I worked late on Wednesday.
About 6, I went to my car, sat in it, and turned the ignition to crank, with
little more on my mind than to get my ass to the house.
KA-BOOOOM!!
In 1/10000th of a second Everything goes Black/Green/Gray.
That's it. The TALIBAN terrorists have found me. I am a dead man. At least
I am getting blown to smithereens instead of having my head cut off.
Another 1/10000th of a second I am feeling and groping for the door handle
on my car to escape the impending inferno that I am sure is coming.
Everything is tingling and I have no clue that ten escaped prisoners from
the Atlanta Federal Pen have just pummeled my face with a ball bat. The
smoke has already filled the car and I struggle to find fresh air.
In yet another 1/10000th of a second, I hit the UNLOCK button on my door,
and find my way out into the fresh air. At this time I realize that my air
bag has deployed, has probably removed my face from my head, and the smoke
was the airbag powder. I make a mental note to purchase a Christmas tree
car deodorizer thingy at the next available opportunity.
Something is annoying me greatly, besides the fact I have no face, and
that there is something that feels like barb wire twisted around my ears and
eyes. The annoyance is my horn, which has gone off immediately when the
airbag did its dance, and I never realized just how damn loud it is. But
first, the barb wire around my ears and eyes is what used to be my
eyeglasses, now twisted and mangled, with the lenses being blown away in
the blast. Realizing I cannot live another moment with this annoying horn
waking the dead, I pull the hood latch, and see if I can go find the wires that
connect to the horn---who am I kidding?-the last time a human could unplug
a horn wire was in 1970.
Gathering some of my senses back, and now my face begins to hurt. I now
realize that I still have a face, but I can't see very well, and I figure
my eyeglass lenses must be in orbit somewhere over Sub-Saharan Africa about
now.
Another employee pulls up in a truck and sees me running around like a man
who just had his airbag deploy on him, and offers his assistance. I tell
him of my dilemma, having to scream over the DAMN HORN. He attempts to mess
around at the steering wheel where the once full airbag is now slowly
deflating, and when he squeezes the bag the horn intermittently goes on
and off, in bag pipe fashion. I am thinking, I just washed the car, and
cleaned it from stem to stern, and now this. I am always amazed at how much better
OLD GOLD rides when she is clean.
As the horn finally subsides, the fellow employee who shall remain
nameless---because he never mentioned it and I never asked-has done all he
can do for me, so I thank him and he drives off. By using the deductive
form of what little reasoning I have left, I decide that instead of my eyeglass
lenses skidding across the surface of the moon, they may very well be nearer
my car to thee. I begin by looking around on the asphalt where I egressed
my machine. My left eye is the only one working at present, and only works in
a non myopic state---which means I can only see up close.
So I lean way over like the middle age old man that I am, grunting and groaning , looking with
one good eye and both hands until lo and behold, I come across one of my
lenses. I go back to my car and find the other lense in the backseat floorboard.
Jiminy Christmas!
I tried to imagine what my head must have been doing while this was going on. But to heck with wondering and worrying about it now, I needed to get home.
I went back inside, washed off my face and what little bit of blood had been
over my right eye, blew the airbag stuff out of my nose, untwisted my
eyeglass frames, popped the scratched all to hell lenses back in, grabbed
the car keys and said to myself, LETS TRY THIS AGAIN.
The car cranked again, and no explosion. But I glance over to the passenger
side airbag and wonder. I will keep it in the corner of my blurried eye for
the remainder of the 80 mile trek to the house. I got headed down the road,
trying as best I can to look cool while sitting their with a lapful of smelly airbag.
I also think that I am much better off for having the airbag bust my chops while in the parking lot sitting still than had I been getting it down the road the way I drive. No telling what would or could have happened. I also thought about a real car crash and the way the airbags are
SUPPOSED to work. I have seen all those crash test dummy ads on TV, but
after now having seeing one up close, I guess the only advantage to having
it go off in a wreck is at least you are concentrating on the wreck-- It ain't much fun if you're just minding your own business.
But its over and done with, and all appears well. As the fear and shock go away, I get my
testosterone levels back to normal and come to the realization that perhaps,
just maybe, a LESSER MAN would have soiled his underdrawers.
Life is good.
But if you see me leaving work one afternoon, and i am cranking my car while
my seat is in the lay down position, don't laugh. Air bags aint for sissies.
Thursday, November 4, 2004
Sunday, October 31, 2004
MY TRIP TO BOSTON--from 2004
This story is dedicated to Colonel R. D. Bundrick, LMO, South Carolina, who by not being able to attend this conference helped a Georgia boy get to see something other than Wal-Mart.
LEAVING-- ON A JET PLANE
I will never, ever, EVER get the Atlanta airport thing right on the first try. I suspect that trying to get to the appropriate terminal is much like landing an airplane onto the deck of an aircraft carrier—in a Hurricane—with only enough fuel for one pass- with the lights going out and a fly lighting on your nose all at one time.
Somehow I accomplished this almost insurmountable task with almost an hour left to get my bags checked and find my gate. Monday mornings at the Atlanta Airport are chaos.
The Air Tran folks were easy to spot, as the line of travelers stretched about 50 yards from the bag checkers. Great. Glancing at my watch, I took my place in the que of cattle and inched along. Some ten minutes later, I made my way to the” baggage check skycap how many bags are you checking may I see your ID wrap the white sticky thing around the luggage handle” dude, who promptly and firmly told me that he didn’t know whether my bag would make the flight, and as a consequence thereof I “Wouldn’t be going”. It was about twenty minutes before departure, and I still had the Security check to deal with. As it turned out, my bag got the sticky white label around the handle and I told Mr. Obnoxious thanks, and as I walked away he replied “Thank you Sir, for the tip.” I didn’t have time to react, as I had a plane to catch. But I would have offered up : Here’s your tip—Don’t be an asshole. An email to Airtran.com will fix him, I thought. Never get into a braying contest with a jackass, I said to myself, not really knowing just who the jackass was, in this case. Him for being rude, or me for not having my “tip” ready for him. The security line made the check in line look small. I started to see who I might call and tell them I wasn’t going to make my flight. First Class on the left, all you peasant poor folks on the right. The line on the right was longer and the one I fell in on. Sheez. 15 minutes later, it is approaching 0800, as I finish my security check. I had not worn a belt or anything that would have slowed me down thru the body cavity search, but I was still pressing for time. I took the escalator to the underground train and got in for the ride to concourse D, which meant I had to go to A, B, and C first. But not before the train became crammed full of people, some with too much perfume on, and some who stood in the way so the doors wouldn’t close—the train doesn’t move unless the doors close. This took another wasted 25 seconds. It was 5 minutes after 8 when I got off the train at my concourse, thinking that just at the top of the escalator that gate D2 would be close. What was close was gate D16—D2 was at the very damn end of the concourse. At this moment it was a speck on the horizon. I thought of those old Hertz rental Car commercials with OJ Simpson running thru airports. Now I knew why.
I made the gate a minute or two late, but just as they announced over the intercom there were three minutes left. Close call. I found my way onto the airplane shoved my carry on under my seat and sat next to a woman who was not only fast asleep, but was snoring. I made myself as comfortable as I could and thought about where I was headed. BOSTON. Beantown. Birth of a Nation. Pointy hats, shoes with Buckles, Pilgrims, Mayflowers, Chowder, and FENWAY. Yes sir, I HAD to catch that plane….
2 Hours, a coke, and a bag of pretzels later
The flight was normal, and we flew into Boston by coming on over the water. What a View! I struggled to look out the window to perhaps catch a glimpse of Fenway, but all I could see was the water and then the skyline of the buildings. We unloaded, and it always amuses me what happens when a plane lands. 95% of the people on board the airplane stand up right when the plane comes to the terminal—they will stand there as if they get to get off the plane right then. They can’t even get into the overhead bins until people start actually leaving the aircraft, so I don’t know why the bother.
I had spoken to the folks who were to pick me up and take me to the Constitution Inn a few days before- “Look for a Redneck wearing a Boston Red Sox cap”, I had told them.
AS I gathered my luggage from the baggage carousel, I didn’t see anyone so went digging in my briefcase for the name/number of the guy I had spoken to earlier. I looked up and this guy in BDUs was standing in front of me. “Are you the redneck I am supposed to pick up?” “That’s me”, and we got into the van and sped off into the Boston traffic-not unlike Atlanta or any other big city. It was approaching noon by the time we made the Hotel, and as I had already planned my afternoon, I tarried not in getting checked in, grabbing my camera and heading towards that skyline. I had gone like a madman to get to the Atlanta airport, had been bragging to my buddies that I was going to Beantown and see it all, and I wasn’t going to waste any time. I didn’t come to lay up, as we say on the golf course.
First, I was starving. I had to eat something before I got started. There was a store/deli a block away, and I could smell the sandwiches from down the street. I went in, and asked the attendant for a Reuben sandwich. “Where YOU from, country boy?”
“Maine”.
“Maine?” “You don’t sound like you’re from Maine.”
“The MAIN part of Georgia”.
