Last week, I left warm, sunny Seattle to take a vacation in a cold, slushy place: Boston. Here are the highlights from the first day of my trip, the most eventful day, Wednesday, the 9th of March:
4:30am. I arise at this unfortunate ha'hour so I can make sure and catch the 194 bus down to SeaTac to catch my flight on time. I walk over to the kitchen to make myself a raspberry-banana shake. Upon activating my blender, I am instantly aware of its ability to generate raw, brazen noise. The building manager, who makes his own share of cryptic night-time noises, lives below my unit. I imagine him sitting bolt upright in his bed, enraged at the drilling blender-din from up above his head. I imagine him exclaiming "what the fuck!" I imagine him deciding that it is time to raise my rent.
So I cut my blending short. And my shake is filled with small chunks of frozen banana. Thus it is an open question whether I drink or eat the shake. I wouldn't call it an either/or scenario, actually. I both drink and eat the shake: I dreat the shake.
7am. At the airport, I am looking at the newspaper headline about Mt. St Helen's newest mini-ruption. A goateed, baseball-capped gentleman elbows his way ahead of me to look at the headline. He peers at it closely for several moments, and suddenly, earnestly, wide-eyed, he exclaims "that fucker's gonna blow!" to no one in particular.
11am. From my airplane window, I look down at patches of snow on the ground. Frozen lakes shining in the sunlight. Brown earth. The snow lingers in the dark patches of trees. Presently we pass over the urban grid of Chicago, tiny, gleaming in the sun. Like a collection of microchips, there are long rectangular red roofs and several smaller roofs all interconnected via a webbed network of minute streets. I begin to fantasize about the myriad sexual adventures occurring in the tiny homes below. How may orgasms are taking place down there, at this precise moment? What infidelities currently transpire? Certainly hundreds of slackers are at home, feigning sickness, masturbating, no doubt. (I speak from experience.) On a darker note, what of the truly sick? Are any poor souls down there breathing their final breaths?
10.30pm (east coast time). My friend and I sit talking quietly in a small bar in Alston, just west of Boston. The bar is suddenly quiet, everyone's attention focused on a heated exchange betwixt the bartender and a thoroughly intoxicated patron, a young, angular fellow clad head-to-toe in green celtics garb. The bartender asks him to leave, and the celtics fan adamantly refuses. The bartender grabs his arm and begins to escort him toward the door. The celtics fan fights back; they push and pull at each other, back and forth, gradually moving toward the very spot where I am sitting. I move back in the booth, smiling at everyone else (to dishonestly indicate to them that I am not afraid.) The bartender succeeds in pushing the celtics fan down. The young fellow crashes his head against the wall and hops up again, wrathfully invigorated. At this point I was very nervous. Fortunately, though, the bartender pushes the green fellow out the door, into the 23-degree snowy street. I help hold the door closed while the angry drunk bangs on the door, shouting and yelping.
4:30am. I arise at this unfortunate ha'hour so I can make sure and catch the 194 bus down to SeaTac to catch my flight on time. I walk over to the kitchen to make myself a raspberry-banana shake. Upon activating my blender, I am instantly aware of its ability to generate raw, brazen noise. The building manager, who makes his own share of cryptic night-time noises, lives below my unit. I imagine him sitting bolt upright in his bed, enraged at the drilling blender-din from up above his head. I imagine him exclaiming "what the fuck!" I imagine him deciding that it is time to raise my rent.
So I cut my blending short. And my shake is filled with small chunks of frozen banana. Thus it is an open question whether I drink or eat the shake. I wouldn't call it an either/or scenario, actually. I both drink and eat the shake: I dreat the shake.
7am. At the airport, I am looking at the newspaper headline about Mt. St Helen's newest mini-ruption. A goateed, baseball-capped gentleman elbows his way ahead of me to look at the headline. He peers at it closely for several moments, and suddenly, earnestly, wide-eyed, he exclaims "that fucker's gonna blow!" to no one in particular.
11am. From my airplane window, I look down at patches of snow on the ground. Frozen lakes shining in the sunlight. Brown earth. The snow lingers in the dark patches of trees. Presently we pass over the urban grid of Chicago, tiny, gleaming in the sun. Like a collection of microchips, there are long rectangular red roofs and several smaller roofs all interconnected via a webbed network of minute streets. I begin to fantasize about the myriad sexual adventures occurring in the tiny homes below. How may orgasms are taking place down there, at this precise moment? What infidelities currently transpire? Certainly hundreds of slackers are at home, feigning sickness, masturbating, no doubt. (I speak from experience.) On a darker note, what of the truly sick? Are any poor souls down there breathing their final breaths?
10.30pm (east coast time). My friend and I sit talking quietly in a small bar in Alston, just west of Boston. The bar is suddenly quiet, everyone's attention focused on a heated exchange betwixt the bartender and a thoroughly intoxicated patron, a young, angular fellow clad head-to-toe in green celtics garb. The bartender asks him to leave, and the celtics fan adamantly refuses. The bartender grabs his arm and begins to escort him toward the door. The celtics fan fights back; they push and pull at each other, back and forth, gradually moving toward the very spot where I am sitting. I move back in the booth, smiling at everyone else (to dishonestly indicate to them that I am not afraid.) The bartender succeeds in pushing the celtics fan down. The young fellow crashes his head against the wall and hops up again, wrathfully invigorated. At this point I was very nervous. Fortunately, though, the bartender pushes the green fellow out the door, into the 23-degree snowy street. I help hold the door closed while the angry drunk bangs on the door, shouting and yelping.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
i think my favorite time of your day was 11:00 in the morning.
You obviously weren't lying about 'student' status in your profile, seeing as they check ID at Allston's border to make sure you're either a student or can do a 13-count keg stand before being allowed to enter.