I have lived in South Boston for over a year but I am just now starting to explore the area better. I'm ashamed to say I was afraid before but it wasn't my fault. My family for some reason is obsessed with crime novels that take place in Boston, South Boston especially. I read them with the same vigor as they until I found myself with a leased apartment within two blocks of the Old Colony Housing Project where Whitey did a lot of dirty work. I spent a good part of the first few months worried that I would look at the wrong guy and be cemented into the foundation of a parking garage of a federal building.
And, of course my whole family read the heartbreaking book All Souls by Michael Patrick MacDonald. In that book there were seven children in the family. Five of them died young, one went to prison, and the other was sold into the sex trade in Thailand (or something like that, I read it a while ago). The point is, I am just now getting to know the locals. And I regret the time I stayed away. These people are a community in the best sense.
While on a run one day* I saw an very well-dressed old man fall off the sidewalk backwards. The woman from the laundromat ran out and we helped him to his feet. I offered to walk him where he was going since the woman from the laundromat looked about as sturdy as well-played Jenga tower herself**.
We started down the sidewalk at a glacial pace with me supporting a good amount of this mans body weight. He was holding my hand and leaning against me. It was far more intimate than I ever imagined getting with an old man but I tried to put that out of my mind and concentrate on my new mantra: Don't drop the old man. Don't drop the old man. Please, God, don't let me drop this old man.
Luckily before we could travel very far (though we had been walking for about four hours, it seemed) we walked by Telegraph Hill on Dorchester and the bartender and manager came out to see if the man was alright. They were very kind to this stranger and called in an ambulance to check on him and a cruiser to take him home. The E.M.T.s were something beyond professional. They really wanted this old man to be okay and seemed worried when he refused to let them take him to the hospital. We found out that the man was Albanian and his name was Paul (which was short for something that was 14 letters long and Albanian). Paul said, "God bless you" and it was the first time anyone had said that to me without me sneezing.
And the only reason I told this touching story is so I don't feel guilty writing about the rest of the lunatics in the neighborhood later on this week.
*This story already seems unbelievable to those of you who know me.
**Now the people that know me are calling outright bullshit. They realize I do not hold the elderly in the highest esteem. They are stronger and smarter than people give them credit for and they exploit this at every opportunity. Also, they smell like halloween costumes that sit in the attic for eleven months at a time.***
***As I reread this note, it seems a bit harsh. But just remember the time I carried an old man through Southie and I don't seem that bad.
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