It helps to be a smartass.
I had anticipated the questions from these New Englanders who think WE talk funny, and would use this line until I myself got sick of hearing it. But it is a classic, and it puts those Yankees on the defensive, which is where they need to be.
I wolfed down my sandwich and headed towards the USS Constitution, OLD IRONSIDES, which is restored to her original splendor and the oldest active ship in the US Navy—who knew? It was here that an information booth was set up by the Park service, and I obtained a map-the map showed the famous Freedom Trail, and I had planned on seeing every damn bit of it this afternoon. I didn’t come to lay up.
The thing about the Freedom trail is it is ALL marked by either this long line of bricks or red paint. That’s what the man said, anyhow. What they DON’T tell you is that the Boston Roads department has a job to do, and if that means moving barriers, asphalt or any other road improvement system device in the way of the red line or bricks, they do it.
I started walking, even with my goutish knee, following the long red line of bricks. Along the line you sometimes can go left or right. At the first decision point, if I went right I could go to Bunker Hill, and if I took a left I would go across the bridge towards the Old North Church. I took a left, and decided I would do Bunker Hill last because it shouldn’t be a big deal and it was close to the Hotel.
BADA BING..
First stop is the Old North Church, Where the ONE IF BY LAND; TWO IF BY SEA thing happened…Awesome. I pictured myself wearing a pointy hat and these shoes with the buckles on them, coming out of the Ye Olde Tavern after hoisting a few back in 1776, and seeing that in the church. They must have had a hard time seeing it, what with all these buildings in the way. Next Stop would be Paul Reveres House, which is very close by to the Church. I walked directly past the thing while concentrating on that red line of bricks. It is also in the middle of what is now known as Little Italy. Although I had just eaten, it was most difficult to negotiate the red line thru this part of town. Every storefront was an Italian restaurant of some kind. It also reminded me of the SOPRANOS. Everyone was indeed Italian, and you could see the people gesturing with their hands and arms flailing about, the ladies dressed gaudily, and the men with gold chains around their necks. I saw a building contractor’s truck with the sign CAPPUCIO Construction Company painted on the side, and wondered if this company had its roots in the mob. No Sir, this was not the part of town to go being a wise ass. Keep your head down, look at the bricks, and move out.
I kept walking, taking pictures along the way, and enjoying the surroundings. I made it even further into Downtown, seeing all the notable buildings. I saw a graveyard that had tombstones dating back to the late 1600s. I saw Samuel Adams grave. I made a mental note to drink his beer for the rest of my trip. I saw John Hancocks final resting place also. It was the biggest grave in the graveyard. I wonder if that is because his signature was the largest on the Declaration of Independence. One has to wonder. Along the way I would occasionally get tangled up with those folks doing the store bought tours. The only thing they had that I didn’t was transportation and a tour guide wearing a pointy hat with those buckles on the shoes. These folks obviously have herd instincts. Not me. I am a lone wolf. I continued walking, and the long red line finally ended at Boston Common. Boston Common is a park where people take their dogs to go potty. I have deduced this during my sight seeing because there are a million and one town homes—rows and rows of them, and people are out all over hell and creation walking their dogs. The only place the dogs can go number 1 or 2 is in the nearby park. Who knew?
ALWAYS A GOOD DECISIONI begin my trek back towards the Hotel. About half way back, I stop at Quincy Market, a mall of sorts with restaurants, shops, and people out walking their dogs. Having concentrated on the red line and bricks I am not concerned. Seems these dogs do more walking than they do pooping. At Quincy Market, I find, of all places, a bar/restaurant. I belly up to the bar and ask for a SAMUEL ADAMS. It is time to pay homage to Sam since I had gone to see him in the cemetery a little earlier. Boston. Freedom Trail. Birth of a Nation. Pointy hats and shoes with buckles. Samuel Adams. I was beginning to get comfortable. I finished my beer, and began following the line back towards Bunker Hill, my last stop. After that I would have walked the entire trail from end to end, even after having walked another mile or so after having “lost the scent”, so to speak- courtesy of the Boston Road crews. Even with a hurt knee, this wasn’t too bad. I was in Beantown, and I wasn’t laying up.
I got back to my first decision point and continued up towards Bunker Hill. I took a couple of shots from down the street as the Monument came into view. It looks just like the Washington Monument, except it is not as tall, and it is not in Washington.
After having walked around the monument and the surrounding park (there were dogs here, too- see?), I saw where you could actually take the stairs and climb to the top of the monument. I had had a pretty busy day, what with having been insulted at the Atlanta Airport, walking the entire freedom trail, hoisting a cool one to my friend Sam Adams. But as I said before, I didn’t come to lay up. It was 294 steps to the top of the monument. Surely a reasonably healthy 42 yr old man could make the climb. Here’s how it went:
Steps 1-25. Taken in short order. Piece of cake, I think. I am the wind.
Steps 25-50. I begin to tire. This is a pretty good climb, but I will make it. I am proud of myself for having a GET R DONE attitude.
Steps 50-100. not even half way done. I should have brought a bottle of water with me. My testosterone level has peaked and is starting to wane. I hear steps approaching from behind me. I set a goal not to be overtaken. I do a gut check and think of Sam Adams and what he and all his buds had to endure. This was the right thing to do. I notice small vents in the bricks where one can peer out into the sunlight. People before me have shoved coins into the breach in attempts to throw them to the ground below, but to no avail. They must have done this while resting from the climb.
Steps 100-200. I am stopping every 10 steps or so. If I die and end up going to hell, I will have to take these same steps in order to get there. With the promise of Daisy Duke in shorty shorts waiting on me at the top of this thing with a cold beer in her hands, I would pass. This is insane. When I stop to rest, I am breathing like a locomotive. I suck in any available oxygen, including bits of trash, cobwebs, and dust from the floor. Two kids are descending the steps with their Mother yelling to them trying to keep up. One of the kids has water. I knock him down and take it from him. Actually, I didn’t, but only because his mother was behind them.
Steps 200-275. I am spent. I consider crawling. My gouty knee is screaming at me, as are most of my other body parts, to include my back, head, shoulders, and the scar from my tonsillectomy back in 1970. Lay up, Smay up! Who ever said that could follow me into Hell, which I was currently up to my armpits in.
Steps 275-290. I see a tunnel of light, and begin walking towards it. At the end of the tunnel I see my grandparents, Father, a sundry of Aunts and Uncles from family reunions, and my bird dog Snoopy. They tell me its not my time, and to go back.
Steps 290-294. I wipe the foam from my mouth, gather my composure, and as soon as I stop wimpering, take the last 4 steps with as much manhood as I can muster. Around the bin will be the summit. That’s 394 steps for me, and one giant step for Physical fitness. Like Samuel Adams may have said, always a good decision.
I dig into my cargo pocket and free my digital camera. I had thought of jettisoning it like so much ballast on step 268, but am glad I kept it. I had, however, emptied my pockets of all loose change, lint, and the napkin leftover from my Reuben sandwich. I took some pictures from the plexiglass enclosed ports and made a mental note to email these photos to any of my friends who would ever be going to tour Boston. The savings to them in steps, time, and any resulting heart surgery would be priceless. I vowed to myself that while I know that I did the right thing, I also knew that I would piss on an electric fence before I attempted it again.
I made it back to my room at 1645. Exhausted, I promptly took a couple of aspirin and stretched out on the bed—While this came close to laying up, I needed the rest so I could handle going to supper in a little while. The local Television news announced a Pep Rally of all things to be held at FENWAY at 6pm. There would be no way to get there today. My quest would have to wait.
Does your Dog Bite?
I dozed for about 45 minutes or so, and got ready to go out in search of supper. There was a restaurant I had seen the sign for earlier in the afternoon, within the confines of the Charlestown Navy Yard, and It was only a block away. Making my way into the lobby, I met up with a couple other conference attendees, and they were headed in the same direction. We walked the short distance to the restaurant, and I immediately spot Keith Glenn, who works with me back in Atlanta. He has already made himself home here and begun conversations with the locals. I grab a barstool next to him and order a Sam Adams Octoberfest beer, still paying homage. Keith, as it turns out, has already paid homage to most of the brewers in the Continental United States and Europe, as we piece together the events of his day, which have been stepping off the airplane and stepping onto his barstool. The restaurant is, like all the others we would go to, an informal affair with good food and lots to choose from to drink. The entire skyline of Boston is laid out for all to see across the channel. We end up talking to Paul and Ellen, a married couple who lived nearby in one of the many Rows of Townhouses. After asking where we are from, (Keith says New York, I say Maine) we discuss the particulars of navigating Beantown-Restaurants, transportation, and of course the Red Sox playoff series. I mention to them my goals of seeing Yankee Stadium, Wrigley Field, and Fenway so I can die with a smile on my face. Paul mentions that he gets tickets all the time, and he would make a call the next day to see what he could do for me. Obviously my “I am from Macon Georgia and aint hardly ever been anywhere” story made him feel my plight. It was true, but I probably made it out a little more heart wrenching than need be. I held little hope that a ticket would result, but was grateful for the fact he even offered. It is official now: I like Boston.
