A Tale of Two Lifestyles

In the nineteen-eighties, I moved into an informally – that is, illegally – developed warehouse space in the South End. I shared approximately 3,500 square feet with two roommates on the third floor. The space boasted a finished hardwood floor the size of an average roller-skating rink, a bathtub in the kitchen, and a gorgeous view of the Back Bay skyline, but was nevertheless somewhat short of idyllic.

Aside from the fact that the building was only heated from eight-thirty in the morning until four-thirty in the afternoon on weekdays, and all wiring and plumbing was done by amateurs, the neighborhood was less than perfect as well. Someone once gave directions to my residence in this manner: “Go to the worst neighborhood in town and take a left.” These directions were only a slight exaggeration.

The only natural green in the otherwise unrelieved landscape of cinderblock, brick, concrete, and asphalt was the trash-strewn vacant lot across the street. Two blocks away, twenty-four hours a day, tires droned endlessly on the expressway. On the street parallel to ours, the elevated Orange Line train clattered past like a dump truck full of empty, steel trash cans full of rocks. The train ran every twenty minutes, from six in the morning until midnight.

Our building was one block from the Cathedral Housing Project and less than a mile from the South Boston housing projects. Gangs of surly, dangerous youths roamed the streets. Shattered glass was everywhere. As I walked to work each morning at seven-fifteen, I walked through the crowd of homeless people turned out by the Pine Street Inn. The Inn turned out all overnight guests every morning promptly at seven. I was the first panhandling prospect for many, every day.

Prostitutes regularly serviced their clients in the parking lot behind our building with no fear of official interruption. Drug dealers sold their wares with impunity. When cars were occasionally set on fire in the parking lot, a fire truck and police car sped to the scene within ninety minutes. The nearest firehouse was a block away, and the nearest police station two blocks away.

One day a Boston Police cruiser was parked on the street in front of our building. The officers had taken a man into custody. The man was seated in the back seat of the police car. It seemed that he was trying to communicate with the police, because every few minutes one of the officers put his head in through the car window and screamed, “Shut up!” into the man’s face.

My roommates and I were planning to go to Burlington, Vermont that day, to visit friends, but decided to wait until the police had gone. We watched from our third story window. After the officer had shouted into the man’s face a few times, the officer slammed the car door. Both officers got into the car, and they drove to the back of the building. There they pulled the man from the back seat of the vehicle and beat him with nightsticks for about ten minutes. Then they threw him back into the car and drove away.

A short time later we drove to Vermont. During the three-hour trip, the three of us discussed the police incident briefly and then fell silent. Greenery and blue sky, forests, rivers, and mountains rolled past. When we arrived in Burlington, I was unsure which way to turn on Willard Street to get to my friend’s house. I saw a police car parked on a side street. My roommate and I glanced sideways at each other, and then he pulled up next to the cruiser. I rolled down my window, smiled timidly, and motioned for the officer to roll down his window. He seemed to frown as he put down his newspaper and powered his window down.

“Hi,” I said, respectfully. “We just drove in from Boston. Can you tell us, please, which way is ninety North Willard street?”

A big smile of genuine friendliness lit up his face like sunshine washing over the earth after a thunderstorm. “Certainly!” he said. “Just turn right at the next street and go about five or six blocks. I’m not sure if it’s on the left or right side, but just keep your eyes open.”

“Thank you,” I said, my rush of adrenalin declining to a mere touch of latent nausea. We went on our way past well-spaced houses and expansive green lawns to my friends’ house. My friends welcomed us into their home.

That night I lay in bed, listening to nothing. Conspicuously absent were the roaring tires, shattering glass, and clattering Orange Line that punctuated my usual night. My thoughts seemed to echo in the silence like screams in an asylum. I finally achieved sleep the way an unskilled airplane pilot might achieve a landing. I ricocheted off the surface of unconsciousness a few times before landing safely at last in slumber-land. Once safely asleep, I slept soundly.

In the morning I awoke to birds singing in the trees, and the aroma of coffee wafting upstairs from the kitchen. I joined my friends and roommates around the kitchen table, where we drank our coffee in a leisurely manner and planned our day. I looked from face to face, feeling like a lone puzzle piece. In Boston, I never had coffee at home. Winters without heat had taught me to get out of bed and out of the door as quickly as possible. Fast morning exits had become a habit.

After coffee, we exited the house. Instinctively balanced on the balls of my feet, I scanned the area in every direction for potential threats. Across the street, a woman reclined on a lawn chair, reading the newspaper.

‘No threat there,’ I thought.

The large, bearded man next door washed his motorcycle. My defensive instincts focused on the potential threat. My friends waved. The man smiled and waved back.

“That’s the local motorcycle gang,” said my Vermont friend, in response to my questioning look.

“This is your local gang,” I said.

My friend considered for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

I smiled, unable to formulate a response. My body felt strange. I felt odd, as if I was tired, yet energized. For a moment I thought I might be having a stroke, but then I realized it was because I was relaxing. I was not sure that I liked the feeling.

We spent the rest of the day going wherever we wanted to go and doing whatever we wanted to do. If we wanted to cross the street, we simply stepped into a crosswalk. Rather than attempting to kill us, cars stopped politely and waited for us to cross. When we ate in a restaurant, my Vermont friends knew the wait staff. The waitresses and waiters were both efficient and friendly. When we went into a store, complete strangers smiled at us, and the clerks made pleasant conversation without attempting to make a sale. Vertigo claimed my sensibilities as I succumbed to the insane reality in which I had been suddenly immersed.

That night, we drove home. Once again, we were silent as the beautiful, green countryside rolled by outside the somehow surreal shield of automotive glass. As we crossed Route 128 on Interstate 93 south, we were greeted by the familiar yellow glare of high intensity streetlights. Several hundred cars merged into six lanes like a kaleidoscope of personal transportation. Somerville sprawled like an infestation beneath a grimy overpass.

“This is more like it,” said one of my roommates.

“Yeah,” I replied.