The Culture of Possibilities

Jazz attracted me to Boston in 1977. At the University of Wisconsin I had studied trombone, and I moved to Boston in search of jazz, as others from my school had done. Young faces were everywhere, and the air tingled with the excitement of possibilities. I played wherever I could. I listened and learned, and spent most evenings at one of the many area jazz clubs. During the day, I worked to support myself, first in a clothing store, then in a hardware store.

Most of the brownstone and brick apartment houses were in disrepair, owned by greedy landlords who spent as little money as possible on maintenance. Students and working people lived in cockroach-infested apartments and stared up at water-stained plaster ceilings bordered with grimy Victorian detail.

As Boston's economy improved, professionals began to infiltrate and renovate. My skills with tools were in demand. I had the possibility of financial gain. I began to take odd jobs from customers at the hardware store, hanging shelves, window shades, or pictures, or installing locks. By 1983, most of the old apartment houses had been converted to condominiums, and rent everywhere went up dramatically. Doctors, lawyers, and accountants stared up at fully restored Victorian detail.

Smarter, harder faces replaced fresh-faced youth. All of the jazz clubs in Boston closed. I took a full time job as a locksmith, working for the son of a greedy landlord, and moved to a loft space in a South End warehouse. A colony of artists had carved living space out of raw space. I could not afford to live anywhere else, but the space had its advantages. I was able to rehearse my salsa band there.

The city grew wealthier. A real estate development company bought the warehouse where I lived, and doubled the rent. The starving artists fled, replaced by artists with wealthy parents. Fortunately, my financial situation had improved, and I was able to move to Beacon Hill, near my job.

Boston economics, as well as the economics of marriage, persuaded me to open a locksmith business of my own on Beacon Hill in 1984. Condominiums that sold for $30,000 in 1980 were selling for $80,000. The possibilities afforded by inflated property values helped me achieve initial success, but the effort necessary to succeed precluded my involvement in music. I quit the salsa band.

Some greedy landlords had become greedy real estate developers. I grew weary of playing the games necessary to get them to pay for my work, but since I had no alternative, I was forced to play the games. I grew weary, also, of trying to hide from the Boston Traffic Department. I quickly discovered that work trucks attract more parking tickets than any other commercial vehicle. The scope of my possibilities shrunk to a narrow window of business-only choices.

In 1988, we moved to Brookline to have a baby, but since I worked twelve or fourteen hours every day in Boston, I was still fully immersed in the city. In 1989, the real estate market crash burst the bubble of inflated property values and ultimately brought about the demise of my business. Real estate developers and managers had little money to pay for services. My business struggled on for another six years, until I was offered a job as an order taker for a locksmith distribution company in Needham. Since it was my only possibility, I took it.

Working in Needham and living in Brookline, I saw little of Boston. I found that I did not miss the city at all. Decades ago, when Boston was populated by penniless young people, and jazz rang from the open doors of clubs, vibrating in the fragrance of a summer night, it was a place of seemingly endless possibilities. I mourn a lost culture, because the culture of endless possibilities in Boston has been lost, a casualty of the seething, relentless pursuit of wealth.