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