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| The Back Bay Boston YMCA |
"Huntington Avenue," says Dad.
"Where's the Conservatory?"
"What does the map say?"
"I don't know. Let me see."
I look, but I can't think just now. It's Boston. Wow. There's Symphony Hall across the street. Koussevitzky, Slonimsky, and Tilly Thomas. I daydream of being inside that hall, listening to one of the great orchestras live. And who knows...I have the deep abiding fantasy that I will have many triumphs here. There's the Mother Church. That's the I.M.Pei reflecting pool, where everybody appears to be walking on water. Nice trick. Later, on LSD, I'll think of the globes surrounding the street lights as the eyes of God, and I'll take to calling this Mary Baker's concrete tit. But that's the future, and just now I'm lost in the unfolding now. I take a single step in that direction, but Dad's grabs my shirt and pulls me the other way.
"I think we want to go this way..."
"Uh, OK."
Aren't we we're walking in the wrong direction? By the time we get to Gainsboro Street, passing the New England Conservatory, which, by the way, I had applied without success, I'm dubious about my father's understanding of the city and have got my nose back in the map. Another paternal tug on the fabric of my jacket stops my automatic forward motion.
"Here."
He's pointing at the big red sign that says YMCA.
"We'll check in, leave the baggage, then go looking around."
Dad's a man of few words, whereas I'm a man of many words. It's always been that way.
The next morning, at 8:30 AM we're making our way from the Y to the Boston Conservatory. It's my first stroll up Westland Ave., and as usual, the denizens of the street are out working it. Dad's tug gets my attention. He's pointing at two women in short red skirts. They look chilly.
"Prostys." He means prostitutes.
"Yup." We have these back home in D.C., too.
Now, running up to us from behind, comes the first of an endless parade of Boston panhandlers. Before I can angle out of the way, he puts a tattered piece of paper in my hand.
"Hey, I just got back from 'Nam. I gotta get to Brighton to see mah kid. I ain't seen 'im in fo' years."
I'm slow on the uptake. Dad's rocked back on his heels to see how I'm going to deal with this. His educational style is college of hard knocks.
"'Nam, eh?" I'm looking at the grimy fatigues.
"Uh huh. I gotta get up to see my boy. I jus' need a few bucks fo' da bus."
"Ah. You want money."
"Jus' a few bucks. Fo' da bus."
"For the bus? Are you sure you're not just looking to score?"
"Hey! Don' dis me, man!"
"I'm just curious..."
"Curiossidy kilt da cat, man...I jus' wanna few bucks."
"Well, what's your name?" I look for a second at the scrap of paper, and hand it back to the man. His aroma is starting to get to me.
"Me?"
"You're..."
"Charles Huntington the Third."
Now another pair of pedestrians, elderly women with shopping bags, approach us.
"Hey, Sammy, leave the boy alone!," one of them yells.
"He's got better things to do today than fool with you!," yells the other.
"I'm Huntington numbah three..."
But his pitch is defeated for the moment. He's distracted now by another pair of people on the other side of the street.
"Nice talkin' wid ya...gotta run..."
Dad's shaking his head.
"What?"
"Let's get on with it..."
