Some days I feel like I have been sucked through a vortex into an episode of my own personal sit com. Sometimes, I drag my friends along with me. And it’s been happening for a long, long time.
Cherry Season, 1977, was bountiful. In those days, summer fruit was available in the summer, not all year long. So the different seasons were important. And cherries season in New England is the best. Warm, with a taste of summer and a hint of fall. Magic.
Bonny, my then soon-to-be-roommate and I had plans for that perfect New England summer day. We’d meet at farmers’ market downtown, buy cherries, bake a pie, and have a barbeque on the fire escape of my apartment, and top it off with our fresh-baked pie. A simple, beautiful summer day.
Well, it should have been. But you need to remember who the heroine is here. And that anything can happen. Mother Nature was involved here too. And architecture. So it really wasn’t my fault.
Did I mention that Bonny and I didn’t know each other well? It’s true. We worked at the same graduate school, but were just acquaintances who each needed a new roommate. I thought she was WAY cooler than me, and I was still a little bit shy around her. Reserved. I kept my private side to myself, covered my ass.
We met at the Haymarket Farmers Market, in the heart of Boston. It was crowded, as hundreds of people had the same idea that Bonny and I had — enjoy the day and shop outside!
Among other things, Bonn and I bought a large pallet of cherries – four quarts of the most perfect, dark red beauties. We knew the pie would be magical.
But the pallet was heavy, so we headed off to my apartment, trading off carrying the cherries, stealing cherries along the way. Off we went to the T – the Boston subway, cutting through Government Center.
Ever been there? It’s an island of concrete, brick and stone in the middle of old Boston. It seems devoid of people, like a lunar landscape. Paul Revere would have had no one to warn that the British were Coming.
Oh hell. Who am I kidding? Government Center is seriously ugly. In fact, Buildworld recently voted it the 4th UGLlEST BUILDING ON PLANET EARTH. I haven’t a clue who Buildworld is, but they’re right. Just look:
If you HAVE been there, well, you will recall that the winds that go through that lifeless brick and cement land are fierce. In the winter, you want to die. In the summer? It causes wardrobe malfunctions. At least it did for me.
You see, I was wearing my favorite summer dress. It was a pretty blue and white aline dress; the fabric fell down from my shoulders and flared out at the bottom. It was cool and comfortable. I loved to twirl in it, as there was no belt or tightened waistband to prevent the skirt from flaring out completely. I still miss that dress; it was perfect for any summer day outing. Well, almost perfect; and almost any summer day.
The wind loved it too.
As we got half-way to the T through Government Center, we rounded a corner and the wind whipped my dress up over my head, á la Marilyn. Bonny was taking her turn carrying the cherries, and I fought with my dress. But it was useless. I’d grab the hem and pull the sides down, while the wind whipped up the back. I’d catch the back, and the front would go flying up. I was flashing my underpants at half the population of Boston. I hoped they were clean. After laughing uproariously, we soon we realized that we needed drastic action. Teamwork. Our non-existent military training took over.
I took the cherry pallet and held the front of my dress down with it. Bonny walked half-a-step behind me, holding on to the sides of my dress. Progress was slow, as we couldn’t stop laughing. I’m pretty sure Magellan circumnavigated the globe in less time than it took Bonny and me to frog-march across barren Government Center to the subway, guarding the public from the sight of my underpants.
***
Bonny and I lived together for two years; we’ve been friends now for 46 years. It seems that close friendships are formed when you work together to cover someone’s ass.
FiftyFourandAHalf 