LOST BOSTON VIRGINITY: “SEPTEMBER OF AUGHT-EIGHT”
One-and-a-half years of liberal arts school and I thought I was “in” Boston-wise because I didn’t pluralize “Common” and knew of a burger-joint better than Wendy’s. My image of the average Bostonian was a bombastic old Irish Catholic with a dirty sense of humor. A completely unfair stereotype, but one that I would soon meet.
One day, outside the Beacon Hill staple, an elderly gentleman stopped the lady I was dining with and myself.
“I love how God puts couples together,” he said “There’s the pretty one, and the ugly one.”
I wasn’t the pretty one. I also wasn’t at all coupled with this (admittedly pretty) lady friend. For a second I considered sweeping the cane out from the joker’s leg and dropping his ass flat on Bowdoin Street. But instead, I went inside and turned my feelings into a double-bacon cheesburger. Which I then ate. Like a patriot.