What is it?

The Secret

On my way out of Raven Used Books today, there was an old man with a dirty white beard on the stoop above. He had headphones on and held a CD player in his hands, along with six or seven stuffed plastic bags. He looked on with a sinister grin as I struggled to fit my purchase into my purse. And then he started to cackle.

"You have no idea what I'm listening to!" he wailed at me.

He continued to laugh as I left, smiling to myself and wondering what he was listening to.

Not Jake

There was a painter in Harvard Square today. He held a canvas on his lap and drew his head close to the surface as he touched it up. He displayed other paintings on the table and bench to either side of him. I stopped to look at the paintings. They were all very different - abstract African figures, impressionist corn fields, seascapes. I tried to find one that I liked. I searched for some consistent mark of his work in all the paintings. I wondered if they were all his and what the one he was painting looked like. I must admit, part of me suspected that it was crap.

A girl approached him then. "Do you know another black artist named Jake?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Isn't this his painting?" she said, pointing to a sunrise over the plains.
There was a pause. He studied her.
"Well, yeah..." he answered, "I sell his stuff, too."

I walked away as she began to respond. They were going to be there a while.

RMV Part Deux

After settling my business at the RMV in Boston, I found myself in line at the Somerville Office of Traffic and Parking. Immediately in front of me was a short lady and her two kids: a trendy girl of about 12 and an impish boy around 6 years old. The boy was dancing around the pole in the center of the room and chewing on the antenna of his mother's cell phone. The girl wore a backpack purse and twirled her hoop earrings impatiently. Their mother looked exhausted and gazed absently at the floor. Every now and then she pleaded with her son in Spanish, telling him not to chew the antenna.

When we all got to the place in line that runs alongside chairs, the mother folded exhaustedly into the first one. Her daughter sat next to her and kissed her on the cheek. After they had rested a moment, the boy spun out from the pole and into the rope gates of the line, crashing himself and the gate down loudly. His head spun immediately toward his mother who scolded him and motioned him toward her. He sat next to her then and kept quiet until they all got to the window.

The mother spoke quietly, and her English was tentative as she attempted to explain her purpose to the teller. The teller responded confusedly, so the young girl leaned forward and explained her mother's business in clear, sophisticated English. She became the mediator for the rest of the affair, and the teller addressed all further questions directly to the girl.

When the lady left the window to gather their paperwork, the girl buried her nose in her armpit and scrunched up her face with a disgusted sigh. She made a breathy remark in Spanish to her mother, who let out a loud crack of laughter. This provoked her son to do the same, though I'm not sure he heard his sister to begin with.

Tie Guys

I saw some young professionals on the train yesterday. I was reading and sleepily resting my head on the post near me, when another body slowly took over the post from the other side. I lifted my head to see what was happening, and two twenty-something men in fancy suits stood next to me. Their pants were neatly creased, and their haircuts were short and crisp. They were discussing a co-worker and laughing. One man hung his coat over his arm and tilted his head to smile like a J. Crew model. When he lifted his hands to tie his tie, I saw that he was wearing rubber gloves. He continued chatting while he familiarly tossed the tie into a full windsor. I didn't want to stare, so I looked down at my book to continue reading. After a few pages, I glanced back up at the guy with rubber gloves, only to find that he had taken them off and was now holding a handle on the train with his bare left hand. But his tie was pristine. I guess some people are just very particular about their ties.

Tuned In

As I came to the corner of College Avenue yesterday, I passed a man wearing big, round headphones. He was bobbing his head slowly, and I thought how lovely it was to see him revel in his music. Upon turning the corner, I realized that he had been shaking his head - at a man wearing equally big, round headphones walking the other way.

Renegade Parade

My boyfriend and I rode our bikes home together late last night. It was around midnight when we came upon the Thirsty Scholar at a lazy pace, both in our own worlds as we finished the hill. Suddenly, I noticed some colors and flashing lights in the oncoming lane. I could make out voices whooping and a faint dance beat. As the flashes drew nearer, I saw that it was not the street party or charity walk I'd expected, but a fleet of bizarre mish-mashed bicycles.

