North Haven, New Hampshire, And Big, Bad Boston.

The next morning Larry and I woke up early and I followed him to the North Haven Island ferry station in Rockland, about 20 minutes north of Waldoboro. I didn’t have any coffee before leaving the house and the vending machines had been removed from the waiting area by the Department of Homeland Security. That was good to see, since everyone knows vending machines do attract terrorists.

Larry drove his van onto the ferry and we stayed inside to escape the swells washing over the sides of the boat. The morning was a bit windy and there was a chop on the water that rocked the ferry as we moved ahead. My head hurt a lot, probably a combination of drinking with the girls the night before and skipping my morning caffeine, and I didn’t have a bottle of water handy in the van. Larry had aspirin and I had a sip of his coffee to wash it down and it seemed to do the trick for the most part.

Somehow we got on the topic of religion and he told me that he doesn’t like to choose. "I’m a different religion every day of the week," he said. "On Mondays I’m Buddhist, on Tuesdays I’m Taoist, Wednesdays is polytheistic day, Thursdays I’m miscellaneous, Fridays I’m Muslim, Saturdays I’m Jewish and Sundays I’m Christian. Why limit yourself?" I was cracking up as the topic changed to homosexuality. I told him all about my biggest gripe with Christianity, the thought that loving someone of the same sex is a sin, and he told me all about his cool cousin, Ricky The Homo.

"When I was younger, I went to visit his apartment and there were all kinds of weird clothes in the closet, even for the 70's. And I asked, ‘who lives here, a clown?’ My aunt said, ‘no, those are Ricky’s!" Larry told me that Mainers, even gay Mainers, aren’t ones to be flamboyant and it was a culture shock for him. Later on, he mentioned Ricky again when we were talking about the differences between men and women.

"Men are really good at parking cars and driving tractors and fixing things," he said. "But we’re terrible at communicating. We’re not social. Ricky The Homo, he was social. He could talk to anyone, make friends with anyone and they would adore him. But not me. I can’t do that."
"Well, you made friends with me," I offered.
"Yeah. Yeah, I did. But I’m alone a lot. I don’t always want to be. I want to be able to ask someone how their day was, and be asked how my day was. Solitude isn’t always by choice."

I know that he had been married at one point and it ended badly, but nothing else. He mentioned family, siblings and cousins that lived in the area and I felt sad that someone with so many ties to his community could still feel so lonely. Then again, I feel the same way a lot. It’s very easy to do sometimes. It doesn’t matter how many people you know, if you can’t find anyone who understands you, it’s hard. That’s how I felt most of the time that I was in Los Angeles.

The subject changed again as I realized I was getting very seasick. Larry had asked me before the ferry started if I was prone to nausea and I proudly said, "No way, not me!" Well, you learn something new every day I guess. I doubled over in my seat and started groaning. I tried closing my eyes and it only made it worse. I was so lucky I was with Larry because he’s grown up on the water and knew just what to do.

"Don’t close your eyes and don’t look at the water," he said. "Concentrate on the trees."
We were close enough to North Haven at this point to see some detail on the island, so I focused on the tree tops. Larry explained the technique as he guided me towards feeling better.
"The water is moving and the boat is moving, so closing your eyes or staring at the water won’t help. The trees are stationary. If you look at the trees, you can concentrate on a fixed thing and also remind yourself that you’re almost there. You can watch the trees get closer."

His voice had taken on a slow, soothing tone as he instructed me on what to do.
"Just look at the trees, keep your eyes moving back and forth over the horizon of trees. See each individual tree top. And concentrate on that farm house on the hill, too. Do you see the flag? Look at the flag. Now look back over the trees and scan the tops again. And see around that corner? That’s the harbor. Look at that red barn. It has laundry hanging on a line next to it, do you see it? The colors, just focus on the colors, how they differ between the trees and houses."

It was working, a little too well. His voice was so soothing that as my nausea subsided he lulled me right to sleep! I woke up again as the ferry was docking and we drove off the pier.