On the way back to the room, Keith and I ran into a lady walking her two dogs. I immediately thought of the joke “TWO DOGS’, but also noticed she had a Basset hound. I love those hound dogs, so we stopped and petted the bassett and its little Heinz 57 lapdog companion. It was here I made a really smart comment. I noticed how clean the dog was, and asked the lady “he’s an inside dog, ain’t he?” , to which she hesitated for a second, and said , “Uh….Yes.” it then dawned on me that hells bells, all the dogs here are inside dogs. Jeez. As much as Boston has in it, I never did see a Yard—front or back—the entire time. Silly me. In Macon, Ga., we can ask if the dog is an inside dog or an outside dog and get an answer without feeling like you just farted in church. But nevertheless, I still liked Boston, and I still hadn’t layed up. What a day. Boston. Beantown. Freedom Trail. Birth of a Nation. One if by land, 2 Sam Adams please. Fenway looms in the distance. I have little trouble falling to sleep, wondering what the rest of the week has in store.
I AM TDY…
Day 2- It should be noted here that there is a Conference that brought me to Boston to begin with. La-dee-friggin-da.
1600 hours, we are dismissed. The adventure continues. Keith and I have decided to go to the Oldest, most historic Oyster bar in the land. The Union Bay Oyster House. Built before the Revolutionary War, this place put out the very first Newspaper. It had also been a meeting place of a lot of our forefathers. It had only turned into a Restaurant in the early 1800s. A few of us from the group of attendees are headed this way also, so we jump on board and take our hotel shuttle to the corner of State and Broad Street. A short walk to the Union Oyster house and we are seated and start with two of Sam Adams seasonal Beersand two dozen Grilled Oysters. The only damage we want to do to our livers will be with Beer, not with Oysters and months with the letter “R” in them, or however that is supposed to work.
Restaurant Review:
Ambience- Excellent. History drips off the walls and the 260 year old beams on the ceiling.
Service- Very good. Waitress Friendly, Courteous, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverant. She is impressed that I am from Maine.
Food- The Clam Chowder was excellent. It almost made me hunch. Oysters- Very tasty, but are only the size of raisins. This concerns me but the Samuel Adams takes the concern away.
The BAD NEWS: the check. Keith and I consumed the following: two dozen raisan sized oysters apiece, 2 bowls of make you hunch Clam Chowder, and 5 beers. Grand Total 99 dollars. That’s about 113.00 when you put in a 15% Gratuity. I was aghast. I was shocked. I turned white as a ghost . We cussed. I am not real sure but I think Keith soiled himself. We contemplating running out the door. We had not really looked at the menu to close, and figured that eating Appetizers from the menu would be the smart way to get- r- done. They must have not liked the part that I was from Maine. Keith mentioned they should change the name from Union house to Whore house based on the screwing they just gave us. As we are trying to pay the bill, in which Keith agreed to do with his credit card and I make installments back to him over the next 90 days, my cell phone rang. It was Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, my 12 yr old shadow. I asked him what he was up to, and he told me “Momma just called in and ordered us a pizza.” I said, “Tell your momma to call and cancel the pizza and break out the fishsticks, I just used up the grocery money for the next ten days.”
We had entered the Union Oyster house hungry and full of hope. We left there poorer but wiser—and still hungry. I had brought two cigars with me so we could have a smoke after dinner. “Have a cigar”, I said as I handed Keith the stogie. “We could use a good smoke after the screwing we just got.”
LIGHT MY FIRE
As it turned out, neither of us had any matches, and by this time we had arrived at Quincy Market. Keith said he would ask someone for a match there. I cautioned him to never ask for a MATCH, but rather ask for a light. I had seen firsthand how that question got answered. A guy walks up to a stranger, feeling around his own pockets for a lighter or book of matches. “Got a match?”, the unsuspecting guy asks. The smart aleck answers “Yeah, I got a match—my ass and your face.” We may be from the South, but when it came to being smart asses, we would hold our on with any geographical region.
After looking around Quincy Market, and Keith mentioning the reasonable food prices, we settled at yet another bar/restaurant, Clarks. The place is full of 20 somethings, and we find a place at the counter and order up a couple of seasonals and find the Twins/ Yankees duel on the TV. People in this town have Red Sox Fever. These wonderful crazed lunatics hate the Yankees. And who could blame em. Ever since that low down scumbag Harry Frazee sold off Babe Ruth to the Yankees, the resulting curse placed on Fenway and the Sox have yielded them diddly squat in World Series championships.
True to form, the Keiths ability to strike up a conversation with a cigar store Indian had us engaged with two guys, one, a local, and the other, who is originally from New York and is smart enough to keep his mouth shut and not let his allegiance show thru, lest he get his butt kicked by the Red Sox faithful. At about this time two young ladies came in and took a seat at the bar.
These two lovely young girls seemed a likely match-up ( no pun here) for the two local fellows we had been talking baseball with. I thought so, anyhow, and Keith concurred. “Keith, I think those young folks need to get aquainted”, I said. Not that Keith needed any encouraging.
He promptly went over to both girls, while I finished eating the chicken wings we had ordered a few minutes before--Dinner, part II. In no time introductions were made, and while Keith announced “OUR WORK IS DONE HERE”, we paid our tab and got up to leave. As we walked past them, I cautioned : “REMEMBER KIDS—a herpes bug lives for 8 hours in a hot tub.” While they were trying to understand if I was joking or not, We made our way out into the cool clear night looking for our shuttle back to our room. We had seen our duty and done it, and were confidant that things would work out for these youngsters. All I cared about was a good movement of my bowels and a comfortable bed. It is amazing how ones priorities change. Boston was fast becoming a friend of mine, despite the ass whipping we had taken at the hands of Union Bays Oysters.
I got back to my room, made bedcheck with the warden, gave myself a good scratch, and watched some of the Vice Presidential debate with our Lord and Savior Dick Cheney and whats his face (the well coifed shitbird shyster who needs a haircut). In our travels so far, we haven’t found anyone that was going to vote for Kerry. Amazing. Must be hanging out with the right crowd.
With tomorrow came the promise of more adventures and my rendezvous with destiny.
DAY 3- When Hell was in Session
Today is the day. And while I will lend creedence to some good coming out of our Logistics meeting, I am SELF CENTERED enough to realize that there are certain things that must be done while in the Greater Metropolitan Boston area. The remaining bases I need to touch are CHEERs (because it was damn well on TV, that’s why), HARD ROCK CAFÉ (for t-shirts for Wife & kids) and # 4 Yawkey Way—The Green Monster—Fenway Park. It is to Fenway that my heart and soul are guided. Its presence I have felt the entire length of my stay, even on step number 393 of the damn Bunker Hill monument. It is the Peach Cobbler of a Country Fried Steak, biscuits and gravy dinner. It is a young George Herman Ruth, Ted Williams, Joes Brother Dom Dimaggio, the YAZ, Fisk, Rico Petrocelli—It is Schilling, Wakefield, Ortiz, Ramirez, and our homeboy Damon. And it is the dreaded curse of the Bambino. The Red Sox are the Chicago Cubs of the American League. They have the most fanatical and loyal fans in Baseball. And while my cell phone had not rung with the promise of a ticket to Fridays game, I would perhaps fulfill one of three places that I must see before I depart this earth—Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field. Here I was, almost 42 years old, right at the cusp of getting 1/3rd of this accomplished, and I would stop at nothing to make this happen. If I was unsuccessful, I may as well spend eternity in Purgatory. And I didn’t come to lay up. This was destiny, and you aint supposed to screw with destiny (Deuteronomy; 3:16).
While I would not be seeing Fenway for an actual game, my thoughts were that I could at least take the tour and perhaps find a local watering hole where members of the Red Sox nation go take it all in.
Our meeting was scheduled to 1600 hrs. I hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t last that long. As soon as we were dismissed, I would throw on my ball cap, running shoes, and scoot towards some method of public transportation, negotiate rush hour traffic, and try to make the last tour of the day. Currently, I looked at my watch, and then the agenda. It was almost lunch and we were almost an hour behind.
Meetings. I loathe them. And here we sit. Stagnate. We open up discussion for one of many what seems to me useless issues---- cricket…..cricket……Silence…cricket…..
Someone coughs---cricket….cricket..silence….someone across the rom adjusts their ass in the seat and the chair squeaks---cricket….cricket…….someone makes a Resolution. A resolution concerning resolutions. We resolve to be resolute in our resolutions. The motion carries, but only to be chaired until the next meeting 6 months from now, as more information is needed…..cricket…cricket….I desperately look for something sharp so I can slash my wrists. I can feel my hair grow. If I had some gasoline, I could ask someone for a match—uh, a light. This is not Hell. It is one louder. This is Sheer Hell. The Ghost of Harry Frazee taunts me from Fenway Park. Wars have been fought and won, countries have been born in less time. While time is at a standstill here, it is TEMPIS FUGIT beyond the door that leads outside. Tempis Fugit—Latin, meaning time hauls ass. No Fugit in here. Fugit has left the building. UN Fugit. Fugit, not. Tempis standeth still.