I nearly stopped in my tracks. Here was a piece of Boston lore that had eluded me for two years. I'd listened eagerly to accounts of their nighttime rides, and once or twice I'd seen their members riding solo about town, but now they had fallen neatly into my journey home. Complete with black leather, superhero unitards, and a disco ball, the Scul gang is like a dark, dreamy circus - zany beyond comprehension, but utterly bewitching. It is well-known that they come in peace, but nobody really knows what their missions entail. Not that it matters. The important thing is that they're out there, from April Fools to Halloween, filling the city with wonder and mystery.

Ride on, Scul gang. And God speed.

From a Woman to a Woman

Yesterday someone ducked out of yoga class for a cup of water. She rested at my desk while she emptied her cup.

"Wow," she whispered, "this is a great class! It's challenging. Sometimes we do a pose and I am in there just cryin'! We women, we need to cry sometimes, you know? I tell ya, I worked all week, and I have a three-year-old, and my husband and I... Well, after thirteen years, it's just... Ya know, ya see it in the movies, and ya see it on TV, but it really happens. Ya know? It's really true... and we just need to cry sometimes... we really just need that release."

"I totally get it," I replied. And I meant it.

Big Ol' Me

I was getting on my bike leaving Whole Foods the other day, when a man approached me. "What's a... what's a big ol' girl like you doing gettin on a big ol' bike like that?"

"I don't know?" I replied. I found his question confusing, because neither my bike nor I are accurately described as big and ol'.

"Look miss, I'm just tryin to getta few dollars for a beer. I don't have a job, and I just want a beer."

I would love to say that I gave him some change for his efforts and honesty, but my wallet was buried at the bottom of my bag, and I was already loaded up on my big ol' bike.

RMV

Deep in the heart of Chinatown lies the root of all evil in Boston. Conveniently situated next to a Dunkin Donuts, the building brews a melting pot of disgruntled Bostonians from 9 to 5, all through the business week. When you enter the building, a lady with spiky red hair and pointed fingernails hands you a slip of paper with a letter and a number.

Then you proceed through the doorways to her right and left, where you find yourself under rows of fluorescent lights, facing a wall of service windows with unlikely pairs of people failing to communicate. The floors are checked with splatter-painted tiles, and long wooden benches line the middle of the room. The people spread themselves out on the benches with two to seven feet of personal space on either side and try to divert themselves. Some people read, some eat, some text; one man behind me sampled ring tones for thirty minutes. The only clue as to the length of your wait is an electronic voice overhead reciting letters and numbers. But any given combination of these could mean a thirty-five minute dialogue at the counter.

The walls are covered in signage endorsing the Fast Lane Pass, luring you back to the pointy-haired greeter for another round. The benches are hard and narrowly spaced, so that you have to jam your knees into the seat to let people past. I sat on the end, hoping for a quick exit, but my wait clocked in at forty-five minutes by the time my number was called. When the voice announced A096, I advanced triumphantly to the counter and smiled at my new acquaintance on the other side. She deflected her eyes to my paperwork and informed me that my materials were not sufficient for the business I had come to do, and then she sent me away with a list of errands for my next visit. I pushed my way through the Dunkin Donuts crowd feeling empty and disoriented.

Lunchbox

I sat across from a painter today. He was reading the Boston Metro in long white pants and a cotton white t-shirt. Dusty spots of eggshell, peach and grey ran down the pants and along his boots. Between his feet sat a large personal cooler - red with a white handle. It was one of those house-shaped models where you push the red button in and rotate the handle to open and close it.

I was mesmerized by the peculiar contented smile that never left his face. I'd like to know what was in that cooler.

Solitary Paperback

There was a copy of The Natural History of Religion by David Hume on the floor in the train station this morning. It was lying on the yellow line just before the ledge to the tracks, its pages rippling under the fan. When I first noticed it, I assumed it had been dropped by the woman standing nearest, but she was far from being involved with anything around her in that moment. I knelt down to read the title, but I felt unable to touch the thing. It was an Oxford Classics Edition - used, but with no signs of major debasement. This was the first train of the day, so it had assumably spent the night in that exact spot. I watched it out the window as my train pulled out, leaving it all alone on the platform.

