Another Night in Chelsea, Massachusetts

Tonight I walk the streets of Chelsea, to Prattville Square. I call an old friend and have a manic/animated conversation on my iPhone with him about responsibility, irresponsibility, mental illness and the repercussions of childhood trauma, suicide and other delightful topics. He gets off the phone to yell at his girlfriend about something, saying he’ll call me back (he never does). I become a little self-conscious about my conversation as I walk by two or three people in the vicinity and begin to sink into my stomach toward feeling guilty before saying “fuck it” to myself; to quote one of my favorite films, Fight Club:

“I got in everyone’s hostile little face. Yes, these are bruises from fighting. Yes, I’m comfortable with that. I am enlightened.”

I enter the store which used to be Cumberland farms back in the 80’s. I don’t know the name of the store now and what difference does it make – they sell shit and that’s all I care about. There’s a long line of people I don’t really want to be around. I become aware others sense my momentary fervor which I struggle to contain. In the city, packed like rats as we are, people develop a keen sense for even the most trace amounts of aggression. If they’re looking for a fight they know where to find it. So I walk out, in part because I don’t want to wait to get myself a pack of smokes and also because I don’t want to raise the other people’s anxiety. Who knows where that could lead. No where good. These are the things I find myself considering when I am out in the world – my world. My mood changes like the weather and I have to stay ahead of it before it catches up to me.

I walk toward the store that used to be Kim’s. I walk by a convenience store I don’t even know exists. I stop in and ask the guy behind the counter if they have Winston Lights. He says they do. I take out my ID and hand it to him. It’s an out of state ID and as such I expect him to have trouble finding the birth date. I indicate it’s below the smaller
photo to the right of the larger photo – both featuring my signature crooked smile and slightly raised eyebrow. Again, for the uninitiated, I am enlightened.

I still can’t shake this energy about me; agitated and slightly aggressive. It’s pouring off of me like waves of heat rising from the pavement in summer. Maintaining my awareness lest I lose myself I keep mindful of my environment. There’s a second guy behind the counter, off to the right. He’s thin and wiry and about my height. I don’t notice anything at all special about him, and I think that bothers him. He catches me slightly off guard asking “You’re not from around here are you?”

He’s testing me. I look at him dead in the face and say “Born and breed in Chelsea, MA,” with unusual assertiveness, surprising myself. He seems taken aback by my attitude. I question if my attitude is getting the best of me, pushing me toward a violent encounter.  I myself am not used to walking around in public – at least not in Chelsea – with this much latent aggression bubbling up to the surface. I know better.

He backs off slightly, modulating his tone of voice and body language slightly. I passed the first test.

“Oh, well your accent is different,” he says.

I laugh, noticing after the fact that my tone of voice possesses a hint of insanity. I find this humorous. I, for all intents and purposes, have a terribly thick Boston accent when I’m in this kind of mindset, so he seems foolish to me.

“That’s because I have multiple personalities that come and go,” I say to him. He quiets down. Before the situation becomes more volitile I change tactics. “Where are you from?” I ask, offering an opportunity for him to present himself, effectively saying ‘This is your territory. I respect that. But don’t fuck with me.’

“From here,” he says.

“Chelsea?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he responds.

“What part?” I inquire.

“The Chelsea/Revere line,” he replies.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

He responds with some epithet; an animal of some sort if I recall. Either way I’m terrible with names and it goes in one ear and out the other. I don’t recognize him, or his name. I tell him mine. The same goes for him. We pass the second stage; a draw.

I ask him how old he is. He says he’s 30 years old. He asks me how old I am. I tell him I am 31 years old. This establishes the context in which we can proceed into the “Who do you know that I know” game. You see, this is an important part of the pissing contest we’re compelled into for the establishment of our social pecking order. Being the same age and from the same area, we should have at least one shared connection. Curiously, we conclude that we have no shared acquaintances. I think he mentions a name that sounds somewhat familiar to me, but I can’t place it. He doesn’t know anyone I know; I don’t know anyone
he knows. And I don’t really care; after all it’s all empty social posturing. But we did what we had to do. We sized each other up. Satisfied that we’re both legit as it were we move onto more colorful conversation topics.