1500 Hours. We finish. The guy sitting next to me woke me to tell me. I wipe the drool from my chin and high tail it out the door, not unlike what happens when Bruce Wayne heads to the bat poles.
ZEE BALLL POK—and STEP ON IT!
I get changed, meet up with Keith in the lobby, and we grab a cab. Our cab driver this afternoon would be Ahmed Mohammed. He speaks about as good as he drives. I can’t decide which is worse, Keith trying to talk to Ahmed or Ahmed trying to talk to us. “WHEYYOUWANTAHGO” ? asks Ahmed. We inform our green card toting driver that we have a date with destiny, and to please step on it. “FENWAY PARK”, I announce. “Zee Balll Park?”
YES, Please.
10 miles and a few gray hairs later, I get my first glimpse of it. This must have been just how Dorothy felt when she was headed to Emerald City. We turn a corner, and we now have a whole view of Fenway from the outfield. The driver keeps driving as if he knows where to drop us off. We stop, get out, and pay the cab fee that Keith had been attempting to haggle with him on the entire ride. He was still smarting from the Oyster House Massacre. We are at one end of the stadium, but don’t really know where the “front “ is. We see a parking attendant and ask him for directions for the tour. “ Go to the corner there and take a right, then up to the end of that street.” We had been dropped off at the complete opposite of where we needed to be. I glanced at my watch. It read 1600 hrs. “Last tour is at 4 oclock, the attendant told us. “they usually let people that are late catch up to the last one.” We commence to run towards Yawkey Way, and the front ticket office. It is a full block away, but we make it. There are many entrances to different parts of the stadium, and we open one door which was towards the ballpark offices, not the tour—the guy directs us another 20 yards and we go to the ticket window. “Sorry, the lethargic neanderthal bastard behind the window tells us, Last tour has already left. I feel my blood pressure shooting thru my head . It was now time to open up the George Fisher can of profanity-- but before I can say anything, Keith took over…..
PART 6
I was about to explode. I had been insulted by the Air Tran guy, crawled up 294 steps at Bunker Hill, got massacred at the Oyster bar, and walked my natural born ass off following the line of red bricks. By all that was holy, I had NOT laid up. Not one smidgen. And now, this 4 eyed, sloven, sloth of a protoplasmic mass of inequity who breathed just enough oxygen to keep from falling down was going to tell us “Nothing I can do.”
My Ass.
Just before I spoke up, Keith said, “Hey, we came all the way from Georgia to see this place—but Buddha in the booth never even flinched. I started to say something, but I couldn’t get my mouth to move—that’s a first. I guess I was in shock. It all happened so fast—like an airbag deploying. “COME ON”, Keith told me, and dragged me outside and into the first door we went into before when we were trying to find the ticket window. There was a guy there in a Red Sox Red Shirt—obviously an employee—Keith told him of our plight, and told him we had to leave first thing in the morning back to Georgia—OK, this wasn’t totally accurate, but I will take care of that next time I go to Church. I still, for some reason, couldn’t utter a sound—I did manage to give my best puppy dog look—It was all I could muster.
“OH, Sure, Guys, I can take you up to see the field, No Problem.” The light shone thru the clouds. I heard the angels sing.
And while Beelzebub himself was next door in his ticket booth sitting on his fat ass stealing other folks oxygen, Two boys from Georgia were taken up the ramparts to feast their gaze upon Fenway park in all its splendor.
Three couples who were right behind us and had come from Chicago and had gotten the same treatment from Lucifer also joined us. I walked up the ramp and saw the field. It was AWESOME!! I could throw a rock and hit home plate, it was so close. I stared up at the huge press box area behind home plate. And the Monster. I could reach out and touch it. Everything was right in front of you. Not a bad seat in this stadium. I dug out my camera and started taking pictures. I got Keith to take my picture with the Monster in the background. I then picked out a seat and sat down. I imagined sitting there and watching the game. Boston and the Yankees, bottom of the ninth. The stretch. The pitch. 90 mile an hour fastball is fouled off by Ted Williams and comes straight for me. I duck, and the ball hits the guy from the ticket office in the temple, killing him instantly. I smile now. I am relaxed. I LOVE Boston. I look to the seat next to mine and it is empty. This is where my son Joe needs to be, and I vow that one day I will bring him back here with me, and we will talk Baseball. He and I have been talking about Fenway since he was about 3, and I am wishing he was with me in the worst way. He would appreciate this place. He would see that it is every bit as much the hallowed ground as I had told him.
We took a few more photographs, and looked around at some of the old signage and surrounding decorum. I felt relieved. I made it. Everything from here on out didn’t matter.
We thanked the guy who took us to the field—by this time I had regained my composure and was able to speak. We told him we appreciated him and his attitude. I think he understood about sphincter boy next door. Walking back down Yawkey way, my phone rang—It was Joe.
“Hey Dad, whatcha doing”?
The kid and me are connected, I tell you.
I told him what I had just done, and then had Keith take a picture of me talking to him on my cell phone and waving in fron of the big Fenway Banner—I couldn’t bring him with me this time but I would try to get him as close as I could with the help of technology.
We talked for a couple of minutes, then he told me to not to spend to much on supper—as he was getting awfully tired of fishsticks.
Across the street from Fenway, behind the Green Monster, is the CASK N FLAGON—this was ne of the local places the Red Sox fans went to before, during, and after ball games. It was dripping with memorabilia all along the walls, and was surprisingly empty. But it was still early. We sauntered in like two rednecks who had just talked their way into a tour of Fenway.
A cute little bar girl came and took our order. Two Sam Adams. We asked for menus right off the bat, lest we get shellacked again come pay the bill time. It was only about 5 oclock, but dates with destiny tend to make me hungry. Being as frugal as possible, I ordered Clam Chowder in a bread bowl—Recommended by the cute bar girl—who probably could have recommended that I try the horse dung and I would have. Did I mention she was cute? As we told the bar girl, Lisa, of our afternoon, she asked where we were from (Maine, etc.) –I mentioned that I was no nivice when it came to baseball trivia, pointing to some of the historical pictures on the wall, and she mentioned that she was an expert herself, but just the Red Sox. I decided to test her knowledge. I asked her a couple of questions—Who had the lowest World Series ERA (a Red Sox player- Babe Ruth) and what did Carlton Fisk do that he was so well known for during one Post Season (waving the Home Run Fair, allowing for another game the next day). She didn’t know the answers, but quickly dismissed it by saying, “Youre way older than me”. Ouch. I laughed out loud, and then excused myself to go and drain my prostate.
Food Review: Clam Chowder in a bread bowl will make you hunch. The Cask N Flagon is a great bar, great ambience, and is a MUST SEE while in Boston—tell Lisa we said hey.
After a couple hours at the Cask n Flagon, we struck out in search of a way to get back to the other side of Boston. We could either get another cab or take the “T”—the subway that gets Bostonians where they need to go. After asking a lady who was walking her dog (an inside dog), we walked over to the next block and got on the subway train, headed back towards Boston Common and hopefully make it to Cheers before calling it an evening.
We paid our $ 1.25 and after eyeballing the map and asking directions from a local, boarded the “T” towards Boston Common. Keith decided to play up the “Nice Town you got here” routine and immediately began talking to every passenger on the train. A Few beers in his system helped to make his conversation more lively. “Maam….Maam…That’s a very nice purse you got there.” “Hey, Maam..thats certainly a pretty smile you have.” He told everyone within ear shot that “I think when you get on the train you should meet new friends”—When People got on the train, he told them “Yall come on in here and find aplace to sit down”—when they got off the Train, he said “We’ll see yall later”. One of the male passengers had this serious look n his face, and told us in a most advisory role, “You’re really supposed to get on the train and just stare ahead and not say anything to anyone.
Not Keith. He laid it on thicker and thicker. I just THOUGHT I was a smartass. Here I watched a pro in action. I tried to keep up as best I could, but I was out of my lane. Some of the ladies on the train thought it funny, and there were giggles and grins. One lady mentioned how refreshing it was to be in the company of southerners because they knew how to have a good time. I looked around at some of the guys on the train, and decided that it would be them who were thinking that we were not funny, and it may be refreshing to kick a little southern redneck ass before they got off the train. Being a smartass takes a lot of work, and one needs to be careful when one is deficient of muscle and mass. Such is my case, and I usually act accordingly. Keith is a big guy, and thus has no fear. This caused me grave concern. I wasn’t worried about Keith defending himself, as he is a Karate expert. The only Karate I knew was what I learned from those Hai Karate after shave commercials and the TV show, Kung Foo. How many of these Boston Butts were going to trample my puny ass on the way to trade licks with Keith was my immediate concern. I practiced my puppy dog look and hoped for the best. Boston Common was not too far away.
We got off at Boston Common, the park where all dogs go to duke. We went to Cheers and had a beer, and bought a couple shot glasses. It looks nothing like the one on TV, but the outside is the same. We told people who asked that we were from Maine and were there to drum up support for President Bush. From here we took a cab back to our room and called it a night. We had seen our duty and done it, and hadn’t even come close to laying up.
