Overseen and Overheard, or, Six Days in Boston
"You have the day off or something?"
"No, I just moved here. I'm just walking around…"
"Oh. Where you from?"
"Memphis."
"Memphis. You play Blues?"
"Actually, I do."
--Pizzeria guy of indeterminate European ethnicity and myself, making small talk as my order gets filled.
"Why don't you get a fucking room?!"
--Morbidly obese woman in the company of two men, in regards to a couple making out on a Boston Common bench this past Sunday.
"PUBES"
--Graffiti on the side of a mailbox in my neighborhood.
Often I imagine (anticipate) getting mugged and killed, my wallet and phone stolen, a John Doe dead in the street, and no one would ever know what happened to me. Honestly, though, I used to think the same thing when I lived in Murfreesboro.
Across the street from my house there's a little market that sells pork bangers and cheap DVDs of Irish sitcoms and sporting events. The young guys hang out there at night, with their baggy shirts and sweet boards, and they talk shit and ogle the girls. It's kinda like the play "SubUrbia," only it's, you know, the slightest bit realistic.
The room I'm renting is ridiculously cheap, and that might have something to do with the fact that this house has the most murky, nasty-ass water I've ever seen come out of a faucet.
I miss my guitar. And the rest of my harmonicas (I have one with me). My TV, too. Plus my car. And my queen-sized bed. And my private bathroom. And all my gold and precious stones. And my thermos. And this ashtray.