The town of North Haven has its hub right on the water. It consists of a few churches, a gift shop, and a couple of other little stores. Larry waved to each person as we drove slowly through the narrow streets, calling out the window to each. "Hi, Bob!" "Hey, Cathy!" There was a little cork-and-wood bulletin board mounted on a fence that held handmade fliers, like one would see inside a community center except this one was outside. It was heartwarming to see.
There is one grocery store, one post office. An airplane flies to the island each morning to bring the mail, which the mailman then delivers. Only about 350 people live there year-round, although the population in the summer swells to near 700. Everything is clean, for the most part untouched. It was gorgeous.

We drove straight to Larry’s house show he could show me around. He pointed out different parts of the island as we went. "Look, we have punks, look at the punk tracks!" he said, pointing to a set of swiggled burn-out tire tracks on the road.
"Are they really bad punks? Do they cause much trouble?" I asked, knowing I would be severely disappointed if the answer was yes.

"No, they’re just people. Mainers work hard and they like to play hard. So you see some silly tire tracks sometimes. But overall, it’s not bad. There’s just not much to do out here."
We turned down a gravely road that led to a gravely-er road that led to a circular driveway. The driveway curved around a wooded patch of land, and on the other side was an enclave of gray homes. They were similar in color but all differing in design.

"This is my family’s plot, all this right here," Larry said. He comes from an old New England family, with deep roots in the area since the first European settlers came across. It was gorgeous, a secluded spot on a piece of land that juts out of the main part of the island and is raised up high above the water, offering a spectacular view. Harry’s house was my favorite one of all the houses that were in the lot; it was angular and tall, unlike the other small cottages that ringed the island.

We parked and headed inside. On the porch a squirrel had built a large nest in a galvanized bucket and I noticed deer tracks in the soft earth in front of the house. The front door opened onto the kitchen, which, like the kitchen of the restaurant, looked frozen in time. No one had been in the house since Larry closed it for the winter, but the bottles of spice and boxes of crackers still sat on the shelves and the row upon row of dishes and glasses waited at the ready to be used. It was so neat.

The rooms in the house were small, and the walls were covered with pictures, paintings, plates, mirrors and other interesting things. Most of the walls were wood and lined with bookshelves. It was just like Larry’s Waldoboro house times twenty. There was a woodstove to heat the place in the small sitting room and a fireplace in the grand sitting room. I couldn’t shut my jaw, the place was so amazing. The staircase leading upstairs wound its way around two landings, and each wall was covered top to bottom in small blue and red triangle-shaped flags. "What are all these?" I asked Larry.
"They’re trophy flags from sail boat races that we’ve won, my grandfather, my father and me." There must have been 200 flags in total, and a large square one in the center of one wall read, "1933" in large white numbers. It was awesome.

The upstairs of the house had low ceilings and cute bedrooms. Larry is into feng shui and the rooms have been obviously rearranged to accomodate the energy-flow of the room. A lot of times I wonder if bad feng shui, bad joo-joo led to any of my troubled times when I lived on my own. Would I still be living in LA and loving it if my toilet had pointed in a different direction? Oh, well - I’ll never know.

The house and grounds were breath-taking, and so was the wind blowing in from Pulpit Harbor when we went outside to pick some flowers. Larry insisted I take some daffodils from the garden as a keepsake. I put them in the chest-pocket of my winter coat, which I need on a Maine spring day, with their heads sticking out and their aroma kept me company the whole way back to Rockland.

We ate some tunafish sandwiches and oranges, after which we took another drive around the island. Larry pointed out a ton of cute little cottages that are empty, that belong to "Massholes" who only come in summer. We stopped at a few places overlooking the water to take pictures.