Back in my room, I flipped the TV Remote, one of our nations greatest pastimes next to Baseball. I stopped when I saw that Field of Dreams was on. It was the part of the movie where Kevin Costner has to kidnap James Earl Jones and take him to, of all places, Fenway Park for a ball game. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I got goose bumps. I swear to God.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Epilogue
We came. We saw. We conquered. Seized the moment. Had last day of the conference and got off early enough to go see the USS Constitution and a WW2 Destroyer. We took the Water Taxi (military ride free) to Boston Harbor and stopped at LEGAL Seafood for appetizers and Beer. This time guys from New York, Colorado and Montana came with us. We went next to an Irish bar and sampled a new drink these young girls were peddling—You know, the company hires these young girls to go around and get old farts like us to sample test the new malt beverage. Well, this was some kind of apple juice mixed with urine, the best we could tell. We drank it, or tried to, smiled at the girls, and set the glasses down and resumed with our beers. Cute girls or not, I aint gonna drink pee for nobody. We left there and went to the Bell in Hand tavern, the odest in the United States. Everyone was in a bad mood it seemed. We found out later that was because there was some Kerry campaign stuff going on there. That put us in a bad mood also, so we left. The other guys were headed back to the Irish place, and Keith and I made tracks (via another cab ride from yet another guy whose name I can’t pronounce) to Hard Rock for tee shirts. I had done Boston. I recommend traveling with Keith Glenn if possible—he keeps things loose.
Friday, and its pack and fly back to the house. I made it back uneventful until I made it back to baggage claim of the Atlanta airport. It was here I discovered that the keys to my car (a rental due to my car being worked on—another long story) had fallen out of my pocket and were still in Massachusetts. I rifled thru my baggage, dirty drawers and socks flying in every direction. I am sure folks thought I was looking for a bomb or something, and I expected that any second the Atlanta Mounted K-9 Corps along with Rin Tin Tin would show up , chew me up, beat me with sticks, and haul me off somewhere in the confines of the hell on earth that is the Atlanta Airport.
Fast Forward. 14 days later.
We ran out of fishsticks at home, I have bragging rights about Boston and my car keys are in my pants pocket. The Red Sox, God bless em, are headed to the World Series.
Life is good.
LEAVING-- ON A JET PLANE
I will never, ever, EVER get the Atlanta airport thing right on the first try. I suspect that trying to get to the appropriate terminal is much like landing an airplane onto the deck of an aircraft carrier—in a Hurricane—with only enough fuel for one pass- with the lights going out and a fly lighting on your nose all at one time.
Somehow I accomplished this almost insurmountable task with almost an hour left to get my bags checked and find my gate. Monday mornings at the Atlanta Airport are chaos.
The Air Tran folks were easy to spot, as the line of travelers stretched about 50 yards from the bag checkers. Great. Glancing at my watch, I took my place in the que of cattle and inched along. Some ten minutes later, I made my way to the” baggage check skycap how many bags are you checking may I see your ID wrap the white sticky thing around the luggage handle” dude, who promptly and firmly told me that he didn’t know whether my bag would make the flight, and as a consequence thereof I “Wouldn’t be going”. It was about twenty minutes before departure, and I still had the Security check to deal with. As it turned out, my bag got the sticky white label around the handle and I told Mr. Obnoxious thanks, and as I walked away he replied “Thank you Sir, for the tip.” I didn’t have time to react, as I had a plane to catch. But I would have offered up : Here’s your tip—Don’t be an asshole. An email to Airtran.com will fix him, I thought. Never get into a braying contest with a jackass, I said to myself, not really knowing just who the jackass was, in this case. Him for being rude, or me for not having my “tip” ready for him. The security line made the check in line look small. I started to see who I might call and tell them I wasn’t going to make my flight. First Class on the left, all you peasant poor folks on the right. The line on the right was longer and the one I fell in on. Sheez. 15 minutes later, it is approaching 0800, as I finish my security check. I had not worn a belt or anything that would have slowed me down thru the body cavity search, but I was still pressing for time. I took the escalator to the underground train and got in for the ride to concourse D, which meant I had to go to A, B, and C first. But not before the train became crammed full of people, some with too much perfume on, and some who stood in the way so the doors wouldn’t close—the train doesn’t move unless the doors close. This took another wasted 25 seconds. It was 5 minutes after 8 when I got off the train at my concourse, thinking that just at the top of the escalator that gate D2 would be close. What was close was gate D16—D2 was at the very damn end of the concourse. At this moment it was a speck on the horizon. I thought of those old Hertz rental Car commercials with OJ Simpson running thru airports. Now I knew why.
I made the gate a minute or two late, but just as they announced over the intercom there were three minutes left. Close call. I found my way onto the airplane shoved my carry on under my seat and sat next to a woman who was not only fast asleep, but was snoring. I made myself as comfortable as I could and thought about where I was headed. BOSTON. Beantown. Birth of a Nation. Pointy hats, shoes with Buckles, Pilgrims, Mayflowers, Chowder, and FENWAY. Yes sir, I HAD to catch that plane….
2 Hours, a coke, and a bag of pretzels later
The flight was normal, and we flew into Boston by coming on over the water. What a View! I struggled to look out the window to perhaps catch a glimpse of Fenway, but all I could see was the water and then the skyline of the buildings. We unloaded, and it always amuses me what happens when a plane lands. 95% of the people on board the airplane stand up right when the plane comes to the terminal—they will stand there as if they get to get off the plane right then. They can’t even get into the overhead bins until people start actually leaving the aircraft, so I don’t know why the bother.
I had spoken to the folks who were to pick me up and take me to the Constitution Inn a few days before- “Look for a Redneck wearing a Boston Red Sox cap”, I had told them.
AS I gathered my luggage from the baggage carousel, I didn’t see anyone so went digging in my briefcase for the name/number of the guy I had spoken to earlier. I looked up and this guy in BDUs was standing in front of me. “Are you the redneck I am supposed to pick up?” “That’s me”, and we got into the van and sped off into the Boston traffic-not unlike Atlanta or any other big city. It was approaching noon by the time we made the Hotel, and as I had already planned my afternoon, I tarried not in getting checked in, grabbing my camera and heading towards that skyline. I had gone like a madman to get to the Atlanta airport, had been bragging to my buddies that I was going to Beantown and see it all, and I wasn’t going to waste any time. I didn’t come to lay up, as we say on the golf course.
First, I was starving. I had to eat something before I got started. There was a store/deli a block away, and I could smell the sandwiches from down the street. I went in, and asked the attendant for a Reuben sandwich. “Where YOU from, country boy?”
“Maine”.
“Maine?” “You don’t sound like you’re from Maine.”
“The MAIN part of Georgia”.
It helps to be a smartass.
I had anticipated the questions from these New Englanders who think WE talk funny, and would use this line until I myself got sick of hearing it. But it is a classic, and it puts those Yankees on the defensive, which is where they need to be.
I wolfed down my sandwich and headed towards the USS Constitution, OLD IRONSIDES, which is restored to her original splendor and the oldest active ship in the US Navy—who knew? It was here that an information booth was set up by the Park service, and I obtained a map-the map showed the famous Freedom Trail, and I had planned on seeing every damn bit of it this afternoon. I didn’t come to lay up.
The thing about the Freedom trail is it is ALL marked by either this long line of bricks or red paint. That’s what the man said, anyhow. What they DON’T tell you is that the Boston Roads department has a job to do, and if that means moving barriers, asphalt or any other road improvement system device in the way of the red line or bricks, they do it.
I started walking, even with my goutish knee, following the long red line of bricks. Along the line you sometimes can go left or right. At the first decision point, if I went right I could go to Bunker Hill, and if I took a left I would go across the bridge towards the Old North Church. I took a left, and decided I would do Bunker Hill last because it shouldn’t be a big deal and it was close to the Hotel.
BADA BING..
First stop is the Old North Church, Where the ONE IF BY LAND; TWO IF BY SEA thing happened…Awesome. I pictured myself wearing a pointy hat and these shoes with the buckles on them, coming out of the Ye Olde Tavern after hoisting a few back in 1776, and seeing that in the church. They must have had a hard time seeing it, what with all these buildings in the way. Next Stop would be Paul Reveres House, which is very close by to the Church. I walked directly past the thing while concentrating on that red line of bricks. It is also in the middle of what is now known as Little Italy. Although I had just eaten, it was most difficult to negotiate the red line thru this part of town. Every storefront was an Italian restaurant of some kind. It also reminded me of the SOPRANOS. Everyone was indeed Italian, and you could see the people gesturing with their hands and arms flailing about, the ladies dressed gaudily, and the men with gold chains around their necks. I saw a building contractor’s truck with the sign CAPPUCIO Construction Company painted on the side, and wondered if this company had its roots in the mob. No Sir, this was not the part of town to go being a wise ass. Keep your head down, look at the bricks, and move out.
