It’s a gorgeous Saturday night and I have absolutely nothing to do. Normally I wouldn’t care, but, as we all know, the town clown has a job to do. The villagers must be entertained. I’m expected to eat something foul, drink way too much, or end up reflecting on life in a place I’d most likely rather not be. Hmm ... I suppose I could just write about staying in, but I’ve done that before and quite honestly, it sucked the first time around.
I think I want the night off. If this were a sexual relationship, it would hardly be considered fair. I’m always doing all the work! Just once I’d like to lean back and watch you put on a show. Have you entertain me for a change. So tonight, I’m going to make you do just that. I’m going to take my laptop down to the Rose Kennedy Greenway and I’m going to write about what you’re doing tonight. I’m going to sit quietly on a bench with a fistful of $1 bills and let Boston dance for me. C’mon, baby. Strut your stuff. Tonight, it’s my turn to watch.
First on the stage is a man who I never would’ve noticed had he been sitting down. He suffers from Creepy Arm Disease. Not to be confused with Popeye Arm Disease (abnormally fat forearms), Creepy Arm Disease (CAD) is motion related. An individual’s perceived level of creepiness is directly related to the intensity with which he swings his arms when he walks. Think about it. Too much movement and you’re clearly a lunatic; no movement at all (like Stiffy over here) and you’re either Frankenstein or you probably have half a dozen sticks of dynamite taped to your chest. Either way, I’m making sure I’m on the opposite side of the street when I walk past you. (You think I’m nuts, don’t you? Well, next time you find yourself at the mall, try wandering around without moving your arms. You’ll have mothers holding on to their children tighter than a fat kid holds a Twinkie. Mmm, Twinkies ... oops, sorry, back to the show.)
Next up is the girl sitting on the bench across from me. She’s your typical kind-of-short, kind-of-frumpy, but kind-of-cute college girl who, if I had to guess, is probably considered the “nicest friend” by all of her girlfriends. She stands out not because she’s wearing a hideous pink Red Sox hat, but because underneath it, she’s crying. As soon as I realize this, I look away.
And then finally I notice a couple, probably in their mid-30s, walking out of the North End. They’re attractive, they’re well dressed, and they are about to do one of the most cliché things I’ve ever seen a couple do. They take off their shoes and walk right into the middle of the Greenway fountains and start to kiss. I’m convinced I’ve stumbled onto the set of a Lifetime Original movie.
But it’s not the woman’s lovely see-through shirt or even the couple’s excessive arm movements that have me staring. It’s the fact that not for one single moment did they do this for anyone but themselves. They aren’t trying to be funny, they aren’t looking for a reaction, and they don’t care if anyone is watching. They’re in love, and when that happens, the rest of the world falls away — an ironic point not lost on the pervert sitting on a nearby bench with his laptop, writing about them.
I turn my attention back to the girl on the bench across from me. She’s stopped crying and she’s watching the couple in the fountain too. I have no idea what made her upset tonight. Maybe it was a boy thing, maybe it was a girl thing, or maybe it was just that ugly pink hat. In any case, she seems to have gotten over it. She catches me looking at her and gives me a smile as if to say, “Yeah, that couple over there is fucking crazy, but I really wish I was them.”
Know what? I couldn’t have smiled it better myself. As the girl stands up to walk away, she says, “Hey, what’s with the laptop? Don’t you know it’s Saturday night? You really shouldn’t work so hard.”
“I’m not working,” I reply.
“Tonight, I’ve got the night off.”
