A (True) Boston Story

I'm sitting on a bench in a cobblestone intersection of Downtown Crossing. Sometimes, I like to observe the pedestrians and wonder where they are going and where they have been and whether our lives with connect at sometime in the future. I sift through my knapsack in search of a sandwhich I'm sure I forgot to pack.

"Do you have the time?" an old man asks me. I did not see him approach. I find this odd. I usually see everyone approach.

I tell him it's 11:35 a.m. He looks away, seemingly satisfied, but then turns abruptly, eyes bulging.

"Happy Easter," he exclaims. Before I can return the pleasantry, he asks, "Do you celebrate Easter or Passover?"

I tell him 'Easter', even though I have not been to Mass since high school.

"Are you going out?"

I tell him I'm not sure, and I add that I have recently moved to Boston and my family is not near. Throughout the excahnge I'm waiting for the old man to exhibit his true intentions. Perhaps he'll try to covert me to Scientology or stammer out some unforeseeable creepiness. He does neither. Maybe it's the April sun warming our faces that prevents this from happening.

Both of us regard a young woman with long black hair talking with her friends near-by. She smiles and laughs and for a moment I'd give anything to be in on the joke.

"You know my family has lived here for seven generations. My ancestors were born in the Paul Revere house."

I nod and my expression lives somewhere between speculation and awe.

"Should I buy a sports jacket from Fileene's?" He pronounces the retail store, 'Fill-In's'.

I extend him a desultory answer and inevitably comment on the weather. The conversation switches to the cost of living in New York City.

"Do you think I'd be safe going to New York by myself?"

I tell him it depends on the area.

"I thought Giulliani cleaned it all up."

I nod reluctantly, not wanting to spoil things with my opinion of our former mayor.

"So, do you think I'll be safe."

I say 'sure'. This seems to satisfy him.

"One of my ancestors, John C. Moran, came down from Ireland and helped build the New York Transit system."

I make note of the name without knowing why. Sometimes names can haunt you. I sling my bag over my shoulder and mutter 'Off to work'. We shake hands and I examine his features for the first time. He's all beige and white and hidden emotion.

"Have a good day," he tells me. I tell him to have the same.

I walk into the human traffic wondering about death and life and young girls with black hair.