Handbag under the River

“Look, I’m here to tell you it’s all going to be okay. Well, except that.” He was pointing at my handbag. My $700 handbag, bought for me by my husband. Well, by ‘bought’ I mean I bought it. He sent my off on a trip to the mall to get my something for my birthday. Only he forgot to give me his card. I realized this about the time I’d arrived at the handbag shop at the mall. And no, they don’t carry handbags costing that much at the mall. So I dropkicked the bag into the shop wall and walked calmly out the door. (I used to be a goalkeeper in college, a small Division Three school, so the drop kick was a good one and hurt no one (I was noted for my accuracy in college, in many things)). I got in my car, tore out of the parking lot, down 95, nearly nicking a few cars stalled in the backup from 93 south which seems to extend further and further in all directions each passing day until the entire eastern seaboard is going to be consumed by traffic emanating from the junction of 95/128 and 93 South into Boston. I managed to keep up a good seethe the whole way into Town, down Storrow Drive and off into the wilds of Boston, ending up, expectedly but unexpectedly on Newbury Street. Which is where I bought the $700 bag. And matching shoes, which were expensive enough for the bank to give the house a call about sudden extraordinary activity on the card.

The fireman leant into the car with his cartoonish jaws of life-like clamps ripping the new bag to shreds, extricating my arm remarkably gently, which allowed him to pull me to safety, which just so happened to be the skate park underneath the bridges that sit over Charlestown, topped off somewhat majestically by the Zakim Bridge.

Which is where I found religion. Keith Moon was his name, and he wasn’t a Moonie, nor was he a relation (or indeed the self-same) drummer for The Who. Who he was was a weedy little guy with a chin so smooth you’d never picture him needing to shave it. And he lived, so he told me, in the skate park, which had yet to open to the public, nor would it ever. For some reason they had built in heated benches for the skater kids, and even turned them on, in the colder months. Between the heated benches and a McDonald’s truck driver who often took prostitutes underneath the bridge, along the route the Duck Boats took, in the summer months, leaving his truck unlocked while he read Dickens novels with the prostitutes in the refridgerator compartment.

To be continued…?

disclaimer

RedRoom.com (final) update: Our beloved Founder finished up at number 78 out of 1009 authors on the good old RedRoom. So no party, just yet. We’ll be having a party for something else, quite soon (in publishing terms).

Enjoy your week.

Also, it’s Sunday. Who knew we had it in us any more? Not any of us, that’s who.

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What happened for one woman to find religion… and cold hamburgers.

General — mhanlon.

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