I kept walking, taking pictures along the way, and enjoying the surroundings. I made it even further into Downtown, seeing all the notable buildings. I saw a graveyard that had tombstones dating back to the late 1600s. I saw Samuel Adams grave. I made a mental note to drink his beer for the rest of my trip. I saw John Hancocks final resting place also. It was the biggest grave in the graveyard. I wonder if that is because his signature was the largest on the Declaration of Independence. One has to wonder. Along the way I would occasionally get tangled up with those folks doing the store bought tours. The only thing they had that I didn’t was transportation and a tour guide wearing a pointy hat with those buckles on the shoes. These folks obviously have herd instincts. Not me. I am a lone wolf. I continued walking, and the long red line finally ended at Boston Common. Boston Common is a park where people take their dogs to go potty. I have deduced this during my sight seeing because there are a million and one town homes—rows and rows of them, and people are out all over hell and creation walking their dogs. The only place the dogs can go number 1 or 2 is in the nearby park. Who knew?
ALWAYS A GOOD DECISIONI begin my trek back towards the Hotel. About half way back, I stop at Quincy Market, a mall of sorts with restaurants, shops, and people out walking their dogs. Having concentrated on the red line and bricks I am not concerned. Seems these dogs do more walking than they do pooping. At Quincy Market, I find, of all places, a bar/restaurant. I belly up to the bar and ask for a SAMUEL ADAMS. It is time to pay homage to Sam since I had gone to see him in the cemetery a little earlier. Boston. Freedom Trail. Birth of a Nation. Pointy hats and shoes with buckles. Samuel Adams. I was beginning to get comfortable. I finished my beer, and began following the line back towards Bunker Hill, my last stop. After that I would have walked the entire trail from end to end, even after having walked another mile or so after having “lost the scent”, so to speak- courtesy of the Boston Road crews. Even with a hurt knee, this wasn’t too bad. I was in Beantown, and I wasn’t laying up.
I got back to my first decision point and continued up towards Bunker Hill. I took a couple of shots from down the street as the Monument came into view. It looks just like the Washington Monument, except it is not as tall, and it is not in Washington.
After having walked around the monument and the surrounding park (there were dogs here, too- see?), I saw where you could actually take the stairs and climb to the top of the monument. I had had a pretty busy day, what with having been insulted at the Atlanta Airport, walking the entire freedom trail, hoisting a cool one to my friend Sam Adams. But as I said before, I didn’t come to lay up. It was 294 steps to the top of the monument. Surely a reasonably healthy 42 yr old man could make the climb. Here’s how it went:
Steps 1-25. Taken in short order. Piece of cake, I think. I am the wind.
Steps 25-50. I begin to tire. This is a pretty good climb, but I will make it. I am proud of myself for having a GET R DONE attitude.
Steps 50-100. not even half way done. I should have brought a bottle of water with me. My testosterone level has peaked and is starting to wane. I hear steps approaching from behind me. I set a goal not to be overtaken. I do a gut check and think of Sam Adams and what he and all his buds had to endure. This was the right thing to do. I notice small vents in the bricks where one can peer out into the sunlight. People before me have shoved coins into the breach in attempts to throw them to the ground below, but to no avail. They must have done this while resting from the climb.
Steps 100-200. I am stopping every 10 steps or so. If I die and end up going to hell, I will have to take these same steps in order to get there. With the promise of Daisy Duke in shorty shorts waiting on me at the top of this thing with a cold beer in her hands, I would pass. This is insane. When I stop to rest, I am breathing like a locomotive. I suck in any available oxygen, including bits of trash, cobwebs, and dust from the floor. Two kids are descending the steps with their Mother yelling to them trying to keep up. One of the kids has water. I knock him down and take it from him. Actually, I didn’t, but only because his mother was behind them.
Steps 200-275. I am spent. I consider crawling. My gouty knee is screaming at me, as are most of my other body parts, to include my back, head, shoulders, and the scar from my tonsillectomy back in 1970. Lay up, Smay up! Who ever said that could follow me into Hell, which I was currently up to my armpits in.
Steps 275-290. I see a tunnel of light, and begin walking towards it. At the end of the tunnel I see my grandparents, Father, a sundry of Aunts and Uncles from family reunions, and my bird dog Snoopy. They tell me its not my time, and to go back.
Steps 290-294. I wipe the foam from my mouth, gather my composure, and as soon as I stop wimpering, take the last 4 steps with as much manhood as I can muster. Around the bin will be the summit. That’s 394 steps for me, and one giant step for Physical fitness. Like Samuel Adams may have said, always a good decision.
I dig into my cargo pocket and free my digital camera. I had thought of jettisoning it like so much ballast on step 268, but am glad I kept it. I had, however, emptied my pockets of all loose change, lint, and the napkin leftover from my Reuben sandwich. I took some pictures from the plexiglass enclosed ports and made a mental note to email these photos to any of my friends who would ever be going to tour Boston. The savings to them in steps, time, and any resulting heart surgery would be priceless. I vowed to myself that while I know that I did the right thing, I also knew that I would piss on an electric fence before I attempted it again.
I made it back to my room at 1645. Exhausted, I promptly took a couple of aspirin and stretched out on the bed—While this came close to laying up, I needed the rest so I could handle going to supper in a little while. The local Television news announced a Pep Rally of all things to be held at FENWAY at 6pm. There would be no way to get there today. My quest would have to wait.
Does your Dog Bite?
I dozed for about 45 minutes or so, and got ready to go out in search of supper. There was a restaurant I had seen the sign for earlier in the afternoon, within the confines of the Charlestown Navy Yard, and It was only a block away. Making my way into the lobby, I met up with a couple other conference attendees, and they were headed in the same direction. We walked the short distance to the restaurant, and I immediately spot Keith Glenn, who works with me back in Atlanta. He has already made himself home here and begun conversations with the locals. I grab a barstool next to him and order a Sam Adams Octoberfest beer, still paying homage. Keith, as it turns out, has already paid homage to most of the brewers in the Continental United States and Europe, as we piece together the events of his day, which have been stepping off the airplane and stepping onto his barstool. The restaurant is, like all the others we would go to, an informal affair with good food and lots to choose from to drink. The entire skyline of Boston is laid out for all to see across the channel. We end up talking to Paul and Ellen, a married couple who lived nearby in one of the many Rows of Townhouses. After asking where we are from, (Keith says New York, I say Maine) we discuss the particulars of navigating Beantown-Restaurants, transportation, and of course the Red Sox playoff series. I mention to them my goals of seeing Yankee Stadium, Wrigley Field, and Fenway so I can die with a smile on my face. Paul mentions that he gets tickets all the time, and he would make a call the next day to see what he could do for me. Obviously my “I am from Macon Georgia and aint hardly ever been anywhere” story made him feel my plight. It was true, but I probably made it out a little more heart wrenching than need be. I held little hope that a ticket would result, but was grateful for the fact he even offered. It is official now: I like Boston.
On the way back to the room, Keith and I ran into a lady walking her two dogs. I immediately thought of the joke “TWO DOGS’, but also noticed she had a Basset hound. I love those hound dogs, so we stopped and petted the bassett and its little Heinz 57 lapdog companion. It was here I made a really smart comment. I noticed how clean the dog was, and asked the lady “he’s an inside dog, ain’t he?” , to which she hesitated for a second, and said , “Uh….Yes.” it then dawned on me that hells bells, all the dogs here are inside dogs. Jeez. As much as Boston has in it, I never did see a Yard—front or back—the entire time. Silly me. In Macon, Ga., we can ask if the dog is an inside dog or an outside dog and get an answer without feeling like you just farted in church. But nevertheless, I still liked Boston, and I still hadn’t layed up. What a day. Boston. Beantown. Freedom Trail. Birth of a Nation. One if by land, 2 Sam Adams please. Fenway looms in the distance. I have little trouble falling to sleep, wondering what the rest of the week has in store.
I AM TDY…
Day 2- It should be noted here that there is a Conference that brought me to Boston to begin with. La-dee-friggin-da.
1600 hours, we are dismissed. The adventure continues. Keith and I have decided to go to the Oldest, most historic Oyster bar in the land. The Union Bay Oyster House. Built before the Revolutionary War, this place put out the very first Newspaper. It had also been a meeting place of a lot of our forefathers. It had only turned into a Restaurant in the early 1800s. A few of us from the group of attendees are headed this way also, so we jump on board and take our hotel shuttle to the corner of State and Broad Street. A short walk to the Union Oyster house and we are seated and start with two of Sam Adams seasonal Beersand two dozen Grilled Oysters. The only damage we want to do to our livers will be with Beer, not with Oysters and months with the letter “R” in them, or however that is supposed to work.
Restaurant Review:
Ambience- Excellent. History drips off the walls and the 260 year old beams on the ceiling.
Service- Very good. Waitress Friendly, Courteous, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverant. She is impressed that I am from Maine.
Food- The Clam Chowder was excellent. It almost made me hunch. Oysters- Very tasty, but are only the size of raisins. This concerns me but the Samuel Adams takes the concern away.