There was so much open space on the island, and the cobalt-blue water was visible from almost every vantage point on the island. Standing there on the edge of a gnarled brush field overlooking the ocean was a freeing feeling, almost scarily so. It reminded me of the freedom that I felt in the desert, the freedom of seeing so much open space and feeling very small.
One one hand I wanted to skip and run, do cartwheels into the wind, and on the other I felt very tiny, very aware of just how big the world is. I hid my body behind the hood of the van as I took pictures, almost afraid of letting my whole self be exposed to the vastness of this scene. The real question is, was I scared of the openness of the space, or just how much it would open my heart to give into it?

I climbed back into the car and we headed back to the pier. I knew it was the last time I would see Larry in a long time. Knowing that I had a place to go and that he would be there, if only for a day, had been comforting, just like Bubbi. I hugged him tight and then I stepped onto the ferry. When I got into the passenger cabin, I looked out the tiny window and the van was gone.

I was still tired, having stayed up late again the night before and writing. The passenger cabin was severely lacking in the comforts of home but I still managed to take a nice, long nap by propping my arms up on the window sill. The waves that had sickened me on the way to North Haven rocked me to sleep on the way back and I slept like a baby. The other passengers shied away from me, thinking I must be some sort of drug addict to be able to sleep like that in a
public place. It was pretty comical.

I got back to Rockland a bit groggy and the first place I went was anyplace that had coffee. I was on my way to Boston and it was only 1:30. I figured I’d make it there by 4, maybe 5 if I took my time. I drove down Rt. 1 again and passed through Wiscasset. I was making excellent time so I stopped to say hello to Greg and get some more coffee.

I poked my head into the bar, which was drenched in the afternoon sunlight. "You said to come back and see you," I said as I came through the door. It took Greg a second to recognize me, but when he did his face lit up. "Hey! How-wah ya?"

We sat and talked like old friends for a long time. He reiterated the moose-watching offer and it sounded like a lot of fun. Hopefully at some point I’ll have time to do it. I also told him all about my DUI and he thought my breathalyzer was hilarious. He almost left the bar unmanned to walk outside and look at it, saying, "I gotta see this thing," but I had parked too far up the street.

Hanging out with him and shooting the shit was some of the most fun I’ve had. We exchanged information and promised to keep in touch. Then I was back on the road for Boston.

Well, kind of. Traffic leaving Wiscasset was disgusting, and continued to be disgusting all the way through Maine, past Kittery, and into New Hampshire. I knew I had to stop at Helen’s to pick up some things I had forgotten - my sneakers and my razor (I was a hairy girl the whole time I was in Maine, GROSS!) - and she had left them on the porch for me to pick up while she was at work. We were both betting that I would be in Lee by 3 o’clock.

Well, traffic was so abysmal that I didn’t make it there until twenty after six. Everyone was gone, at Bryce’s soccer game, so I grabbed the stuff from the porch and left a thank-you note. As I was looking at the map, still trying to figure out a way to get to Boston, although it would be late, Roy pulled up in the driveway with Bryce.
"Um, hey! Long time no see!" he said, laughing.
I was exhausted from driving in traffic and it must have showed. "Yeah," I said, wearily. "I left Rockland at 1:30. Traffic was ridiculous."
"Oh, man. Well, Helen and Emery should be home any minute, too."

As he said this, Helen appeared at the top of the drive. I could see Emery giddily bouncing in the back. When her mother parked, she jumped out of the car and into my arms, yelling, "Jessica! You’re here again!" She wrapped her legs around my stomach and her arms around my neck and cuddled her head into my shoulder, holding on tight. It was the kind of hug a child gives that makes you know heaven is on earth.

We all went inside and the kids were all over me again, it was great. Helen said, "You’re more than welcome to stay another night. Or I hope you’ll at least stay for dinner." I accepted the offer on both, since it was already getting a bit dark. The kids were delighted and asked me if I could stay another week but I had to say no, unfortunately.

