Lockdown

      The whole world knows the events that began April 15^th 2013, from California to Syria, Boston has received the hope and support of millions for peace and justice. And with such global interest in this little town, the internet is ripe with accounts of people's experiences from the bombings to the Friday Lockdown. This story is no different other than the fact that is mine. The bombings happened, and everyone took to the internet, clicking refresh rapidly. What usually detaches us from the emotion of people's expression, was full of prayers, pictures, and as is the tragic norm angry cries many of which were racist. These behaviors, for better or worse continued all week. I haven't always been the most emotionally expressive, but this shook me. Sure, I am from a suburb but Boston is my home. I am a Patriot and home is one of my biggest ideals and things I believe in. I wanted justice, swift and blind. No wars, no bombings, no death, no glory. Reality brings complexity that will slow down this process, but now that the media has done it's job and then some with wild accusations harming innocent people's reputation (Shame on you, New York Post), I don't want Tsarnaev's trial to be widely broadcast until a verdict is given.

      I was hoping things would die down as the legal and police forces handled the investigation. Then Thursday night came, I had heard there was a shooting nearby at MIT, but was hungry and wanted to be out enjoying the nice weather so I went with a friend to get some late night cookies at Insomnia Bakery. This is when I was hit the hardest, we heard snippets of conversations from the people we passed with the latest details but the night sky was burning with sirens, surrounding us. And when you are trained your whole life to believe that these noises mean dangr and get out of the way, when they circle around you like buzzards, it gets to you. My cookie was still good but we got back to our dorms with shaky legs and watering eyes. My bedtime story that night was updates from the streaming police scanner I found online. A week went by and I still had to fall asleep in a city of fear.

     Friday was the lockdown. Our school was closed, no one could leave and food was brought to one of the dorms to feed everyone so we didn't have to head to the dining hall. Buzzfeed and photo sites were loaded with pictures of empty Boston streets. They displayed a serenity I did not want to know. TVs stayed on, and students gathered around. It was stifling and uncomfortable, the air felt more recycled than the 'updates' the networks were providing us. Our spirits were strained with nothing to do. More shots were fired, and I was just waiting for more bad news. But then, he was caught. Justice had finally been done, and he was rushed to the hospital. And this was only the beginning of my happiness.

     The work of all the people, and not just the exemplary Boston Police Department, that kept my people safe was astonishing. After the Thursday night firefight, the BPD did not fire a single shot, and the final shots were from a scared 19 year, bleeding out under a tarp. I feel for this kid, I do. But I still want him to sit forgotten in a jail. But even more impressive, was in a historical fashion, an entire damn city shut down. To reiterate our latest motto 'You messed with the wrong city' because Boston has been training for emergencies like this and has been drilled twice in the last few years with 11 million dollars invested in responding to threats like this. We are one of the most prepared cities to handle this, and handle it we did. Respect to all police officers, mbta employees and even Dunkin Donuts employees who worked in our temporary ghost-town, to keep our Boston safe and running. We wish no ill will towards Chechnya or the muslims, save our few more ignorant people. But it was their equivalent hate-filled lost souls that did this to us. We are not perfect, but we are Boston Strong.

Long Overdue

“Beer-Induced Van Gogh”

It is a bit hard to recollect this story. The memories are foggy, scattered, and if asked to provide a proper timeline I would doubtlessly fail miserably. I remember a light chill in the air, fair weather, crowded streets, and creaky barroom floors. I also remember a pulled pork sandwich near the end of the night that I still wish I had ordered…

By that account itself, I would have to say that the mission was accomplished. Another Saint Patrick’s Day, and I managed to not have it suck. I think I’m starting to get good at this.

