you came on your own, that’s how you’ll leave

I scanned the crowded dance floor, cursed under my breath, then ducked to Misch’s height. “Six o’clock!” I yelled over the bass.


Six o’clock! Your six o’clock!

She got the reference then, glancing at the creepy goateed man over her shoulder. Even if she didn’t get it, she didn’t object as I picked her up and put her on the bench that rings Phoenix Landing’s floor, where several of our friends already danced. I got in front of her and danced as well. After several minutes of ineffectually trying to get her attention and hover near us, the guy wandered off.

This is not the first time this has happened at this particular bar.

Regardless, I had a good enough time. Marcelo had brought a crew out for his birthday – his friends Alex, Jane and Meghan, as well as IB regulars Kevin, Camilo, Misch, Blake and Blake’s wife Jenny. I checked my coat this time to keep beer from getting spilled on it, but I still managed to tear out the stitching in a fairly new pair of sneakers. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that I buy a pair of shoes and they don’t immediately start disintegrating.

Saturday I bought a new pair of tight distressed hipster jeans, as my stock had diminished dangerously, then caught as much of the depressing Boston College loss to Virginia Tech as I could stand. The latter I watched at Tavern on the Square in Central, eating an overcooked chicken parm. Then, after lazing around the studio for a bit, I cleaned up and got on a downtown train.

A coworker of mine scored an apartment in the Macallen Building through equal housing lottery. He threw a small Christmas party there on Saturday night. The super had closed the pool deck, shockingly enough, but we partied in the reception area, with the Missouri / Oklahoma game on the projection TV and a table full of appetizers. I talked with coworkers primarily, trying not to bitch too much about work and largely failing. The consensus seems to be that Internet Inc. will survive this recession – too many other companies need what we sell.

The last time I got off the Red Line at Broadway I staggered two blocks to West 4th and A, to drink gin and smoke cloves in Hawver and Fraley’s walk-up. We would then sic ourselves on the night – often to An Tua Nua, sometimes to Common Ground, but at least once to Phoenix Landing – and drink and dance with any of a number of passerby. Now the city puts up luxury condos outside the MBTA bus terminal – outside our old haunt at the Brain Trust, too – and Hawver and Fraley have both found brides. Everyone’s getting classy all of a sudden. This city’s older than I am by a few centuries, but it changes faster than I do.


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