I did have more energy to play with them though, having taken my awesome nap on the ferry. We played soccer in the basement while waiting for dinner to be ready. Well, they played soccer and I made a sorry attempt at playing soccer and ended up kicking Helen’s treadmill instead. Hard. It’s still bothering me. I wonder if I broke a tiny bone in my foot, because it’s been almost two weeks and it still hurts really, really bad. Leave it to me - no health insurance and I don’t get hurt hiking or jogging. No, kicking a treadmill at full-force. What an idiot.

We had a great pizza dinner and I opened that bottle of wine I had bought in Wiscasset. After dinner Helen and Roy put the kids to bed and the three of us watched "NCIS", which I had never seen. It was pretty good. I went to bed, having promised Bryce that I would wake up early and watch a nature video with him before he went to school.

We did watch it the next morning, and then I played with Bryce and Emery outside on the swings until the school bus came. Bryce went to school, Helen and Emery went to Tumble Tots, Emery’s pre-school gymnastics class, and I got in the shower and then in the car, determined to reach Boston come hell or high water.

For anyone who has never driven in Boston, keep it that way. There is no high water but it is definitely hell. I made it there in great time, by 10:30 in the morning, but I didn’t find a place the right exit to go downtown until 12:30. I was so freaking frustrated, but I had made up my mind that I was going to like Boston so I tried to forget what a clusterf*ck it was.

I have been to Boston a handful of times but have absolutely no good memories of it. When I was living in New York my evil, abusive bastard of a boyfriend was from the Boston area and we would travel through the city to see his parents a lot. Sean hated traveling. He hated everything, really, hated living in general, but he especially hated traveling and always used this misery as a chance to pick a fight. Him picking a fight usually resulted in me crying and/or having a new bruise or two. So these are the memories I have of Boston - getting yelled at and beaten by my ex in an alley of the Fleet Center bus station.

But I was so, so determined to come to terms with those memories and start to like the city. Once I finally parked, things were looking up. I spotted a tiny pub across the street from the parking garage and, laptop in hand, went in to get some work done. It was still very early in the day and there were only two people inside, the bartender and a pretty brunette lady in a business suit sitting at the bar. I set my laptop up and got to work, ordering an IPA.

After awhile, I somehow got started talking to the pretty lady. We chatted about work and my lack thereof and she said she needed to start getting back to the office. She admitted that she didn’t want to go, and as our conversation continued she confided that her boyfriend had just been diagnosed with cancer. By this time I was standing near her rather than sitting on my stool, because a woman had sat in between us and I was having trouble seeing my friend.
She started to tear up as she explained about her boyfriend’s illness, saying that he won’t tell her what kind of cancer it was or how long he had known about the diagnosis. I imagine that would be so hard and I hugged her to try to stop her tears. I patted her head as I pulled back and offered the only advice I knew how to give.

"I’m not a very religious person," I said. "But I do know that whoever God is, he doesn’t put a mountain in our path that we can’t climb."
That seemed to help a little bit.

Her name was Michelle. She had to go back to work, but before she did, she placed half of a tuna melt sandwich on a napkin next to me, saying, "Don’t say no, you need to save your money." Then she gave me a business card with her home phone number written on the back. "I live in Swampscott. You can stay with me tonight if you need to." She smiled and walked out.

I thought about her a lot after she left, although I decided not to take her up on the offer to stay, because she mentioned living with her boyfriend. There sounded like there was a lot of tension and high emotions running in that house right now, and I didn’t want to add myself to the mix. They needed their time alone.

I kept writing and editing pictures as other people filtered in and out. A curvy, pretty Hispanic woman sat down next to me, reading a romance novel and drinking Bombay Sapphire martinis. I laughed when she ordered because I was jealous - that used to be my drink before I quit drinking for so long, and now a fruitfly could drink me under the table, so I can’t touch gin anymore. Saying hello led to her asking me which school I went to, and soon we were deep in conversation about Los Angeles. She was from Orange County and she came to Boston because her husband got a job. I sympathized - native Californians really hate the cold. She had to go as well, and soon her seat was taken up by a short guy about my age.

