On the train, knowing I’m where I shouldn’t be sharpens my senses. The world is shouting at me: SCHRAFFT’S in pink neon from a clock tower like a cathedral, H. P. HOOD on the big dairy office building. The graffiti on the empty freight cars are strangers shouting “I was here.” On the Boston Sand and Gravel plant, a big sign cautions ACCIDENTS HAVE NO HOLIDAYS.
With no cell phone, I can’t get pulled back. No one knows my location for sure, though they could hazard a guess. Watching father-son dyads board in matching Bruins jackets, I try not to think about Dad alone. Looking to the right as the train crosses the Charles River, I try not to think about Dad’s dream of sinking in the metal box. When we see the suspension bridge topped with two Washington Monuments and lit in blue lights, the father-son dyads are already standing, so we elbow around them, through the station, and between the ticket scalpers outside. This is Boston. Streetlamps shining through maple trees with polluted-looking branches. Double-parked cars, brick buildings with garbage bags growing like mushrooms at the foot.
We take the Green Line to the Hynes/ICA stop. Crossing Boylston, we do a curb dance as an unmarked car and two cruisers careen around the corner, sirens barking. Drunks ask us croakily for a cigarette, and a woman asks for money to buy formula for her grandbaby. See? None of this would be happening in Hawthorne.
The theater is big, a thousand seats, though not anywhere near as big as the arena at North Station. It feels right to be here instead of home. The theater is already dark and Buddy’s band is already performing when we scuttle to our seats in the front row.