She
asked. She looked tired. But certainly, a woman who worked this late at night
would feel tired, wouldn’t she?
“Do you want anything else?” Rowan inquired,
to which Kasen shook his head. Rowan glanced back to Nikki, shaking his head,
“I think that will be all. We’re ready for our check now.”
As Nikki walked away, Rowan glanced down at his
watch and let out a low whistle. “I didn’t realize it was already four thirty,”
He said. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you out past your bedtime.”
Kasen was quick to shake his head. “Oh no,
it’s fine. I always stay up late.”
-------------------
Boston wasn’t like Alabama. Not even a little
bit. No strangers greet you in Boston or strike up spontaneous conversations
with you while you pump gas. To him the streets had been lined with hard faces
whose first inclination was apathy and second, dislike. Camaraderie there was
earned by lineage or years of residency, and in his case innumerable pointless
fights and getting thrown out of the townie bars enough times to finally
establish himself as a fixture, as one of those who belonged inside.
Boston was a proud town which had suffered through
much over the years. Its residents had endured decades of drought for the Sox,
Pats, and B’s (and they were not so much teams as ways of life in Boston), so
that the city’s inhabitants had come to accept defeat a priori, vowed never let
hope sneak in, and when they occasionally forgot their vow and that hope was
undoubtedly crushed, they knew it would be that way all along, of course. Then
victory upon victory finally came and they were well-deserved and savored like
a child’s first taste of beer from his father’s tallboy of ‘gansett – cherished
as shining memory but slightly bitter. Those that had lived in the city their
whole lives ignored the waves of tourists in duck boats every summer, taking
photos of every banal attraction or building, and so what if some of those
photos proudly starred them providing a proper, nonverbal Boston greeting? Bostonians
silently hated the hapless flocks of college students every September, with
their giddiness that had yet to be dulled by the harshness of cold and weight
of years, with their drunkenness tuned too high for a city that kept its
alcoholism ever present but just under the skin. Yet of all the things to be
suffered through, the weather was the worst of it.
Winter doesn’t exist to those who live in Boston –
isn’t spoken of, isn’t even considered as a possibility – until suddenly they
are surprised to find that it does exist and has descended upon the city for
another year, once again too early. At that point winter defines everything about
Boston and its people, who trudge through the days as time seems to slow down
(unlike the mass holes on I-93 or 95 who persist in the belief that inclement
conditions are a figment of their imagination), darkness is ever-present, and
the heater never seems to go high enough. The slop of daily wintry mix hardens
atop the drifts of snow from the last major storm with hasty cuts continually
being shoveled out for cars and then adorned with an array of space-savers to
mark ownership (and God help you if you ignored those signs of ownership). It
is an annual ordeal, a yearly battle that Bostonians fight and hold as a
grudging tradition, deeper seated in their hearts than the memories of the
Revolution and the otherwise long history of the city. It is more half of who
they are.
Then just as suddenly, the winter is gone and
spring finds the streets awash with the accumulated weight of October through
March, too much for the drainage system of the city to bear, so that the water
from blackened snow piles translates itself into a filthy stagnancy along the
side of every street. That is of no matter though as the restaurants pull up
their shutters for the season, the smell of seafood and beer wafts about
asked. She looked tired. But certainly, a woman who worked this late at night
would feel tired, wouldn’t she?
“Do you want anything else?” Rowan inquired,
to which Kasen shook his head. Rowan glanced back to Nikki, shaking his head,
“I think that will be all. We’re ready for our check now.”
As Nikki walked away, Rowan glanced down at his
watch and let out a low whistle. “I didn’t realize it was already four thirty,”
He said. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you out past your bedtime.”
Kasen was quick to shake his head. “Oh no,
it’s fine. I always stay up late.”
-------------------
Boston wasn’t like Alabama. Not even a little
bit. No strangers greet you in Boston or strike up spontaneous conversations
with you while you pump gas. To him the streets had been lined with hard faces
whose first inclination was apathy and second, dislike. Camaraderie there was
earned by lineage or years of residency, and in his case innumerable pointless
fights and getting thrown out of the townie bars enough times to finally
establish himself as a fixture, as one of those who belonged inside.
Boston was a proud town which had suffered through
much over the years. Its residents had endured decades of drought for the Sox,
Pats, and B’s (and they were not so much teams as ways of life in Boston), so
that the city’s inhabitants had come to accept defeat a priori, vowed never let
hope sneak in, and when they occasionally forgot their vow and that hope was
undoubtedly crushed, they knew it would be that way all along, of course. Then
victory upon victory finally came and they were well-deserved and savored like
a child’s first taste of beer from his father’s tallboy of ‘gansett – cherished
as shining memory but slightly bitter. Those that had lived in the city their
whole lives ignored the waves of tourists in duck boats every summer, taking
photos of every banal attraction or building, and so what if some of those
photos proudly starred them providing a proper, nonverbal Boston greeting? Bostonians
silently hated the hapless flocks of college students every September, with
their giddiness that had yet to be dulled by the harshness of cold and weight
of years, with their drunkenness tuned too high for a city that kept its
alcoholism ever present but just under the skin. Yet of all the things to be
suffered through, the weather was the worst of it.
Winter doesn’t exist to those who live in Boston –
isn’t spoken of, isn’t even considered as a possibility – until suddenly they
are surprised to find that it does exist and has descended upon the city for
another year, once again too early. At that point winter defines everything about
Boston and its people, who trudge through the days as time seems to slow down
(unlike the mass holes on I-93 or 95 who persist in the belief that inclement
conditions are a figment of their imagination), darkness is ever-present, and
the heater never seems to go high enough. The slop of daily wintry mix hardens
atop the drifts of snow from the last major storm with hasty cuts continually
being shoveled out for cars and then adorned with an array of space-savers to
mark ownership (and God help you if you ignored those signs of ownership). It
is an annual ordeal, a yearly battle that Bostonians fight and hold as a
grudging tradition, deeper seated in their hearts than the memories of the
Revolution and the otherwise long history of the city. It is more half of who
they are.
Then just as suddenly, the winter is gone and
spring finds the streets awash with the accumulated weight of October through
March, too much for the drainage system of the city to bear, so that the water
from blackened snow piles translates itself into a filthy stagnancy along the
side of every street. That is of no matter though as the restaurants pull up
their shutters for the season, the smell of seafood and beer wafts about
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