Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Everything will be OK

Last night after I got home, I watched the video of the first explosion in Boston on Boylston Street, especially those first responders who ran toward the explosion.

That’s Boston. That’s the way people are there.

Seeing that video last night reminded me of the night we flooded. I thought I’d written this story down then, but I guess not. At least I can’t find it in my posts.

That night, we had only been able to find a room at what can best be charitably described as a crack house hotel. It’s in Dorchester and not any of the nice sections, and backs onto I 93. There’s a bowling alley right by it with a snack bar and also a semi-decent restaurant about a 3 minute walk away. That night there were also tweekers walking the halls and I could smell that unforgettable odor of crack. But it was the only place that would accept the cats. I guess the cats weren’t any messier than the tweekers.

Kent had gone back to the apartment, trying to save some things and I was with the cats in this nasty hotel. We’d agreed he would do what he could there and I would find us something to eat for dinner. I walked to the bowling alley first because it was closer but couldn’t bring myself to order anything there. So I headed over to the other, slightly nicer restaurant.

I ordered a hamburger for me and a pizza for Kent (he loves pizza even if it’s room temperature). It only took about 15 minutes until the lady brought out the bag with our food in it. Right as I started to pay, Kent called me and told me that the jewelry box my grandfather had made for me, which I was pretty sure was below the water line, was OK and that he had it. I’m not sure why that news made me tear up but it did.

So I stood at the counter trying to pay for the food while telling Kent thank you and blubbering over the news. The lady working there, a true Southie and probably my age although she seemed older, was clearly puzzled and alarmed on my behalf. I told her our apartment had flooded with most of our furniture etc destroyed, and that my husband had found and saved this jewelry box.

She came around the counter to give me the bag of food. To my surprise, she pulled me in and kissed my forehead – the way you’d kiss a small child to offer comfort – and told me everything would be OK.

That’s Boston, too.

When bad things happen in Boston, you won’t get warm fuzzy words. You won’t get casseroles either (although you might get wine). But someone will tell or show you that it will be OK.

1 comment:

Harriet said...

See, the thing about these events is that first you think you hate people and then you remember why they amaze you.