He was the typical Irish-Italian looking guy that one would picture being from either New York City or Boston - just a typical smart-ass looking guy. He was short, wearing a blue crewneck sweater and a Red Sox knit hat, and he kept stepping out for cigarettes at 10-minute intervals. I didn’t really talk to him until he played The Clash on the jukebox. But when I heard the first strains of "London Calling", I turned to him with a smile. I got a bad feeling from this kid, but I was determined to cut through it and say thanks for playing one of my favorite songs.
We started talking and sure enough, he was the typical smart-ass guy. He talked a lot of shit about everything I brought up - beer, sports, education - he just loved to disagree with me. Oh, well. I guess even a few good apples go bad sometimes.

To my right was an Asian man in a shirt and tie having lunch, and we got to talking about the laptop. He had been listening to my conversation with the Hispanic woman and the smart-ass and we got to talking about my trip. At one point he told me that he was a business consultant in the area. I interrupted him when he said that and admitted that I have no idea what consultants do, except make a lot of money, and I asked him to explain. His explanation of his job was awesome.

"I work for an American company that wants to do a lot of business in Japan. I get to know the American company inside and out, what their ethics and missions are, and then I hook them up with Japanese companies who have the same sort of mindset. It’s just like setting two of your friends up on a blind date. This single guy is lonely and you have a girl you think he’ll like, you set them up. I’m a corporate matchmaker," he said, with a smile.

"In America we call that being a ‘yenta’," I said, giggling. I really liked the idea of multi-million dollar mergers being based on something as simple as "a blind date". I know it’s really more complicated than that, but I like to fool myself into believing that at its core, business is just a dating game.

Two or three stools down was another guy about my age, tall with Buddy Holly glasses and a black baseball cap. I didn’t pay much attention to him because I was arguing with Smart-Ass Jason and I was on my way to being pretty buzzed, but he did come over during a lull in the conversation and introduce himself. He was an Irish immigrant with a killer-cute accent named Emmet and he wanted to know all about the book and the trip and the blog and all the details. He was very nice but I was distracted because I was trying to get writing done through the haze of beer and shots that kept appearing in front of me from other people in the bar. He didn’t like the idea of me sleeping in my car in the parking garage that night, and gave me a Post-It with his number and a note that read, "Always a place to stay in Boston, Emmet". I thanked him, but I didn’t pay much attention as I muddled through a posting I was doing on New Hampshire.

Eventually, my battery died and I couldn’t find any place in the bar to plug it in. A security guard at a local office building was near me and said I could charge it at his desk in the lobby of the building right around the corner. He was middle-aged, Pakistani, and seemed nice enough so I went with him to plug it in. Before I left I gave my information - number, website, and email - to the bartender so he could check my blog if he wanted. Then I went with the Pakistani guy around the corner.

I told him how I was going to stay in my car and he told me that was not good enough, no one should have to do that, and he would check with his boss to see if I could sleep on the sixth floor, which wasn’t being rented out at the moment. He made some calls but couldn’t get ahold of his boss, so he said in the meantime he could show me the empty sixth floor to make sure it was up to my standards. I grabbed my pepper spray out of my purse, cocked it, and we got in the elevator.

He showed me the offices and the bathrooms on the floor, and while he was pointing out the showers in one bathroom he leaned over to kiss me. I slapped him before he could get close enough, yelled, ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?!", pushed him hard out of my way and up against the wall in disgust, and ran to the stairs. I made it to the bottom before he got down in the elevator, grabbed my computer from under the desk, and ran out of the building. He had looked shocked at my reaction, almost scared, and I liked that. I also liked that it was the only time in three weeks of traveling alone that I’d had even a small problem with someone. And I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I so rock at beating up stupid boys.

All that standing up for myself made me hungry, so I went to Hooters and watched the end up the Dallas-San Antonio basketball game and ate chicken. Then I was exhausted and full so I went to my car and cuddled up for a good night’s sleep. My car was the only car on the whole floor, a far cry from the afternoon when the place had been packed.

