 |
| Calbraith Hunter, Acid Art, ex. 6, circa 1976 |
In the Fall of 1972, Dad and I flew to Boston for the audition. I'd applied to several other music schools. I wanted to go to the one that was in a place that was imbued with history, far enough away from home that it would be an adventure, and somewhere I'd already been a few times. I passed up the scholarships from Peabody and Oberlin and decided to try out at a school I'd have to pay for.
From Logan, we took the subway to South Station. Just being in a subway station was an adventure. The squealing metal wheels, the clattering coaches, the grafiti, the smell of junk food and piss...already my eyes were wide. I approached the grey-haired man at the info kiosk. I stared at the map. I saw an octopus in four or five colors. The way did not leap out. I'd better ask.
"I'm trying to get to Symphony."
"Pok Street. Green Line."
"Right."
Another hard look at the octopus. I see no Pok Street.
"Pok Street?"
He's counting tokens or something, not looking up. He nods.
"I don't see any 'Pok Street .'"
He's looking at me now, exasperated, shaking his head on the bull-like neck.
He's opening the gate to the rusty booth.
He's coming around, pushing me aside, pointing at the map.
I catch Dad out of the corner of my eye, standing back, letting his foolish son have his big city adventure. Dad already knows where this is going. He's also shaking his head with a half grin on his face.
The pudgy grimy fingers are stabbing the plastic lamination over the word...
"Park Street."
Welcome to New England.
