Pickles & Dicks On a Bridge

If you’ve ever hoped to celebrate the existence of pickles on a bridge, then Pittsburgh is your Wishmaster. The city closed down one of the bridges for two days in order to fulfill the desires of local gherkin jerks. I do really love pickles, but I probably wouldn’t have braved the crowds if not for the fact that Balloon Ride Fantasy was playing on a stage at the end of a bridge on Friday.

I worked late shift that day, but Gayle dismissed me a little early since it was a slow night. Henry dropped Chooch off downtown and the two of us walked over to the Rachel Carson Bridge, which was gridlocked with pickle junkies. It’s not that I always hate crowds. I’m (mostly) fine with crowds at concerts but if I’m trying to get from Point A to Point B and there are hordes of lollygaggers slowing my normal fast pace down to a sluggish shuffle, I get very upset. And of course it was humid as fuck and I was wearing the goddamn blouse I wore to work because I’m always so ill-prepared.

Did I mention I’m terrified of bridges? And I live in the City of Bridges. (Literally. Pittsburgh has more bridges than any city in the world. DON’T LET ANYONE FROM HAMBURG, GERMANY OR VENICE TELL YOU OTHERWISE, because God forbid should my blog ever not be factual.) Sometimes on my lunch break at work, I’ll force myself to walk across one of the bridges. I’m getting better, but these bridge parties put me on the precipice of pants-crapping.

It was 8pm by the time we started to elbow our way onto the bridge and everyone was so happy and stoked on pickles. It was absolute insanity, all of these Smilers happily sipping their beers from pickle-green plastic cups while shoving large rounds of the guest of honor into their mouths. I wanted to shove large rounds of pickles into my dumb mouth too, but there were so many people that I couldn’t even find where they were being sold!

Ideally, we should have just walked along the actual pedestrian part of the bridge in order to get to the stage faster, but what’s the point of going to a pickle festival if you’re missing out on all of the pickle propaganda?

And then we saw my work friend Allison! So I got to introduce her to Chooch, but it was impossible to stand there and chat any longer because we were being jostled along by the wall of people behind us.

And then Chooch inexplicably fell, but it wouldn’t have been a normal outing otherwise.

There were so many people that it was hard to separate the slow-moving crowd from people standing in actual lines for vendors. And not to be Judgey Judy, but there were A LOT of dicks out there on that bridge Friday night. Foodie events seem to bring out some of the worst people, and I can’t tell you how many times someone pushed me out of the way and then gave ME a shitty look, like sorry I’m in your way of taking a perfect photo of a plastic cup full of kimchi to post on your Yelp review, but go stand off to the side and do that shit. My favorite was the yuppie bitch who almost knocked me over because she was in “such a big hurry, hurry up!” only to stop dead in her tracks right in front of us to take a selfie with her friends and the giant inflatable pickle.

Find your chill, bitch. Can’t we all just share the pickle love gently and politely?

Sometimes I think I confuse my social anxiety with just a general and overwhelming disdain for the human population.

When I saw that we were approaching the Pittsburgh Ice Cream Company’s booth, I went into Fighter Mode, grabbed Chooch’s hand, and elbowed my way through the undulating mass of hipsters and yuppies and probably ended up cutting in line, and I hate line-jumpers, but…eyes of the prize, right?

They were out of the two pickle flavors that were on the sign, so I settled for Bread & Butter Jalapeno, because #yolo, and Chooch got the Honey Nutter even though he didn’t seem so sure of his choice. Of course, he ended up loving it and kept making these uncomfortable moans while eating it, pausing long enough in between tastes to cry, “THIS IS REALLY GOOD” while it dripped all over his shirt. Goddammit.

Mine was really good too, but he was just like, “It’s….alright,” with a shrug.

We stopped for some samples of pickled vegetables. I apparently don’t like pickled things as much as I thought I did previous to attending a festival based on the art of pickling.

But we each got a free Heinz pickle pin, and coupons for vinegar, so that was cool!

It took us nearly 30 minutes to get to the other side of the bridge, and I was a hot, pickled mess by then. Summer, I love you, but your friend Humidity can choke on a fucking pickled dick.

Luckily, we made it to the stage in time to catch Balloon Ride Fantasy! I met one of the singers, Bethany, back in October when she and I were both part of my friend Kristy’s “Golden Ghouls” costume at Zombiefest. 

Mem’ries.

Bethany and I became Facebook friends after that, and that’s how I found out about Balloon Ride Fantasy. Ever since, I’ve been wanting to see them perform, and braving the bridge madness was definitely worth it. They’re a perfect blend of indie pop and 80s synthpop that serves as the perfect cleanse after a post-hardcore overload. (I know, I know, there can never bee too much post-hardcore! But sometimes it’s good to mix it up.) Also, I love bands that have alternating guy and girl singers.

Those lyrics, though! So smart, so good.

“He sounds like the guy from Smashing Pumpkins,” Chooch yelled into my ear. I love that he knows enough music to be able to make comparisons! I only slightly agreed with that though, and felt that if we were going to play that game, then his voice was more along the lines of Brian Aubert from Silversun Pickups. And that is to say: fantastic. And so is Bethany! She sounded so beautiful and it was wonderful seeing her not only in her element, but without a pound of zombie makeup on. If I wasn’t friends with her on Facebook, I wouldn’t have recognized her!

Chooch and I were both super into it, until that sonofabitch had to PEE because his irresponsible father didn’t make sure he went before they left the house. Henry, you are the literal worst.

 

We left halfway through their set (ugh) and walked back to my work, where I called Henry to see what his ETA was. Just as the phone started calling him, a woman approached us and my BAD NEWS BEARS radar started going off. I knew right away she was going to ask for money and possibly try to shank me/kidnap Chooch/inject us with heroin and sell us to a vendor in the Casbah.

Immediately, she starts crying. Good lead-in.

“I know you’ll understand because you have a kid,” she began, hugging herself and being generally shifty. “I need to get home to my kids in New Castle and I only have $2 and bus fare is $22, please can you help me?”

I was still holding my phone and I promised her that I had no cash on me. She was persistent and I finally just had to grab Chooch’s hand and start walking away.

Then I remembered I was calling Henry, who had answered just in time to witness the whole exchange.

“It’s always great when I answer my phone and hear someone crying,” he said. He thought it was me crying at first and panicked, because MAYBE DON’T LEAVE ME AND YOUR SON ALONE ON A FRIDAY NIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BIG, SCARY CITY, HENRY. I’m glad he felt panicked!

He picked us up moments later and Chooch excitedly relayed the panhandling story to him.

“What did she look like?” Henry asked.

“White, in her thirties…” I began, while Chooch said over top of me, “Face wet with tears.”

Then we bragged about our ice cream and Henry was sad.

And that’s the story of how I went to a pickle fest and ate not a single pickle.