The car was nice and warm and so was my fleece blanket and soon I was fast asleep. Then I got a text message; flipping my phone open, I noticed that it was from a Boston area code. "I didn’t realise I had your number. Have a safe trip. As I said if your ever in boston and need somewhere to stay, just call. Good luck. Emmet."

Well, I didn’t realize he had my number either. I didn’t remember giving it to him, but I just chalked it up to forgetfulness, maybe I had, and went back to sleep. Then Brian called, and we tried to hash out the conversation from the day before. It didn’t work. He ended up telling me that he made out with some other girl at a bar a few days earlier, and then telling me that while I was gone he should be able to have sex with whoever he wants because it’s just sex and it doesn’t mean anything. This led to a heated discussion on the idea of what is meaningful versus meaningless and my feelings got hurt and I was just disgusted with the conversation in general. I got a call on the other line and I recognized it as Emmet’s so I used it as an excuse to get off the phone with Brian, and then beeped over.

Emmet asked how I was doing, if I was okay, if I was warm enough. I said I was fine and dandy, which was good because I knew I couldn’t turn my car on at the moment anyway. The beers and shots were still knocking around in my head and I didn’t think I could pass my breath test. He asked if I would be safe there and I told him that there were security guards manning the place 24 hours a day so I should be fine. He reiterated the offer to stay with him, saying he could come pick me up if I needed and bring me back to his place. After the incident with the Pakistani security guard I wasn’t in a rush to talk to anymore strangers for the night, so I politely declined. Then he asked me if I could at least, for his peace of mind, go flag down one of the security guards and let them know that I would be there so they could watch over me, and then call him back. I said okay and hung up, then waited for one of the guards to drive by on his little golf cart.

I stepped out of my car and flagged him down, giving him a friendly hi. He looked at me like I was crazy. "I’m just going to be here in my car for the night, okay? Just thought I’d let you know. Have a good night!" and then I climbed back into the driver’s seat. Before I could shut the door, he was standing in front of it.

"Uh, miss, you can’t be here," he said, almost nervously. He was young, blonde, blue-collar.
I froze. "What?"
"Yeah, I can’t have you sleepin’ in your car. I just can’t." His Boston accent was very thick.
"Well, I can’t go anywhere. I can’t start my car."
"Do ya need a jump?"
"No, I have to breathe into it and I’m gonna fail it. I’m stuck."
"Well, miss, you can’t be here. If there are cars that are damaged in the morning, you’ll be the one to blame whether it was you or not. You have to go."
I was getting scared. I started to cry.
"So what do I do then? I live in this car. And I’m not just saying that because I use it a lot. I LIVE in it. It’s my house. I don’t have anywhere else to go."
"Well, miss, you can come down to the third floor and talk to the night manager, but I can’t have you sleepin’ here in your car."
At this point I was crying really hard. Boston just does not like me.
"I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’m not a criminal or a vandal. Please just let me stay. I can’t go anywhere else."
"Miss–"
"My name is Jessica!" I sobbed, interrupting him.
He paused. "I’m Tim. Listen, Jess, there’s nothing I can do except bring you down to the third floor and you can explain yourself to the night manager."
"Explain myself what? I haven’t done anything wrong!"
"Well, he can be the judge of that."

My phone, still in my hand, tinkled its little text message tone. "Excuse me one sec," I said to Tim. It was Emmet; it said "You alright?" I didn’t answer. I looked pitifully up at Tim, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

"Just come down with me, okay? I don’t know what else to do."
"I’m scared, Tim."
"Don’t be. Come on."
"I’m not going to do anything wrong, though!"
"Jess, please! I’m just trying to do my job! If you stay here, we’ll both be in trouble."

My phone rang, it was Emmet. "Hello?" I squeaked.
"Sweet Jesus, what happened?"
"C-c-c-an you just come get me?" I cried.
"Yes, I’ll be right there."

