Dave Alpert: I Know Where You’re Going with That

I’ve mentioned before that I grew up in Hull, MA, a beach town south of Boston.  We were close enough to the city to be considered part of the metropolitan area, but certainly far enough away that we rarely ventured into the city.  This was for a variety of reasons.  Despite the fact that Boston was just a 30 minute boat ride away, driving into pre-Big Dig Boston was an hour-long affair that involved stop-and-go traffic, car exhaust fumes and having to pee.  By T, Hull was 2 buses (Hull to Hingham, Hingham to Quincy Center), a Red Line ride and then most likely a Green Line ride away from most destinations.

While my younger sister used to make fun of me by singing “two buses, a train and a trolley,” that is not the entirety or even the main crux of the story.  When I was a kid, as is the case today, fireworks were illegal in Massachusetts.  Back then there was a vast underground of illegal firework sales, centered around some back alleys in the North End.  At age 13, my friends and I would make our way into town, buy firecrackers, bottle rockets, roman candles, etc., and slither back to Hull where we’d resell the firecrackers for twenty five cents per pack.  Ah, youth and entrepreneurship….

In any event, around the same time, an 18-year-old kid named Rick moved in behind my house.  He mentioned that he had friends in Boston and wanted to go in with me to pick up some fireworks.  It seemed cool at the time to hang out with this older kid and have new adventures in the big city.  One day, we decided to head into town.  I walked up into his bedroom and saw two bags of weed–the first pot I’d ever seen.  Our journey started by hitchiking to Quincy.  (Please note that hitchiking will play a roll later in this story.)  The first people that picked us up were a van load of hippies heading to World’s End in Hingham, MA.  Finally, one of Rick’s old friends saw us and took us the rest of the way to Quincy Center station.  Once on the Red Line, Rick promptly started rolling a joint.  Again, this was exciting as I’d only heard good things about marijuana, but hadn’t had the opportunity to partake.

When we got to the city, Rick led me through the South End to a strip of brownstones.  We climbed into one and walked into an apartment with a skinny mop-headed guy ordering “Black Beauties” on the phone and two girls that, to me, looked like hookers.  One had half of her nipples hanging out of her low-cut shirt.  Again, more excitement for a 13 year old boy.  I also got suspicious of my new friend when one of the girls hugged him and said, “Hey Rick!  Good to see ya.  When’dya get out?”  In any event, a joint started going around the room and I smoked (and of course coughed) my first weed.  Later, we picked up some bottlerockets and brought them back there.  And even later, we went to a theater near Government Center that was having some sort of Cheech and Chong day.  We saw Nice Dreams.  After the movie, I was getting ansy about heading home.  After all, I was 13 years old, and it was probably like 10pm. 

Finally, we got back to the brownstone.  I agreed to wait outside across the street near a laundr-o-mat (I believe we were on Columbus Ave.).  That was a mistake…  Thirty minutes pass.  No Rick.  An hour passes.  No Rick.  I try calling my parents on a pay phone.  Answering machine.  Running out of change.  Strange dudes on the street.  All alone.  Thirteen years old.  All the brownstones look the same.  Wait.  They’re on the roof shooting off bottle rockets.  Still, no Rick.  After midnight.  At last, one of the hookers comes by and asks what I’m doing.  Panicked, I say, “I’ve been waiting for Rick.  We’[ve got to leave.  Where is he?”  She replies, “That ASSHOLE!”  He appears.  “OK.  We gotta go man.”  “I’m still getting HIGH… Wanna come up?”  “No.  I have to get HOME!”  Hooker wisks me away.  “Let’s go, hon’”  She buys me pizza and asks the guy next to us when the last train leaves Park Street.  Cutting it close.  We get into a cab.  When we get to Park Street, she hands me a twenty.  “I can’t take this.”  “Don’t worry,” she says, “It’s not mine anyway.”  I love that kind woman.  Run down and put a dime in the slot.  “How old are you?” asks the MBTA guy.  “Twelve, ” I lie.  “And you’re hopping on the last train at 1am???”  “Yes,” as I run through and onto the last train home.

When I got to Quincy Center, I called home.  This time I got through.  “Your father is on his way, ” my mom exclaimed in a worried voice.  “I’ll stay on the phone with you,” she said. 

I was not allowed to hang out with Rick after that night.  I only did once or twice and then he disappeared.

A year later, we were shooting hoops in the back of our houses.  Angela, one of our other neighbors, came out holding a newspaper article.  It was a story about how Rick was being extradited from California after a rampage out west where he robbed and hijacked and assaulted his way across the country, including a hitchiking incident where a guy picked him up and he forced the guy to perform oral sex on him at gunpoint.  After that day, if the spirit moved us, when friends would pick us up in a car, we’d stick out our thumbs at the last minute like we were hitchiking.  When we jumped into the front seat, we’d stick out an index finger and thumb like a gun, point it at the temple of the driver and shout, “Give ME a BLOWJOB!”  In fact, sometimes we’d put on intricate skits and plays that would end that way.  Ah, youth! Ah, the memories!  In the words of Bob Dylan, “Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat/ I’d give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.”

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 26th, 2006 at 12:27 pm and is filed under City Life, Memories, Smoking, Music, Friends, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.