He asks me if I heard about the dead body they found in Voke Park on Sunday. Voke Park is across the street from where I live. It’s so close I could throw a football from my mother’s apartment’s front steps and hit the field (albeit, if I cleared the 20+ foot fence surrounding it, which at this point is doubtful). He tells me the kid that died was 23, from Revere and had track marks on his arms. I make a move toward sympathy showing my remorse for the young man. It’s earnest, but let’s face it, we both are just trying to stay alive in our own personal wars day to day and it’s hard to drum up that much interest let alone a trace of emotion for a stranger, even if his corpse was discovered a few hundred yards from where I’m living.

He starts in with his war stories. Drug dealing. “Government vacation” (Read: prison). Violence. He has trouble remembering some information he wants to relay to me. “Sorry, I’ve been stabbed in the head,” he says. He turns his head and shows me the scar. “Well that sucks,” I say. What else was I going to say – you should consider going to a different barber?

He decides he likes me. I can tell these kinds of things. They’re subtle and beyond my ability to articulate at times because it’s more of an intuitive thing. It’s a dance I’m familiar with. Earn respect or get eaten alive.

We try to bond over the fact that we both have ties to the Chelsea projects (mine from the 80’s; his from earlier that evening). It doesn’t work.

We go outside the store for a smoke and talk. More war stories. He tells me how many times he’s been stabbed (seven+ times). The majority of his wounds come from his trying to save a girl who was being beaten up by her boyfriend. He found them fighting on the street and he ran to help her. He shows me a notable scar on his left wrist across the tendons in his arm. He can’t move all of his fingers. Only his pinky and ring finger move; the rest curl up into his palm, moving only through the vibration of the two functional fingers flexing. “Been working on getting them moving again,” he says, with a look suggesting pride and perhaps longing for acknowledgment. “That’s good,” I say. I don’t even waste my time asking him if he’s got health insurance.

“If I see someone fighting on the street, and it’s two on one, I gotta jump in,” he says. “Gotta make it fair,” I say. “You have to keep it fair!” he says back, “that’s what my dad taught me.” Cute. Considering that the guy looks like a cutting board, perhaps I should be more grateful that my father didn’t teach me how to fight.

I relate to his story of attempted heroism. I am the same way. I own a history of throwing myself into the fire, under the bus and into harms way to stop an injustice and make things right. I’ve run into the danger and I’ve been the danger. And much like our would be hero, I’ve found my heroics blowing up in my face. But that’s another story all together.

He asks me if I “mess with that stuff (violence).” I tell him no. I tell him I was the golden child meant to escape this place and make millions of dollars and that I managed to crash and burn, landing back in hell (Think “Icarus” mythology here). Everyone’s got a sob story to tell; this one is mine. He’s about as interested in mine as I am in his.

Talking to this guy elevates my sense of anxiety. Just being around him and the other members of my “extended family” here makes me aware of just what kind of danger is crawling around me. I’m immediately transported back to being a teenager, longing – no striving – relentlessly to get myself the fuck out of here. Every day a mental marathon. I didn’t belong here. I still don’t.

In the end he extends his hand and tells me his real name, telling me that he almost never gives it to anyone. I managed, in my own way, to gain his respect. By this point, my attitude shifts to one of self-preservation. It’s time to go. It’s been nice visiting with you and your stories of being  stabbed (repeatedly) – really it has, but now I think I’m going to go home and blog about it. Thanks for the inspiration. Good bye.

I learned how to survive this place. I know how people here can think, and be and speak. I am one of them. I am born to a sinister place of desperation, poverty and violence. And I’m in a fucking suit in my blog photo. I don’t know who I am and I don’t know what I’m doing. I know part of what defines me as an individual is my uncanny ability to blend in no matter where I go – what some like to call a social chameleon. I have no home to call my own, only the one that my mother provides for me here. Some day she’s going to die and I’m afraid I’ll be walking the earth alone, like Cain in the book of Genesis. But fuck it, by that time I fully expect some unprecedented (at least in historical terms) occurrence to happen come 2012, be it the collapse of our government, the apocalyptic sundering of our planet, the ascension of the saved or the return of our maker(s) – be it God or extraterrestrials. And by the way, if you think that sounds crazy then you haven’t been paying attention.

My best friend growing up once said to me “Don’t forget where you come from.” Well I did. And now that I remember I want to forget it all over again. But I won’t. It’s coming with me no matter where I go. I might as well learn to love it, in all its uncanny, gritty and brutal magnificence. I realize conventional pop writing sensibilities would lead me to write about some aspects of ironic or subtle beauty in this place. If you find them, let me know. All I see is ugliness apathy.

Actually, I did walk by a sign in a neighboring store’s window immediately after my encounter with my new friend ended. It said “We care.”

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.