Kick, Drink, and Be Merry

Lechmere station is equivocal to mars. Nothing is right there, and it’s certainly not part of the city.

I leaned against the brick wall, thick with years of painting over the same white-roller paint jobs and it looked like all the memories of my childhood, hanging around old arcades and cheap, weeklong carnivals.

There’s an old circus sign hanging 3 feet above my head advertising “Trolley Snacks” but the splintered, red counters have been folded up to block the windows. The conductor walks by me, his loose cap barely on his shiny bald head and slams through one of the rusting black doors. When he returns 5 minutes later, he looks at me before he boards.

“this trains leaving”

“I’m looking for the D”

“Only E’s leave from here, switch at Park”

The vision from the platform haunts me as I’m riding through the Rat tunnels underneath the Capitol. The rails pull up, and veer far to the right, while the wires of the trains cables and power lines hang in the air like empty staves of music. In the distance the spotted condo’s and their satellite dishes seem to have a hum of a life I can’t quite describe. In the distance, without sound and only small images, things seem to go as their planned. People move about their homes, and they seem happy, and the wires bring in options for interests and the trains, and their lego-yellow platforms seem stream-lined; its all correct and for a minute things seem right with the world. As if the scene playing out comforts me with a pat on the back and say its all attainable.

In the middle of the tracks, theres a sole patch where the rubber had been torn up, likely for repairs and a gapping plank of wood sits slightly below level with the rest of the platform. I don’t really know what it means but its there and I feel as if it should carry some weight.

Back in the bar, the party rages on. I spent 20 minutes talking to a 22 year old girl who’d had too much tequila and how her financial advice to clients is “the markets fucked, keep the money in your mattress.” We trade the normal pleasantries searching for common ground and she tells me she was in Taunton once in 8th grade for a cheerleading competition. I’ve heard more than I needed and excuse myself for the bathroom.

In the dining room, there’s beer all over the tables and theres a half eaten pizza every third table. I can’t help but think there’s a herpes culture expanding like the universe on every puddle of PBR with cheap cups flipped over standing in it. The guys in the bathroom greet you with a nod; enough to establish a lack of hostilities, not enough to warrant conversation. I’d rather talk to the guys here anyway, they don’t come with an agenda. There are three kinds of women at these parties, those that are trying to sleep with you, those that think you’re trying to sleep with them, and the small few who are too drunk to care.
Tonight the latter was Ashley, who had all the early standings. “So is mine” she said after I told her my names hard to pronounce correctly. When she told me her name, I questioned how she got like this.

“My team has a rule that you can’t leave the field until all the booze is gone, and we have a huuuuuge cooler and I had to drink it all myself because I wanted to go to the bar.”

She could not have been more than 110 lbs. “What were you drinking?” I needed to know, this wasn’t beer drunk and it was 3 in the afternoon.

“It was tequila, and vodka, and beer.” I had to assume that was at least two different drinks and not some sort of alcoholic Voltron, but given this woman’s demeanor, it very well could have been.

In some ways I can’t help but feel I’ve stumbled upon some Dionysian grove in this beat-up shanty in East Cambridge. Surrounded by slaughterhouses and local banks, and building that were once proud captains of industry that look today sullen and as if they were the lone survivor of the car accident on the family road trip. The 9 to 5 stiffs dance like children, out of synch with the music and spill on themselves with no regard. I can’t help but look with an out of body experience, and wonder when we’ll all be too old, or when I should grow up. When the feds will kick in the door or when everyone will just fade away like all the Rocky Points and King’s Castles. I’m wondering when the ball pit became too germy and when my Coney Island baby is coming home.

Cheers my fellow kickers. We should drink as if this is our last stand against the growing hum of complacent tomorrow, whatever it brings.