The BAD NEWS: the check. Keith and I consumed the following: two dozen raisan sized oysters apiece, 2 bowls of make you hunch Clam Chowder, and 5 beers. Grand Total 99 dollars. That’s about 113.00 when you put in a 15% Gratuity. I was aghast. I was shocked. I turned white as a ghost . We cussed. I am not real sure but I think Keith soiled himself. We contemplating running out the door. We had not really looked at the menu to close, and figured that eating Appetizers from the menu would be the smart way to get- r- done. They must have not liked the part that I was from Maine. Keith mentioned they should change the name from Union house to Whore house based on the screwing they just gave us. As we are trying to pay the bill, in which Keith agreed to do with his credit card and I make installments back to him over the next 90 days, my cell phone rang. It was Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, my 12 yr old shadow. I asked him what he was up to, and he told me “Momma just called in and ordered us a pizza.” I said, “Tell your momma to call and cancel the pizza and break out the fishsticks, I just used up the grocery money for the next ten days.”
We had entered the Union Oyster house hungry and full of hope. We left there poorer but wiser—and still hungry. I had brought two cigars with me so we could have a smoke after dinner. “Have a cigar”, I said as I handed Keith the stogie. “We could use a good smoke after the screwing we just got.”
LIGHT MY FIRE
As it turned out, neither of us had any matches, and by this time we had arrived at Quincy Market. Keith said he would ask someone for a match there. I cautioned him to never ask for a MATCH, but rather ask for a light. I had seen firsthand how that question got answered. A guy walks up to a stranger, feeling around his own pockets for a lighter or book of matches. “Got a match?”, the unsuspecting guy asks. The smart aleck answers “Yeah, I got a match—my ass and your face.” We may be from the South, but when it came to being smart asses, we would hold our on with any geographical region.
After looking around Quincy Market, and Keith mentioning the reasonable food prices, we settled at yet another bar/restaurant, Clarks. The place is full of 20 somethings, and we find a place at the counter and order up a couple of seasonals and find the Twins/ Yankees duel on the TV. People in this town have Red Sox Fever. These wonderful crazed lunatics hate the Yankees. And who could blame em. Ever since that low down scumbag Harry Frazee sold off Babe Ruth to the Yankees, the resulting curse placed on Fenway and the Sox have yielded them diddly squat in World Series championships.
True to form, the Keiths ability to strike up a conversation with a cigar store Indian had us engaged with two guys, one, a local, and the other, who is originally from New York and is smart enough to keep his mouth shut and not let his allegiance show thru, lest he get his butt kicked by the Red Sox faithful. At about this time two young ladies came in and took a seat at the bar.
These two lovely young girls seemed a likely match-up ( no pun here) for the two local fellows we had been talking baseball with. I thought so, anyhow, and Keith concurred. “Keith, I think those young folks need to get aquainted”, I said. Not that Keith needed any encouraging.
He promptly went over to both girls, while I finished eating the chicken wings we had ordered a few minutes before--Dinner, part II. In no time introductions were made, and while Keith announced “OUR WORK IS DONE HERE”, we paid our tab and got up to leave. As we walked past them, I cautioned : “REMEMBER KIDS—a herpes bug lives for 8 hours in a hot tub.” While they were trying to understand if I was joking or not, We made our way out into the cool clear night looking for our shuttle back to our room. We had seen our duty and done it, and were confidant that things would work out for these youngsters. All I cared about was a good movement of my bowels and a comfortable bed. It is amazing how ones priorities change. Boston was fast becoming a friend of mine, despite the ass whipping we had taken at the hands of Union Bays Oysters.
I got back to my room, made bedcheck with the warden, gave myself a good scratch, and watched some of the Vice Presidential debate with our Lord and Savior Dick Cheney and whats his face (the well coifed shitbird shyster who needs a haircut). In our travels so far, we haven’t found anyone that was going to vote for Kerry. Amazing. Must be hanging out with the right crowd.
With tomorrow came the promise of more adventures and my rendezvous with destiny.
DAY 3- When Hell was in Session
Today is the day. And while I will lend creedence to some good coming out of our Logistics meeting, I am SELF CENTERED enough to realize that there are certain things that must be done while in the Greater Metropolitan Boston area. The remaining bases I need to touch are CHEERs (because it was damn well on TV, that’s why), HARD ROCK CAFÉ (for t-shirts for Wife & kids) and # 4 Yawkey Way—The Green Monster—Fenway Park. It is to Fenway that my heart and soul are guided. Its presence I have felt the entire length of my stay, even on step number 393 of the damn Bunker Hill monument. It is the Peach Cobbler of a Country Fried Steak, biscuits and gravy dinner. It is a young George Herman Ruth, Ted Williams, Joes Brother Dom Dimaggio, the YAZ, Fisk, Rico Petrocelli—It is Schilling, Wakefield, Ortiz, Ramirez, and our homeboy Damon. And it is the dreaded curse of the Bambino. The Red Sox are the Chicago Cubs of the American League. They have the most fanatical and loyal fans in Baseball. And while my cell phone had not rung with the promise of a ticket to Fridays game, I would perhaps fulfill one of three places that I must see before I depart this earth—Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium and Wrigley Field. Here I was, almost 42 years old, right at the cusp of getting 1/3rd of this accomplished, and I would stop at nothing to make this happen. If I was unsuccessful, I may as well spend eternity in Purgatory. And I didn’t come to lay up. This was destiny, and you aint supposed to screw with destiny (Deuteronomy; 3:16).
While I would not be seeing Fenway for an actual game, my thoughts were that I could at least take the tour and perhaps find a local watering hole where members of the Red Sox nation go take it all in.
Our meeting was scheduled to 1600 hrs. I hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t last that long. As soon as we were dismissed, I would throw on my ball cap, running shoes, and scoot towards some method of public transportation, negotiate rush hour traffic, and try to make the last tour of the day. Currently, I looked at my watch, and then the agenda. It was almost lunch and we were almost an hour behind.
Meetings. I loathe them. And here we sit. Stagnate. We open up discussion for one of many what seems to me useless issues---- cricket…..cricket……Silence…cricket…..
Someone coughs---cricket….cricket..silence….someone across the rom adjusts their ass in the seat and the chair squeaks---cricket….cricket…….someone makes a Resolution. A resolution concerning resolutions. We resolve to be resolute in our resolutions. The motion carries, but only to be chaired until the next meeting 6 months from now, as more information is needed…..cricket…cricket….I desperately look for something sharp so I can slash my wrists. I can feel my hair grow. If I had some gasoline, I could ask someone for a match—uh, a light. This is not Hell. It is one louder. This is Sheer Hell. The Ghost of Harry Frazee taunts me from Fenway Park. Wars have been fought and won, countries have been born in less time. While time is at a standstill here, it is TEMPIS FUGIT beyond the door that leads outside. Tempis Fugit—Latin, meaning time hauls ass. No Fugit in here. Fugit has left the building. UN Fugit. Fugit, not. Tempis standeth still.
1500 Hours. We finish. The guy sitting next to me woke me to tell me. I wipe the drool from my chin and high tail it out the door, not unlike what happens when Bruce Wayne heads to the bat poles.
ZEE BALLL POK—and STEP ON IT!
I get changed, meet up with Keith in the lobby, and we grab a cab. Our cab driver this afternoon would be Ahmed Mohammed. He speaks about as good as he drives. I can’t decide which is worse, Keith trying to talk to Ahmed or Ahmed trying to talk to us. “WHEYYOUWANTAHGO” ? asks Ahmed. We inform our green card toting driver that we have a date with destiny, and to please step on it. “FENWAY PARK”, I announce. “Zee Balll Park?”
YES, Please.
10 miles and a few gray hairs later, I get my first glimpse of it. This must have been just how Dorothy felt when she was headed to Emerald City. We turn a corner, and we now have a whole view of Fenway from the outfield. The driver keeps driving as if he knows where to drop us off. We stop, get out, and pay the cab fee that Keith had been attempting to haggle with him on the entire ride. He was still smarting from the Oyster House Massacre. We are at one end of the stadium, but don’t really know where the “front “ is. We see a parking attendant and ask him for directions for the tour. “ Go to the corner there and take a right, then up to the end of that street.” We had been dropped off at the complete opposite of where we needed to be. I glanced at my watch. It read 1600 hrs. “Last tour is at 4 oclock, the attendant told us. “they usually let people that are late catch up to the last one.” We commence to run towards Yawkey Way, and the front ticket office. It is a full block away, but we make it. There are many entrances to different parts of the stadium, and we open one door which was towards the ballpark offices, not the tour—the guy directs us another 20 yards and we go to the ticket window. “Sorry, the lethargic neanderthal bastard behind the window tells us, Last tour has already left. I feel my blood pressure shooting thru my head . It was now time to open up the George Fisher can of profanity-- but before I can say anything, Keith took over…..
PART 6
I was about to explode. I had been insulted by the Air Tran guy, crawled up 294 steps at Bunker Hill, got massacred at the Oyster bar, and walked my natural born ass off following the line of red bricks. By all that was holy, I had NOT laid up. Not one smidgen. And now, this 4 eyed, sloven, sloth of a protoplasmic mass of inequity who breathed just enough oxygen to keep from falling down was going to tell us “Nothing I can do.”