The parts I do remember were some starting drinks in what we (Joe, Myself, and my old flatmate, Gabbi) thought would be a hopping part of town. Maybe it was that most of the locals wanted a change of scenery for the year, or maybe beginning to drink at noon is a bit too early on St Patty’s. At least I think it was noon… regardless, it was dead, and we decided to move on.
We hopped and we hopped. Bar after bar, and in good Irish tradition, the night got better with every emptied pint glass. Thanks to Gabbi, we made ‘friends’ with two gentlemen at the final bar, who decided to buy us all Irish Car bombs. I remember the car bombs, and I remember not paying for a Guinness, but I know I had more. Joe destroyed a pulled pork sandwich, I was envious, and Gabbi was the target of a flirty man attempting to end his holiday the way I’m sure at least half of Boston did that night—with company between the sheets.
Eventually Joe and I decided to call it a day. Gabbi ditched her suitor, and we went our separate ways. Unfortunately we gave no mind to the time and found ourselves in the T with no more trains operating for the night. We began strategizing how to get ourselves back to Joe’s place when a scraggly young man came down the station’s stairs with a violin case. He stood off to the side for a time, standing idly and looking about as Joe and I continued to debate on waking someone to drive us home, or to get a cab. The scraggly man must have eavesdropped, because he soon came up, and asked us if all the trains were gone. He was just as disrupted by the news as we were, and soon pitched the idea of getting a cab with us. It made sense—three people would make it cheaper. We made our introductions, and tried not to give him too much shit when he told us his name was Patrick, and that he had been busking with his violin all day. You can’t really get more cliché than that.
We got up the top of the stairs of the station and ran into another lone wanderer. He asked us if we missed the last train out. We answered in diminishing voices, displaying without any shame that our extravagant nights had carried us away and caused us to lose track of time. There was probably a laugh, but all I heard was his invitation to drive us home.
Looking at the situation in retrospect, yes, we were two drunken men and a skinny Irish fiddler. We didn’t hesitate when offered a ride from a complete stranger. Maybe it was that we all subconsciously thought that the odds were in our favour if he jumped us, or tried to do something fishy. But there are still so many things that could have gone terribly wrong that night. The odd part is, though, that things didn’t go terribly wrong.
Things went terribly epic.

The three of us followed our stranger down the roads to get to his car.
“I know I parked it somewhere around here,” he said a few times as he looked down street after street.
Things were beginning to look a bit sketchy. After a few more ‘wrong streets,’ Joe and I exchanged a look, mentally agreeing that if this guy took us down some alleyway, or to a car that looked like it saw more drug deals than gas stations, we were going to bolt.
Finally, we heard, ‘ah there it is.’
With tensed muscles we turned the corner and looked upon a 1995 BMW 6 (how I remember the make of the car I have no idea. Alcohol is a strange thing). Seeing the mildly ritzy vehicle prompted a sigh of relief. After all, how bad could a guy be if he has a BMW?
The engine roared on, and as the stranger buckles his seatbelt he turns and says, ‘You guys alright listening to Willie Nelson?’

At that point, we pretty much knew that our stranger was a badass we could trust entirely. We all clicked our belts in, and then rode off into the early morning night.
A Joe, a Josh, a Patrick, a stranger with a BMW, and the sounds of Willie Nelson; we cruised down streets I can’t remember, and passed sights I could never claim seeing. The ride had more in common with a surrealist painting than a legitimate memory. The picture stays in the back of my mind, streaked with blurring yellow lights, black and blue shadows—all of them flowing together like a stream out of the frame. Somehow the most memorable part of that night was that car ride, and yet I can’t recall any more details than what I just wrote.
I don’t remember what the names of the bars were, I don’t remember the streets or locations we stumbled through, and I faintly recall falling into bed. But I do remember the people I was with, the colours of driving through Boston’s darkened streets, and I remember that the best part of my Saint Patrick’s Day was how it ended with two strangers being more generous and friendly than some I’ve referred to as ‘friends’.
There is probably some moral in that story, but I don’t know if I want to look for it. I’m not one to advocate ignorance over truth, but sometimes, a memory is just so damn good that one shouldn’t tamper with it. The lack of precise recollection just makes the whole day that much better to me. That painting is complete for me. I’m just going to let it hang on the wall, and ask no questions of technique or process.

But I think that guy’s BMW might have been soaked with pot smoke…

-J. Fensterbush