On the Town [for someyoungpup, because their friendship transcends time and space]
Alan owns one tie. His mother chose it-it’s the blue of a baby’s bedroom wall, a color that supposedly matches his eyes. He keeps it-sometimes folded, sometimes wound into a spiral-in his sock drawer, and it’s seen use as blindfold, snare trap, and almost kite tail.
He can tie it by himself. He does so now, solemn and careful, thinking of his father’s hands, replicating motions they’ve gone through hundreds of times. The knot he fashions doesn’t look right, looks cockeyed, but he tips his head back and pulls it tight.
Downstairs he scrambles into his winter clothes: coat, hat, boots, a mitten. He stuffs the mitten’s partner in his pocket, where it remains until he’s unlocked the door and stepped out into the frosty morning.
“I’m leaving!” he yells at the house. The cold air does something to his voice-it sounds sharper, carries farther, like a crisply folded paper airplane. “Goodbye and good riddance!”
His parents think he’s spending the night at Paul’s. Technically that’s not a lie. If everything goes according to plan (and why wouldn’t it?), he’ll be snug in a sleeping bag on Paul’s bedroom floor, diligently feigning sleep, by eight-thirty.
He tramps across town to the Dedham train station, taking to the road on the quieter streets and braving icy sidewalks when traffic demands it. He’d expected the platform to be deserted, but it isn’t-a couple of teenagers slouch on one of the benches, exchanging teenage secrets punctuated by the occasional cackle of laughter. They don’t wear hats and they look bored.
Alan sits down and attempts to adopt his own nonchalant pose-first resting his hands behind his head, then experimenting with various shoulder-slumping techniques. He tries to imagine himself as the kind of person for whom a trip to Boston is no great cause for excitement, the kind of person who eats his meals in restaurants at the tops of skyscrapers, who’s seen it all and found most of it unimpressive.
But when the bell starts to clang and the lights begin to flash, he’s on his feet before he knows it.
He can tie it by himself. He does so now, solemn and careful, thinking of his father’s hands, replicating motions they’ve gone through hundreds of times. The knot he fashions doesn’t look right, looks cockeyed, but he tips his head back and pulls it tight.
Downstairs he scrambles into his winter clothes: coat, hat, boots, a mitten. He stuffs the mitten’s partner in his pocket, where it remains until he’s unlocked the door and stepped out into the frosty morning.
“I’m leaving!” he yells at the house. The cold air does something to his voice-it sounds sharper, carries farther, like a crisply folded paper airplane. “Goodbye and good riddance!”
His parents think he’s spending the night at Paul’s. Technically that’s not a lie. If everything goes according to plan (and why wouldn’t it?), he’ll be snug in a sleeping bag on Paul’s bedroom floor, diligently feigning sleep, by eight-thirty.
He tramps across town to the Dedham train station, taking to the road on the quieter streets and braving icy sidewalks when traffic demands it. He’d expected the platform to be deserted, but it isn’t-a couple of teenagers slouch on one of the benches, exchanging teenage secrets punctuated by the occasional cackle of laughter. They don’t wear hats and they look bored.
Alan sits down and attempts to adopt his own nonchalant pose-first resting his hands behind his head, then experimenting with various shoulder-slumping techniques. He tries to imagine himself as the kind of person for whom a trip to Boston is no great cause for excitement, the kind of person who eats his meals in restaurants at the tops of skyscrapers, who’s seen it all and found most of it unimpressive.
But when the bell starts to clang and the lights begin to flash, he’s on his feet before he knows it.