Blast from the Past

I thought I saw an acquaintance from grade school on the street last night. This was a person I grew up with, far away from here, not necessarily a friend, and not anyone I'd seen or heard of since high school. But it was him. He was still short and skinny, had the same facial structure, and had nearly the same haircut as when he was in first grade. I felt that his black polo shirt and baggy jeans accurately represented what his style would have been if we hadn't worn uniforms at Cathedral Grade School. I knew he had spotted me, too, but he wouldn't expect to run into me halfway across the country. He might not even be able to place me. But I picked up my pace to get a closer look.

We walked in the same direction for about a block before I caught up to him, but when I was right next to him, I saw enough to confirm his identity. I marveled at how amazing life is when people's stories come together unexpectedly. I was getting ready to approach him then. I would simply state his name, get his attention, and say, "It's Anna - from Cathedral! How are you? What are you doing all the way out here? How weird is it that we'd run into each other on the east coast?"

We were walking side by side now. I could tell that he had me in his peripheral vision. He was probably trying to remember how he knew me. Or trying to decide whether or not to approach me. Then his phone rang. It was one of those loud Nokia ring tones from 1999. He answered it, "Si?" As he turned left, he spoke rapid Spanish with a few heavily accented English words. I continued straight. It wasn't him.

What Your Name?

On my way out of the train station last night, a man spoke to me on the escalator.

"Nice day today, huh?" He inched up to my stair.
"Hot," I replied.
"Yes, hot!" He stared at me intensely with his huge brown eyes. "What your name?"
I've never realized it before, but it is very intimate to give your name to a stranger in a public place. I was sort of stunned by the question and hesitated in answering.
"Anna." I didn't want to ask his name. I didn't care. I was tired and wanted to be left alone. Plus, he stared too hard.

When we got to the top of the escalator, I picked up my pace in hopes of ending the conversation.

"Have a good night," he said. I considered the degree to which this warranted a response. Why was I guarded? Am I so attached to American ideas on personal space and conversational niceties?
"You too," I conceded.

I was pushing myself, and I surprised us both. The man, who had finally started in a different direction, turned back toward me and followed me to my exit from the station. Suddenly I was buried in my paranoia. Had he read my response as in invitation? A submission? Did he think he was supposed to continue walking with me now? I contemplated my route home. I had to lose him, but I didn't have the energy to say anything else. I crossed the street, even though I didn't need to, and I checked back every few steps to show that I didn't want to be followed. I called my boyfriend to see if he could meet me halfway on the walk. By the time I got home, I was nearly running. But in the end, there was nobody behind me, and I knew it.

Nearly Naked Guy

A man just crossed Berkeley street in a thin, peach-colored robe. He was pulling a cart with some paper bags in it, but he looked clean and relatively well-groomed. But the robe wasn't tied or fastened other than his hand holding it closed. As he walked, the wind blew the sides of it open, and I could see the his white inner thighs. Was he naked under that robe? How did he get to be nearly naked in the middle of the street?

Mirror Lady Sighting

There is a woman who walks around the symphony neighborhood staring into a hand mirror. She is well-known in the student communities of the area, but I'm not sure anyone has ever gotten to the bottom of why she does it. Today I saw her walking down Mass Ave., and I felt inspired to shed light on the situation.

"Why do you always look in the mirror?" I asked.

"I am obsessed with it," she replied. "It's a psycho... psyche... problem."

"Oh." I had no idea how to flavor that response. I tried to sound casual, but I think it came off too upbeat.

"Yeah."

"Ok."

And then we turned back away from each other and continued walking. 'That was none of my business,' I thought.

Romantic Afternoon

I took a little nap in the public garden today. There was a couple near me spending their afternoon on a blanket in the grass. The man was shirtless, and the girl wore a strapless shirt. They were soaking up the rays. I wouldn't have noticed them, but they kept shifting and looking around. I think they were bored. But they were picturesque, and they knew it.

