The rental truck glides to a halt in front of the three-story apartment building that looks like it was constructed back before steel. It’s the first time Jeremy’s seeing it since Scott went through the application process with his mom as cosigner, and the recent paint job to the ancient structure looks hurried, cursory — the bright purple banner proclaiming Now Leasing! Apartments Available Today! in bright yellow font trying a little too hard to distract the eye. But still. It’s theirs. In the city. Nineteen and finally out from under the draconian eye of their parents.
“This is it,” Scott says as he shifts the truck into park, rests an arm across the steering wheel, and leans down to catch the same vantage point through Jeremy’s passenger side window. “Just a couple blocks north of Pitt and CMU.”
“Hell, yes,” Jeremy says. “Can’t wait to see the room.”
“Let’s get it started, then,” Scott says, and unbuckles his seat belt, sending a ripple of hesitation through Jeremy. Scott pauses, observing his best friend. “What?”
“You sure we can park here?” he asks.
Scott rolls his eyes. “You’re such a rule follower sometimes,” he groans, and jabs the emergency flashers on with his aggrieved index finger. “Happy now?”
Scott swings his door open with no regard for the traffic whir- ring past and hops out of the cab. Don’t question, Jeremy reminds himself — just say fuck it and follow his lead.
Jeremy meets him at the back of the truck just in time to hear the satisfying clang of the rear door sliding up to reveal their modest possessions, the objects standing between them and an epic night of celebrating.
“Let’s start with the heavy shit,” Scott says. “Get it over with quick and it’ll be all downhill from there.” A brawny, athletic five foot ten, he hops into the trailer and maneuvers through the other items to reach the back end of the couch and push it forward like a football blocking sled, a callback to his early high school days, and though it’s been three years since he quit, his biceps and traps still offer sudden punctuation to his tee as he puts the old skill to new use.
The couch slides over the lip of the trailer, catching Jeremy in hesitation — armrest or knobby legs? His instincts pulse toward reaching for the bottom and knobby legs, but as the couch continues to glide out of the truck, he realizes his mistake at the last moment and adjusts to grab it by the armrest. He falters a half step, then glances up to find Scott smirking from the mouth of the trailer, his end of the couch easily in hand. “C’mon, bro,” he goads, and seems to float down to the assistance step. “I’ve got the hardest part here.”
“Ease up,” Jeremy snaps back. “Didn’t realize you were pushing it straight out.”
Scott smirks again.
Once they reach the apartment, Scott wants Jeremy to be im- pressed with his find: the modest kitchen bleeding into the living space where they drop the couch, the two bedrooms wishboned at the end of the hall. He shifts gears, decides they need to bring up their janky-ass Salvation Army entertainment unit even though there are still more cumbersome items to come. Because, Jeremy realizes, Scott wants to set the mood. He directs Jeremy to haul up the TV while he searches for his box of DVDs, and when they’ve got the corresponding electronics set up, Scott fishes out Raging Bull from his stack of options, inciting one of his favorite riffs from the film: “If he fought Sugar Ray he would say,” and he pauses for dramatic effect, Jeremy knowing better than to trample over the performance — he’s not asking for a singalong — “that the thing ain’t the ring, it’s the play / so give me a stage / where this bull here can rage.”
The benefit of having two older brothers: Scott’s invaluable education in film. Being introduced — being forced to watch the Scorsese and Coppola classics made before his and Jeremy’s time, with those iconic, strong male leads. Scott’s movie knowledge was unparalleled in their clique, his ability to pull quotes no one knew yet but understood they should, and he wielded them like another intimidating tool in his arsenal. This was where Jeremy reaped the collateral benefits. There was their larger clique of guys, but then there was also just Scott and Jeremy. They were a duo others couldn’t penetrate, and it was during their bouts of movie watching that Jeremy felt closest to Scott. He and Jeremy would recline in Scott’s father’s theater room with Scott cueing up crucial scenes like Michael Corleone taking his brother by the neck, planting the kiss, and Scott would melt into his seat as he said the line with Pacino: I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. It was here where Jeremy felt like they could really talk. Not just about dude shit, but where they could drop the macho veneer, if only a little, and transition to the complexities of family, school, the general fuckedupness of life, while the movie rolled on, providing them an easy, natural distraction if the conversation be- came too murky.
But the movie is only part of the vibe Scott desires. He turns the volume all the way down and opens up his laptop, begins to scroll through his music library. In the pause, Jeremy finds himself wondering which way he’ll go. A chameleon when it comes to music, Scott adapts to any atmosphere, adjusts his style, his persona, while still remaining at his core the always-certain alpha male he’s care- fully crafted: Scotty Ballgame.
One of the songs from Mos Def’s Black on Both Sides comes pulsing through the speakers, and Scott keeps his head turned to his computer for a moment as he begins to bob and flow with the music, a hooded De Niro shadowboxing next to him on the screen. Of course, Jeremy thinks, should’ve known this calls for hip-hop.
With the vibe set, it does go more smoothly. The goal is in sight. They work with a symbiotic energy as they haul up dressers, desks, and mattresses, set up bed frames, divide and conquer their individual boxes in their separate wishboned rooms. They do the bare minimum — just get the fucking truck emptied so they can move on to the cases of beer.
Still a bit stung by the couch screwup he can’t let go of, Jeremy tears through the process. He tosses clothes in drawers haphazardly, decides shirts can wait one more day to be hung, but it’s the box with his textbooks that pulls him out of the moment. College. Community college, as he feels like he’s been perpetually reminded. Starting tomorrow. 9:30 a.m. He aligns the books on the edge of his desk, spines facing outward. Laying the books flat, he creates a pyramid of diminishing size: the bulky ones for Basic Math and Intro to Busi- ness leading upward toward the several smaller texts required for First Year Writing.
It’s one of the sticking points with his family. Because after he quit baseball he came to feel like his parents pushed him in this di- rection, that this was the only kind of college he could handle. Like it was some vindictive mind game punishment for bailing on the family legacy. His father had been a catcher for the Pittsburgh Pi- rates, and Jeremy came to feel like a product of his father’s personal baseball academy more so than his son. Yes, he could’ve done much, much better in school post-baseball, but he also felt suffocated in that house, and he’s certain now that he’s out from under their boot heels he’ll show them what he’s truly capable of.
A new start, he tells himself.
From City of Clans by Geoff Peck, published by the University of Iowa Press. Copyright © 2025 by Geoff Peck.
