When in Pittston

The Brooklyn guy, by way of Jersey, couldn’t resist.
We met at the Red Mill Tavern to catch up over a beer. He was hungry and asked for a menu and I knew what was coming. “What’s a cut of pizza?” he said.
He knows damned right well what a cut of pizza is. He’s lived around her for more than ten years. But still he laid that ole “It’s supposed to be a slice of pizza” line on me.
In spite of myself, I explained that a pizza pie comes in slices, and a tray of “square” pizza comes in cuts.
But, as I said, he already knew that.
What is it with making fun of the way we in Northeastern Pennsylvania talk? Jersey guys stand “on” line, not “in” line, as though there is a painted line on the sidewalk, but we don’t call them out on it every time we see them. We’re over it.
But when folks around her say “We’re going up the mall,” Jersey natives are hysterical. Canned Heat sang “Goin’ Up the Country” and that was fine and dandy. But we can’t say, “Goin’ up the mall”?
I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of it.
It’s high time our neighbors to the East who relocate here cut us some slack. Or is it slice us some slack?

Ed Ackerman