Wednesday, April 13, 2005

See the Thunder

No way, dude.  You’re telling me I never told you the story about the Silver Thunder?  Well that’s just not proper.  Let’s attend to that right now. 

Summer is hot up in the Poconos, and evenings glide with slow grace into night.  Wilkes-Barre (it rhymes with silks-scary) luxuriates in these languid evenings between the mountain ridges that define the Wyoming Valley of Pennsylvania.  It was to here that we had all travelled to celebrate a big birthday party, and it was here that I and a few of my extended inlaw family found ourselves with a powerful craving for pizza.

On this particualr pizza-craving evening we decided as a group to do something about it.  So Big Frank called in an order and then he loaded up a car with Burma and me and he took us on a little trip down the hill, out next to the projects, where Ricci’s Pizza stood. 

(One clarificatory note: contrary to what one might think, NEPA has some rightly widely-renowned pizza.  My personal fave is Victory Pig, but there’s a lot of the flat stuff around for the discerning gourmand.  Crusts are square and semi-thick; cheeses are subtle and the tomato sauce is sweet - a pizza that reminds me of the best qualities of my old grade-school cafeteria pizza lunches.  They’re worth the trip to the old country all by themselves, and they’re so local that none of the really good ones even have websites that I can find.)

Ricci’s, as I mentioned, stood near the projects and under the span of the south street bridge, in an old house that, like so many others up and down the street, had had its ground floor converted into a rude commercial establishment.  Groceries, taverns, furniture stores and funeral parlors predominated, but there were other shops tossed in among them and Ricci’s was one of these, with a tired old sign in front and creaking steps and hinges as you entered; its white paint had long since gone stained and worn, like most everything else around it.  We piled out of the car and filed into the weakly-lit windowless shop. 

Four or five exhausted tables with moribund chairs were set up against the side walls, that seemed to pose a standing dare to anyone who’d want a seat; a counter slept across the back of the room, simple and scarred.  Behind the counter were a few of the staff, keeping company with an ancient cash register.  The shop seemed to be decorated entirely with outdated beer posters, with one good-sized slide-open cooler against the wall with soda on one side and beer on the other. 

Big Frank stepped to the fore and announced our readiness to pick up our order.  The counter staff took the news with equanimity… and then time sort of… slowed down....

I don’t know how much later it was that I started biding the while over by the cooler.  Other patrons floated in and floated out, with a slice or a calzone or such, making little impression on me.  I was hungry and that place smelled good.  The array of malt beverages under the paltry lighting of the icebox was barely a distraction, but I had nothing else going on. 

St Ides.  Colt 45.  King Cobra.  So many kinds of malt liquor, all standing proud in 40 oz bottles like besotted bishops waiting to play beer chess.  I’d never heard of most of them.  One in particular attracted my attention: Silver Thunder.  “Silver Thunder?,” I asked rhetorically.  “What kind of a name is that?”

“That’s some good stuff, there.” He was at my shoulder but I hadn’t noticed him.  A little taller than me, and a little slimmer, he wore regulation street youth garb with natural ease.  With his smooth skin and casual attitude I figured him for his early 20s - barely a man, with the boy in him still faintly visible.  His hair was short, cupping his head in a thin blanket of tight tiny curls; his clear dark eyes were fixed on the bottles in front of us, examining them as he spoke softly to me. 

“That so?  What can you tell me about it?,” I asked as Burma and Big Frank turned to watch the conversation from the nearby counter.

“What I can tell you is, it’s cheap, man.  That Silver Thunder, it’s only like a buck-fifty for a 40.  That’s a good deal.  If you can’t get it together for an Ides, you can still get the Thunder for six quarters.”

He turned to me with this information, inclining his head knowingly.

“How’s it taste?,” I asked, briefly meeting his gaze and then looking back discreetly at the cooler. 

“As good as any of them,” he admitted.

“My thing is, that name.  ‘Silver Thunder.’ Now, silver lightning I could understand - you can see lightning.  But thunder is a sound.  Sounds don’t have color.  So, calling this ‘silver thunder’ - it’s like calling something ‘pink music.’ It just doesn’t track.”

“Huh.  Never even thought of it like that.  But it’s not bad malt liquor, for the money.”

“I hear that.”

“Hey Dan.” Big Frank was calling to me; our five pies were being stacked on the counter for us.  “Pizza’s up.  Grab-n-go.  People are waiting.”

“Yeah aright.  Later, dude.”

“Yeah, later.”

I hoisted the fragrant cardboard pallets and walked out with Burma and Frank.  As soon as the door closed they both busted up laughing.  I didn’t get it.

“I don’t get it.  What’s so funny?”

“You can go anywhere and just start up a conversation with anybody.  It’s just amazing.”

I got into the car, pursed my lips and stared at my lap full of pizza boxes as we pulled out into the narrow street and back up the hill to the family compound.  “I don’t know about that,” I said.  “He started talking to me.” This only made them giggle more.  I knew anything else I said at that point would only make things worse, so I shut up till we got home.  Then I ate a whole bunch of pizza.  It was good.

So that’s the Silver Thunder story.  Now go on with your bad self and make friends with some random stranger at the malt liquor cooler today - those guys are aright!