride could object. I’d not met any of the neighbors… until the night of my bachelor party.

As bachelor parties go, it was tame by design. I didn’t want anybody to get hurt or be thrown in jail. To honor my last gasp of male independence safely, my buddies took me to a variety of venues in the South Hills for activities that would be off-limits after marriage: consuming adult beverages in seedy taverns, gambling on horses at The Meadows, and bowling with pot-bellied beer drinkers at Bowling City.

Early in the evening, my friends locked a plastic ball-and-chain to my ankle, presented me with a large bottle of Jack Daniels, and introduced me to my “date”—a life-sized buxom blonde blow-up doll that remained close to me for the rest of the evening. While her latex legs had to be awkwardly bent to make her stable on bar stools, she was the catalyst for entertaining banter with waitresses, bartenders, and fellow patrons (e.g., “Hey, buddy, your date looks like a bit of an air head! Yeah, she’s not talking to me… we had a bit of a blow up in the parking lot.”). She was also a hit at The Meadows when she crowd surfed like a beach ball to celebrate our rare victories.

My friends had a remedy for our rotten luck with the ponies that evening and a special gift for me. They bought a $2 ticket on every horse to win the last race of the night, and ceremoniously presented all of them to me and my vinyl date. We couldn’t lose. Everyone expected the favored horse to win and my payoff to be pennies, but at least I’d end the evening with a victory. To everyone’s surprise, the least favored horse won, and I dragged my ball-and-chain to the betting window to collect $300 on a $2 ticket!

Our next stop was Bowling City, where we threw gutter balls and downed pitchers of Iron City ’til well past closing time, when we were asked to leave. While the party was over at 2 a.m. for my friends, my adventure was about to begin. In anticipation of an alcohol-fueled evening, I’d asked one of my young employees, Keith Simmons, to participate in the festivities and also serve as my designated driver. I thought a loyal employee might be motivated to do a good job of keeping me safe at the risk of a lousy performance review. Keith’s final task for the evening was to drive me less than a mile from Bowling City to my house. In retrospect, I should have walked.

Keith had grown up in Detroit and was obsessed with cars and speed. For most of the evening, he’d tempered his aggressive driving. But, as we approached our final destination, he accelerated, intending to make a dramatic, controlled half-spin, ending with a skidding stop in front of my house. Just for fun.

He hadn’t considered several important conditions that would impact his planned maneuver. It was raining, so the brick street was wet. In addition, it was autumn, so the bricks were covered with leaves. As a result, Allendale Place had become incredibly slippery. Keith lost command of his controlled skid when we were only 50 feet from my house. His car hit the curb and went airborne, leaving the street. It flipped over and landed upside down on my new neighbor’s backyard swingset with a mighty crash that shattered the nighttime silence and woke the whole neighborhood.

Keith and I were suspended, upside down, by our seat belts. The car’s headlights, still on, illuminated my neighbor’s family room through their picture window. We could see pajama-clad adults and kids scrambling for robes, flashlights, and umbrellas. When the police arrived, they cut the seat belts, pulled us from the car, and helped us to my neighbor’s back porch, where curious neighbors had assembled to see who’d woken them from their slumber.

Neither of us were seriously injured, but my neck hurt and we were both stunned by the impact. As we sat on the neighbor’s porch steps, one of the policemen flashed his spotlight on the car and declared, “Good Lord, there’s a woman in the back seat!” They ran to the car, shattered the rear window and pulled out the inflatable lady. Irritated by their unnecessary panic, they brought her to the porch and handed her to me, asking, “Your girlfriend, buddy?”

I could hear kids in pajamas asking their parents why the strangers who destroyed their swingset owned a life-sized blow-up doll. Teens giggled. We overheard one of the officers reporting the incident to his superior on his walkie-talkie: “Inverted vehicle on swingset. Minor injuries. Driver passed DUI. Intoxicated passenger wearing ball-andchain owns inflatable lady and whiskey.” I heard a voice on the other end of the line say, in disgust, “What kind of people are they, anyway?”

At that moment, I thought it best to speak to the crowd, “Guess what, folks? I’m your new neighbor. How do you like me so far?” My attempt at humor was met with a chorus of boos, until I explained that Keith’s insurance would pay for any damages and the neighbor kids would be getting a brand new swingset. I also reassured the crowd that I, indeed, had a real, human, girlfriend, who would soon be my wife and their neighbor.

A subsequent X-ray revealed a cracked cervical bone, giving me the perfect excuse to be a pain in the neck with wedding planners. During our honeymoon, my bride frequently reminded me of the ironic name of the horse that paid off so well at The Meadows the night of the bachelor party: Whiplash.

When we moved to Upper St. Clair in 1995, I was delighted to discover that there’s only one brick street within our Township’s tensquare-mile radius, and it’s a safe distance from our house. n