A Christening, A Wheelhouse, and A Friendly Green Monster.

At the small grocery on the corner of Hancock and Billings, I listened to the clerks complain about everything from road construction to the Irish immigrants who felt they owned the parking lot. Their attitude was casual, both with each other and with customers. "Come on, come on," the male clerk said to me, in a familiar, condescending tone I usually reserve for my brothers or closest friends because they know I don’t mean it. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not so I just did as I was told. This was the first time I’d really come across people that were familiar to the point of rudeness - I’d met plenty of people who were extremely friendly and those who were standoffish but it was the first time I’d met someone who was so ridiculously offended by me trying to be nice as I asked if they sold stamps. It was disheartening so I was looking forward to going to church, upping my chances to meet happy people.

All that walking, finding the mile marker, buying the medicine, going to the ATM to get toll money for the turnpike, strolling through the Asian district of town and trying to read the signs and I still had twenty minutes to spare before church. I stopped into a tiny diner called The Wheelhouse and ordered a coffee at the bar. I wasn’t feeling well but people-watching doesn’t take much effort. I observed the interactions between the cook and the waitresses, the owner and the customers. The cook expertly broke eggs over the open griddle two at a time, one with each hand, and folded them into neat squares as they cooked. He was tall, lean, and average-looking; he reminded me of a Simpson because his hair seemed to be the same color as his skin. The kind of man you would walk by on the street and not notice, a Mr. Cellophane type. He was quiet and seemed in his own world, yet saw each regular come in out of the corner of his eye and started their order before they could sit down. I liked watching him operate under the radar and knowing that without him there wouldn’t be a Wheelhouse.

I don’t like to stare, so I doodled on a napkin as I made mental notes and killed time. I wrote a letter to Emmet, asking him if I was mistaken and if he really did care about me the way I had let myself care about him. I threw it out when I got to Albany.

It was clear to see that I was a foreign object and therefore not to be trusted. I got odd stares from everyone, especially after penning my napkin ode, and even though I would have loved to stay and prove that I am not a freak, it was time to leave. I walked a few doors down to the town Episcopal Church and fell in step with a group of elderly ladies. The sun was out in full force by 10 AM and they said hello, remarking, "It’s finally nice out but it’s still so cold at night!"
"Oh, this is nothing! I was in Maine the other day and it was in the teens at night," I said. They oohed and aahed as we entered the church, then were distracted as they saw friends gathered in the back of the tabernacle. I slipped past them to find a bathroom and followed signs that led me down a set of stairs and into a nursery.

As I came down the stairs I heard a woman exclaim, "God has blessed me! I am grateful for his gifts!" She was in the nursery, a motherly type of about 40, with shoulder-length black hair and a white sweater. She was hanging a poster of Jesus and speaking to no one in general. I liked her conviction, though. In the back of the room was another mother-type, with short red hair who was arguing with a boy of about 10. He was a big kid, and upset that he was being asked to behave himself. I ducked into the tiny bathroom, where I could hear their conversation in spite of myself.

"I don’t WANT to sit down!" the boy said.
"But don’t you want to be a good boy? God is watching you, He sees your sins every day."
"God damn God, then!"
"Watch your mouth, please. There are other children here. You are the oldest and you should set a good example. The other kids look up to you."
"That’s because I’m the oldest. And they want to be like me."
"Exactly! That’s why you should act accordingly."
"Well, I can do what I want."
"You should be wanting to behave and prepare a glorious way for the Lord, in your heart."

By then I was done and ready to stop unwillingly eavesdropping. I silently wished the woman well as I slipped back up the stairs and into the church. The mass was incredibly similar to the Catholic ones I attended as a child, and this one was a double-whammy as it had a free bonus Christening. I also had no clue what I was doing as I went up to receive communion. Rather than walk up and get the host put in your hand, cross yourself, then walk away, the congregation was going up to the altar and kneeling on a bench with their hands out over a rail. The priest looked everyone in the eye and said, "The body of Christ, the blood of life" as he put the host in their hands. Then another man came past with a goblet of wine and each person dipped their host in the wine, then ate it and went back to their seats.

I must have been a sight and a half kneeling there at the bench and looking back and forth to make sure I didn’t mess up. I almost prematurely ate the host twice before I understood the routine. I’m also not a big fan of wine-soaked unsalted crackers, so I just dipped the tiniest edge of the body into the blood, enough to give it some color. Putting it in my mouth I was assaulted by a wave of memories of childhood Sunday mornings, those spent walking slowly away from the altar under the careful gaze of my father, trying to figure out a way to either season the nasty cracker or stick it under a pew.

Also, there were about 5 books we were working out of and I kept getting confused, and my phone went off three times during mass. I had set it to silent before mass but forgot to turn off the tinkling message tone. That was pretty embarrassing. But no one seemed to mind, and when the priest instructed us to "share the message of peace" by shaking hands, three people got out of their pews and walked over to mine to do so. (I was sitting alone in my pew.)

After mass I chatted briefly with the priest and some of the elderly women, who were all pleased to hear that this was my inaugural visit to an Episcopal church. Then I ducked out to check my messages - they were all from my grandmother, wanting to know when I was coming to visit.

I walked the half-mile back to my car and settled in to cross the great state of Massachusetts. I found the freeway, found the exits, and found the turnpike all without problems. Perhaps that’s the only completely positive experience Boston would allow me - leaving. As I drove out of the city heading west, I passed Fenway Park and waved to the Green Monster. Maybe someday I can come back to Boston and leave with more great memories. Maybe Boston and I can kiss and make up.