Having secured a place to go for the night, I looked up at Tim and said, "Okay, I’ll go talk to the guy." We climbed onto his golf cart and swooped around the columns and corners until we reached the third floor. We approached a brightly-lit portion of the third floor where a few people were standing around. I was nervous but not scared, since I knew I wasn’t going to be kicked out onto the streets of Boston that night.

Tim drove up to the glass-encased office and a man stepped out. He was short, black, and had glasses and a look of concern on his face. Tim started talking as soon as the man was in earshot.
"This girl was sleeping in her car on the sixth floor but I told her she couldn’t. Her car won’t start and she doesn’t have anywhere to go. She can explain the rest." By this time the small man was upon us and I stayed sitting in the golf cart as Tim handed me the floor. I was still crying a little bit, not so much from fear as just stress. I didn’t realize how stressful, lonely, and scary being on the road would be and I had just pushed those feelings down the farther I went. Now that they were loosed, there was no stopping their release.

"I just wanted to sleep in my car because it won’t start and I don’t have anywhere to go but I think it’s okay now beca–"

The manager interrupted me in an African accent, speaking very fast.. "Ssssh, gracious, girl! If you want to sleep in your car it is fine with me. I am a human being and you are like my sister, I cannot put you out on the street. You can stay there for the night, no problem, I won’t even charge you for parking fees. Just please don’t cry, please. I have feelings too, I would not do that. Please don’t be scared. Or do you want to stay in a hotel? I will pay for you out of my pocket. But please do not be scared. I won’t let anything happen to you." This made me cry even more, because I was so happy that a stranger would be so kind. I cry a lot, in case you haven’t noticed.

I explained to him that Emmet was coming to get me and he told me I could call Emmet back and tell him not to worry, that I could actually stay in my car for the night. I did call, and when I told Emmet not to come after all, he asked, "Are you crazy? I’m not going to let you stay in your car, that’s just not fair! It’s not fair that someone should come to Boston and have such a bad time so far. I hate that! No, I’m coming to get you, I’m almost there. Where are you?" I told him to come to the third floor.

The manager, who was Ethiopian and whose name was Digash, waited with me. He asked me why I was living in my car - "Don’t you have parents?" - and I through my tears, which would not stop, I said "Yes, but I’m driving around the country and writing a book about all the nice people I meet. And you’re going to be in it." Tim, having parked the golf cart somewhere, walked over and asked, with a smile, "Aren’t you glad you came down here to talk to him?"

Both Digash and I smiled. "Yes," I said. "Very much."

Emmet got to the garage, drove up to the third floor and I climbed into his green Mitsubishi Montero. "Hey, there," he said. I had stopped crying by this time, but just barely. My face was a tear-stained mess. "Come now," Emmet said, looking into my eyes as he reached over to the passenger seat to wipe my cheeks with his thumb. "Stop this. Everything’s going to be fine. You okay?" I nodded. "Good," he said. "Now where’s your car?"

We drove up to the sixth floor. I was suddenly shy, feeling like a total ass for making such a scene and making Emmet drive all the way from his house in North Qunicy, about 10 miles south of Boston, to come get me. I was fairly quiet and let him do most of the talking. "I got your number from Paul," he said. Paul had been the bartender at the pub I was at that afternoon. "I went out to move my car and it had a flat tire. By the time I got it fixed and then went back in to talk to you some more, you were gone. I asked Paul where you went and he said you left but you had written your number and email down. I got it from him. I’m sorry if that makes you mad but I just wanted to make sure you were okay ‘cause I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in your car. No one should have to do that. It’s awful." I was looking at my hands as he said continued, saying, "Boston is such a great town. It makes me upset that you haven’t had a good time so far. That guy you were talking to today, he was a prick. I didn’t like him. I’m sorry if he made you argue with him over useless shit. I wanted to say something but I didn’t want to butt into your conversation. But that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about - people haven’t been very nice to you so far and that is not cool. I hope I can change your opinion of Boston."

I looked shyly at him as we rounded the corner to the sixth floor. "You’re doing good so far," I whispered softly.