Innocence, embodied




Isn't Boston just the cutest little toy city you've ever seen? Maybe it's not so cute for some people, but it's definitely toy. It certainly doesn't qualify as a real city, like New York or Chicago. Maybe that's why I have such issues accepting that real city things happen here.


Like, the fact that for 3.5 years I've been getting out of the T at Boylston station any time between 6 and 7 am, and walking down Tremont street, past the infamous Tam (already open, mind you), and Jack's Joke Shop (which is no more), and a host of suspicious tattered characters on the corner of Tremont and Kneeland. They looked moderately to severely homeless, and, knowing that there was a shelter nearby, I had always assumed they were homeless people let out of the shelter waiting for the bus.

One day, the routine changed on me. I got out of the T, and the road was blocked by a small herd of unmarked cop vehicles. There appeared to be a lineup happening against the wall, with a lot of frisking. It suddenly occurred to me: there is no bus on this street. These are not homeless folks. These are the pimps and ho's with whom I apparently share my work neighborhood.

Or one morning, I opened the door of the Boylston T stop and found a man sprawled across the step. Most people were stepping over him, except for two cops, who tentatively poked him in the chest. I'm thinking, automatically: are you ok, are you ok? You, in the red, call 911. I know CPR... etc. I'm used to disasters: this man is dying, he needs help, so I offered my medical services with some degree of urgency: "Need any help, there, fellas?" They looked at me. "He's just drunk, sweethaaht, we know him, he lives on this corner." As in, ON the corner.

Further confirmation of my naivte, nay, stupidity, happened today. Again, involving the T. I was taking part in a purely yuppy activity, this being taking a power yoga class during my lunch hour. As I was descending into the Back Bay station T stop, my gaze rolled over two gentlemen, one of whom was carrying a brown bag that said, "Lewis" across the front. My lazy brain registered the brown bag with the name, and thought of Lewis's mom or wife who packed him his lunch in this nice way. I was touched - until I walked past them and caught the tail end of their conversation: "just got out today?" "Yea" "how long were you in fo'?" "Four months, baby" The brown bag? Not a lunch bag. A prisoner's belongings bag. Of course.

Boston. Small, but feisty. That's why we get along.

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