Andrea Janov is a recent transplant to Pittsburgh who was raised by rock n’ roll parents who knew the importance of concerts and going past the no trespassing signs. She spent her adolescence in a small town punk rock scene where she moshed, fell in love, and produced a few cut and paste fanzines. She holds Creative Writing degrees from SUNY Purchase and Wilkes University.
Waiting I slide into the passenger seat of his car, stretch to unlock his door. You passed the test, Mark says. What test? It was in a movie. We sit in front of my parents’ house. He hands me a half crumpled camera box bound in white masking tape. Happy graduation. The box twists as my fingers rip at the binding, until the tape snaps with the stress. Inside, a jumble of things. He watches me. I don’t want to disappoint him. I have to explain each thing in here. He leans over, pulls out crinkled papers and art supplies. All drawing stuff, tracing paper, erasers, sketches, they are kind of part of who I am. A glow stick I swiped from Hot Topic when I worked there — when we first met. He drops each item into my lap. Bike company stickers, he glances at me, fire crackers, because explosives are always fun. This is the piece of art that can get me into any college that I want. Collaged black and white photos, legs : arms : blurred faces glossier than any subway I had ever been on. The photos are pirated though. I wonder how many girls are jealous of me right now. A battery you asked me to hold a couple of years ago. A dented, chipped Chevy emblem, and Justin and I stole this one of the first times we came over your house. I believe him because I want to. A MetroCard. You will be using a lot of these. A Screeching Weasel CD and I couldn’t find the case, I might have stolen that too. The box is almost empty and my lap is full. A piece of my belt. Ride The Fire branded into the leather. And the cover page of On The Road. Have you read it? You should, but you can’t buy it, you have to get it from someone, or at least that is the way it should be. It is something to pass on. He puts each item back in the box and looks at me, for a moment— Once, a couple years ago, this kid was looking for a fight and I wasn’t… he turns to the back seat so I kicked this, to intimidate him. I guess all those years of karate paid off. He drops the top of a broken parking meter in my hands. I believe him because I want to.