My Ass.
Just before I spoke up, Keith said, “Hey, we came all the way from Georgia to see this place—but Buddha in the booth never even flinched. I started to say something, but I couldn’t get my mouth to move—that’s a first. I guess I was in shock. It all happened so fast—like an airbag deploying. “COME ON”, Keith told me, and dragged me outside and into the first door we went into before when we were trying to find the ticket window. There was a guy there in a Red Sox Red Shirt—obviously an employee—Keith told him of our plight, and told him we had to leave first thing in the morning back to Georgia—OK, this wasn’t totally accurate, but I will take care of that next time I go to Church. I still, for some reason, couldn’t utter a sound—I did manage to give my best puppy dog look—It was all I could muster.
“OH, Sure, Guys, I can take you up to see the field, No Problem.” The light shone thru the clouds. I heard the angels sing.
And while Beelzebub himself was next door in his ticket booth sitting on his fat ass stealing other folks oxygen, Two boys from Georgia were taken up the ramparts to feast their gaze upon Fenway park in all its splendor.
Three couples who were right behind us and had come from Chicago and had gotten the same treatment from Lucifer also joined us. I walked up the ramp and saw the field. It was AWESOME!! I could throw a rock and hit home plate, it was so close. I stared up at the huge press box area behind home plate. And the Monster. I could reach out and touch it. Everything was right in front of you. Not a bad seat in this stadium. I dug out my camera and started taking pictures. I got Keith to take my picture with the Monster in the background. I then picked out a seat and sat down. I imagined sitting there and watching the game. Boston and the Yankees, bottom of the ninth. The stretch. The pitch. 90 mile an hour fastball is fouled off by Ted Williams and comes straight for me. I duck, and the ball hits the guy from the ticket office in the temple, killing him instantly. I smile now. I am relaxed. I LOVE Boston. I look to the seat next to mine and it is empty. This is where my son Joe needs to be, and I vow that one day I will bring him back here with me, and we will talk Baseball. He and I have been talking about Fenway since he was about 3, and I am wishing he was with me in the worst way. He would appreciate this place. He would see that it is every bit as much the hallowed ground as I had told him.
We took a few more photographs, and looked around at some of the old signage and surrounding decorum. I felt relieved. I made it. Everything from here on out didn’t matter.
We thanked the guy who took us to the field—by this time I had regained my composure and was able to speak. We told him we appreciated him and his attitude. I think he understood about sphincter boy next door. Walking back down Yawkey way, my phone rang—It was Joe.
“Hey Dad, whatcha doing”?
The kid and me are connected, I tell you.
I told him what I had just done, and then had Keith take a picture of me talking to him on my cell phone and waving in fron of the big Fenway Banner—I couldn’t bring him with me this time but I would try to get him as close as I could with the help of technology.
We talked for a couple of minutes, then he told me to not to spend to much on supper—as he was getting awfully tired of fishsticks.
Across the street from Fenway, behind the Green Monster, is the CASK N FLAGON—this was ne of the local places the Red Sox fans went to before, during, and after ball games. It was dripping with memorabilia all along the walls, and was surprisingly empty. But it was still early. We sauntered in like two rednecks who had just talked their way into a tour of Fenway.
A cute little bar girl came and took our order. Two Sam Adams. We asked for menus right off the bat, lest we get shellacked again come pay the bill time. It was only about 5 oclock, but dates with destiny tend to make me hungry. Being as frugal as possible, I ordered Clam Chowder in a bread bowl—Recommended by the cute bar girl—who probably could have recommended that I try the horse dung and I would have. Did I mention she was cute? As we told the bar girl, Lisa, of our afternoon, she asked where we were from (Maine, etc.) –I mentioned that I was no nivice when it came to baseball trivia, pointing to some of the historical pictures on the wall, and she mentioned that she was an expert herself, but just the Red Sox. I decided to test her knowledge. I asked her a couple of questions—Who had the lowest World Series ERA (a Red Sox player- Babe Ruth) and what did Carlton Fisk do that he was so well known for during one Post Season (waving the Home Run Fair, allowing for another game the next day). She didn’t know the answers, but quickly dismissed it by saying, “Youre way older than me”. Ouch. I laughed out loud, and then excused myself to go and drain my prostate.
Food Review: Clam Chowder in a bread bowl will make you hunch. The Cask N Flagon is a great bar, great ambience, and is a MUST SEE while in Boston—tell Lisa we said hey.
After a couple hours at the Cask n Flagon, we struck out in search of a way to get back to the other side of Boston. We could either get another cab or take the “T”—the subway that gets Bostonians where they need to go. After asking a lady who was walking her dog (an inside dog), we walked over to the next block and got on the subway train, headed back towards Boston Common and hopefully make it to Cheers before calling it an evening.
We paid our $ 1.25 and after eyeballing the map and asking directions from a local, boarded the “T” towards Boston Common. Keith decided to play up the “Nice Town you got here” routine and immediately began talking to every passenger on the train. A Few beers in his system helped to make his conversation more lively. “Maam….Maam…That’s a very nice purse you got there.” “Hey, Maam..thats certainly a pretty smile you have.” He told everyone within ear shot that “I think when you get on the train you should meet new friends”—When People got on the train, he told them “Yall come on in here and find aplace to sit down”—when they got off the Train, he said “We’ll see yall later”. One of the male passengers had this serious look n his face, and told us in a most advisory role, “You’re really supposed to get on the train and just stare ahead and not say anything to anyone.
Not Keith. He laid it on thicker and thicker. I just THOUGHT I was a smartass. Here I watched a pro in action. I tried to keep up as best I could, but I was out of my lane. Some of the ladies on the train thought it funny, and there were giggles and grins. One lady mentioned how refreshing it was to be in the company of southerners because they knew how to have a good time. I looked around at some of the guys on the train, and decided that it would be them who were thinking that we were not funny, and it may be refreshing to kick a little southern redneck ass before they got off the train. Being a smartass takes a lot of work, and one needs to be careful when one is deficient of muscle and mass. Such is my case, and I usually act accordingly. Keith is a big guy, and thus has no fear. This caused me grave concern. I wasn’t worried about Keith defending himself, as he is a Karate expert. The only Karate I knew was what I learned from those Hai Karate after shave commercials and the TV show, Kung Foo. How many of these Boston Butts were going to trample my puny ass on the way to trade licks with Keith was my immediate concern. I practiced my puppy dog look and hoped for the best. Boston Common was not too far away.
We got off at Boston Common, the park where all dogs go to duke. We went to Cheers and had a beer, and bought a couple shot glasses. It looks nothing like the one on TV, but the outside is the same. We told people who asked that we were from Maine and were there to drum up support for President Bush. From here we took a cab back to our room and called it a night. We had seen our duty and done it, and hadn’t even come close to laying up.
Back in my room, I flipped the TV Remote, one of our nations greatest pastimes next to Baseball. I stopped when I saw that Field of Dreams was on. It was the part of the movie where Kevin Costner has to kidnap James Earl Jones and take him to, of all places, Fenway Park for a ball game. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I got goose bumps. I swear to God.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Epilogue
We came. We saw. We conquered. Seized the moment. Had last day of the conference and got off early enough to go see the USS Constitution and a WW2 Destroyer. We took the Water Taxi (military ride free) to Boston Harbor and stopped at LEGAL Seafood for appetizers and Beer. This time guys from New York, Colorado and Montana came with us. We went next to an Irish bar and sampled a new drink these young girls were peddling—You know, the company hires these young girls to go around and get old farts like us to sample test the new malt beverage. Well, this was some kind of apple juice mixed with urine, the best we could tell. We drank it, or tried to, smiled at the girls, and set the glasses down and resumed with our beers. Cute girls or not, I aint gonna drink pee for nobody. We left there and went to the Bell in Hand tavern, the odest in the United States. Everyone was in a bad mood it seemed. We found out later that was because there was some Kerry campaign stuff going on there. That put us in a bad mood also, so we left. The other guys were headed back to the Irish place, and Keith and I made tracks (via another cab ride from yet another guy whose name I can’t pronounce) to Hard Rock for tee shirts. I had done Boston. I recommend traveling with Keith Glenn if possible—he keeps things loose.
Friday, and its pack and fly back to the house. I made it back uneventful until I made it back to baggage claim of the Atlanta airport. It was here I discovered that the keys to my car (a rental due to my car being worked on—another long story) had fallen out of my pocket and were still in Massachusetts. I rifled thru my baggage, dirty drawers and socks flying in every direction. I am sure folks thought I was looking for a bomb or something, and I expected that any second the Atlanta Mounted K-9 Corps along with Rin Tin Tin would show up , chew me up, beat me with sticks, and haul me off somewhere in the confines of the hell on earth that is the Atlanta Airport.
Fast Forward. 14 days later.
We ran out of fishsticks at home, I have bragging rights about Boston and my car keys are in my pants pocket. The Red Sox, God bless em, are headed to the World Series.
Life is good.
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