Staring at Art Beat

I happened upon a street festival on my way into the city yesterday. I had allowed extra time for no reason at all, so I took a detour through the shaded tents along Davis Square. It was nearly 100 degrees, but people and their dogs were everywhere soaking up a welcome distraction from the heat. Redbones was the centerpiece, covering Elm Street in a BBQ haze. There was live music in every direction, and the listening crowds made a dance floor of the crosswalk. The parking lanes were filled with handmade soaps, plastic bottle sculptures, wooden percussion instruments, and punny T-shirts.

Most of the tents were occupied by artists. They plant themselves in the middle of their work while people glance through, munching on their cinnamon kettle corn, sometimes stopping, sometimes opting not to. The artists sit quietly with their pieces. The pieces are finished and over and bright against the white tent, and all the people regard the art. And the artists watch the people as they regard. And I see the artists as they watch.

The Second Point of Progress

My brain has organized my bike commute into three sections, so that I find myself feeling suddenly closer to home at very specific intersections along the way. At the second mark last night, a little girl with big green marbles on her ponytail holder was crossing the street. Her mom was holding her hand and dragging her along looking exhausted. The girl spotted me as soon as they hit the crosswalk and stared at me the whole time she crossed the street. Her gaze was so fixed that it held her further back behind her mothers steps. As she passed me, I smiled at her, and she smiled back triumphantly, because she knew we both got it.

Devil at the Farm Stand

There is an old man who sells vegetables at the Central and Davis square farmer's markets. Once when I was handing him a five-dollar bill in exchange for some cooking thyme, he said, "Did I ever tell you de' story of de' white devil?" Although I found it strange that he should suggest he'd had other opportunities to tell me this story, I replied that I didn't know it.

"I'm gonna tell you that story now. A father took his boy into the city one day to pickup some things for the farm. When they got there, the boy saw a byoootiful woman for da very first time. So he says to his daddy, 'What is she, papa?' 'Oh, son, that there's one-a-dem white devils. Dey's nothin but trouble wit dem.' Later on, the daddy asked his boy how he like the city, and if he wanted to pick something to take back when they left. The son knew just what he wanted, 'I wanna take one-a-dem white devils home with me!"

When he pronounced the last words, I knew it was time for us to laugh, so we laughed. Hard. And the next time I saw him, he asked if my boyfriend and I were twins.

Genius Bar

Yesterday my iPod broke, so I went for support on the 3rd floor of a cold glass building in Boston's Back Bay. As instructed, I checked in with the man holding an iPad. With one slick touch, he highlighted my name on his touch screen and told me to have a seat. As I situated myself among the other patient hipsters, I scanned the photos of people just like us that hung across the white walls. The pictures captured attractive young people of every color holding different versions of solid-colored devices. Next to each one stood a similar person dressed in a blue shirt with a string around his or her neck, just like the ones who lined the Genius Bar; just like the ones who adorned the 3 flights of stairs and greeted me with strange familiarity in the entryway on the first floor.

When the iPad man introduced me to his friend Paul, of the Blue Shirt variety, he told me Paul was going to take good care of me and asked me if that was alright. And then Paul asked about my day and life as he told me that my iPod could not be fixed, but that I could trade it in for one hundred dollars to have one that works again. I thanked Paul, packed up my things, cordially returned all the thanks and goodbyes I received on my way out, and welcomed with sweet contentment the wet heat and grimy agitation of Boylston Street.

RIP: iPod Nano 2008-10.

The First T

I took the first T to work today. It arrived at Davis at 5:18am. An older man with nice tan shoes stopped to hold the door for me as I entered the station. He was the last person to get into my car before the train left. As we traveled, the air became thick, and I noticed that the air conditioning wasn't on. This is very unusual for the red line. Breathing that air from stop to stop forced me to become intimately acquainted with the way people prepare themselves to smell when they leave the house. Some people like soap, some like fruity lotions, and some musty colognes. I smelled like cocoa butter. And after we all marinated in our respective non-bodily scents, we went our ways.

New

Moving makes me feel good.