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Authors: Chadwick Wall
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Museum of Fine Arts." Jim would join Patrick in doing what all young attendees at that event did: pretend to view the art, but size up prospective dates. At these events, Jim was obligated to "open," as Patrick and his friends joked. Jim would open up conversation with women and then to introduce his young friends.
"I'll miss strolling with Maureen to Mass, then afterward buying fresh fish and vegetables at Haymarket's outdoor stalls near the North End. And grilling monkfish or halibut or striped bass on the kettle grill on my building's roof."
Jim was grateful his old Italian landlord permitted this. He learned Jim's great uncle was a famous drummer for Louis Prima.
Jim knew he would miss his friends most of all. But next in line would be these very traditions of the last four months. And Jim would miss the butter and batter aroma of fried seafood that he could discern in streets throughout Boston's downtown, a scent his friends couldn't detect for all the years they had lived there.
When it was time to go, the friends all bade their farewell to Jim outside on Boylston. He would probably see them in a matter of days or weeks. But he had resolved to move in the next few weekdays to Osterville and to occupy the condo. He could take Maureen on her word it was a nice apartment. Jim stepped briskly down Boylston with the crowds scampering back to work after lunch.
Back at his desk, Jim phoned the attorney to take the order for shares as he had promised. Jim then arranged a deal with Dewey to turn his accounts over to the house. Later that afternoon, Jim called his clients to offer the option of either working with another Henretty rep or claiming the balance of the money in their accounts, as he would be "moving on to another position in the coming days."
When six o'clock struck, Jim joined the workers heading to the nearest T subway station or commuter rail. Soon most would arrive, he thought, in some lounge or restaurant or bar or bedroom, some as far away as Plymouth, Hopkinton, or even New Hampshire or Rhode Island.
Jim descended the stairwell of Arlington station into the oldest subway route in America, going from Arlington Street under the Public Gardens and the Boston Common to the Park Street stop. A subway car approached, screeching. It drew to a stop, hissing loudly. The doors opened with the usual rolling sound. Jim stepped inside. Though a seat was available, Jim grabbed the overhead bar and gestured to an approaching middle-aged woman that the seat was hers. The woman made eye contact with him, but neither smiled nor spoke.
The surging crowd of uproarious students and reserved professionals pressed Jim backward. His spine rested against the window. He turned and looked out of it, keeping his hand on the bar. The reflection of his face exhibited the defined yet somewhat delicate jaw. It revealed the approaching premature grayness about the temples, a product of the events of the last year. Two inches of thick sandy blonde waves preened, like Walter's, upward from his brow. The tight face didn't yet sag with age and world-weariness, despite his recent struggles. But the eyes he could barely discern in the reflection revealed a wounded grimness, a determination—and a certain melancholy.
Jim turned and scanned the car into which he and the nameless others had crammed themselves. A young man in a navy blue suit sitting across the aisle stared at Jim.
Jim returned the stare for several seconds, and then looked at the unsmiling woman and the students and the office workers and once again he recalled the shelter in the Louisiana State University Maravich Assembly Center. He remembered the vast crowds, thousands and thousands of children and elderly, many of whom had smiled at him, commended him, looked deeply into his eyes.
Freddy would have been proud of him in those days in Baton Rouge, and that realization always consoled Jim—though he still felt guilty surviving the storm. In those days, his life had more
"I'll miss strolling with Maureen to Mass, then afterward buying fresh fish and vegetables at Haymarket's outdoor stalls near the North End. And grilling monkfish or halibut or striped bass on the kettle grill on my building's roof."
Jim was grateful his old Italian landlord permitted this. He learned Jim's great uncle was a famous drummer for Louis Prima.
Jim knew he would miss his friends most of all. But next in line would be these very traditions of the last four months. And Jim would miss the butter and batter aroma of fried seafood that he could discern in streets throughout Boston's downtown, a scent his friends couldn't detect for all the years they had lived there.
When it was time to go, the friends all bade their farewell to Jim outside on Boylston. He would probably see them in a matter of days or weeks. But he had resolved to move in the next few weekdays to Osterville and to occupy the condo. He could take Maureen on her word it was a nice apartment. Jim stepped briskly down Boylston with the crowds scampering back to work after lunch.
Back at his desk, Jim phoned the attorney to take the order for shares as he had promised. Jim then arranged a deal with Dewey to turn his accounts over to the house. Later that afternoon, Jim called his clients to offer the option of either working with another Henretty rep or claiming the balance of the money in their accounts, as he would be "moving on to another position in the coming days."
When six o'clock struck, Jim joined the workers heading to the nearest T subway station or commuter rail. Soon most would arrive, he thought, in some lounge or restaurant or bar or bedroom, some as far away as Plymouth, Hopkinton, or even New Hampshire or Rhode Island.
Jim descended the stairwell of Arlington station into the oldest subway route in America, going from Arlington Street under the Public Gardens and the Boston Common to the Park Street stop. A subway car approached, screeching. It drew to a stop, hissing loudly. The doors opened with the usual rolling sound. Jim stepped inside. Though a seat was available, Jim grabbed the overhead bar and gestured to an approaching middle-aged woman that the seat was hers. The woman made eye contact with him, but neither smiled nor spoke.
The surging crowd of uproarious students and reserved professionals pressed Jim backward. His spine rested against the window. He turned and looked out of it, keeping his hand on the bar. The reflection of his face exhibited the defined yet somewhat delicate jaw. It revealed the approaching premature grayness about the temples, a product of the events of the last year. Two inches of thick sandy blonde waves preened, like Walter's, upward from his brow. The tight face didn't yet sag with age and world-weariness, despite his recent struggles. But the eyes he could barely discern in the reflection revealed a wounded grimness, a determination—and a certain melancholy.
Jim turned and scanned the car into which he and the nameless others had crammed themselves. A young man in a navy blue suit sitting across the aisle stared at Jim.
Jim returned the stare for several seconds, and then looked at the unsmiling woman and the students and the office workers and once again he recalled the shelter in the Louisiana State University Maravich Assembly Center. He remembered the vast crowds, thousands and thousands of children and elderly, many of whom had smiled at him, commended him, looked deeply into his eyes.
Freddy would have been proud of him in those days in Baton Rouge, and that realization always consoled Jim—though he still felt guilty surviving the storm. In those days, his life had more
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