(The following article was originally composed in April, 2010)
Life is all about energy. Life is all about fuel.
Life is all about getting juiced.
And life can be cruel.
You’ve been there. You know.
When you were young, it was easy. Everything was juice. Everything was new. Everything stimulated. The juice was everywhere.
But not now.
That was then and this is now, and now is different. Now, you are experienced, wizened, grizzled, ...and older. And age, it turns out, is an astringent. It is the anti-juice. It is the dehumidifying spirit sucking mortal enemy of creativity. Life gets dull, because, well..., we get older, the well runs dry, the juice runs out, and so we seek.
You’ve sought. You seek. I know you have. I know you do.
Me too. I seek.
Today was a seek day. I took a ride today, seeking, looking for my juice.
It was out there, I believed.
I knew it was.
I’d find it.
I took a ride into Boston. I went just southeast of Uphams Corner, to the Edward Everett Square area, to the site of the old Doughboy Donuts, now a Dunkin Donuts, that sits at the theoretical corner of Boston St., and Mass Ave, and Columbia Road, which is a crossroads and not a corner really, but in New England, qualifies as a corner and so there I was because it was Eddie Everett and Uphams Corner and despite all the indicators that tell me otherwise, I like to think I am a journalist, a photographer, a recorder of events and stories, and Eddie Everett and Uphams Corner are two of those wonderful horrible locations in Boston where you really should spend time if you want to record events and stories and maybe find some juice. A lot of stories start there, or end there, or near there, or within striking distance of there, and anyway, there is coffee there, which makes the whole waiting-seeking part a lot easier, there.
Which matters. Those places can be unsettling, but they produce. They always have. They are fertile places. They are fishing holes for stories.
Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, is difficult to say. Either area produces because it is a crossroads for all types of people in all types of situations; life, death, cowardice, courage. And the geographic centrality of these areas provides quick access to many other neighborhoods, many other fishing holes and many other fish. They have long been a place where reporters and photographers and criminals and cops, pull over to the curb , light up a cigarette, and wait. The wait is never too long. There’s always another customer, another story, another fish.
And so I went trolling in Uphams Corner, casting in Eddie Everett, because that is where the stories are. That is where the juice is.
The catch was trivial today, small. Still, it was worth it. Today I saw stuff, I learned stuff...there were characters. There were moments of confusion and moments of clarity and little of it was in my control and that’s just the way it should be. That’s just the way I like it.
I started with a parking space for both my car and my lazy butt, and procured myself three bucks worth of coffee. Then Boston Fire Alarm struck a box and I chased it. The address was a stretch, a structure fire somewhere in the Dudley Square vicinity, but with GPS it was do-able so I chased.
For a time it seemed promising. First truck in reported smoke showing, and the dispatcher’s voice took that tell-tale edge that cuts right through the din, his tone announcing that something worth looking at was going on. But two minutes later it was over, ...a wash...food on the stove, over before it started, and well before my arrival ten minutes after the truck. Once again I found myself disappointed that somebody’s house wasn’t engulfed in flames. That tells you something about me, about the lure of juice.
Nothing to see. Nothing to show. I wandered back to my perch to wait.
Coming down Columbia Road, another call, this time on the Boston EMS channel. A child had been found wandering. The parents had not. Being so close it was worth checking out. Lost and found kids are always a story, emotions overflow, and any number of photo opportunities could present themselves. I looked for the cruisers and parked.
Across the busy street a group of people were gathered on the sidewalk. Uniformed cops moved among them asking questions. Everyone seemed to be waiting. Nobody seemed particularly agitated, but no one seemed particularly relaxed, either.
A cooperative cop summarized the situation for me. He was cooperative because he was mad. The more he summarized, the more he scowled.
Shopkeepers had found a little girl toddler wandering the Uphams Corner sidewalks alone in the middle of the day, and for the past 30 minutes, nobody had called looking for her. That wasn’t sitting well with anyone on site wearing a uniform. Area residents didn’t seem too thrilled either. These are working people, family people. Losing track of a kid just didn’t compute with them. It seemed for a while that by the time it all ended, this story might involve handcuffs, so me and my camera, we stuck around.
Eventually the pieces began to come together and someone figured out who the kid was, who she belonged to, and who was supposed to be keeping her safe. The parent was out of town at a funeral, it turns out, and the babysitters just lost track. The cops conferred and the caregivers were found and invited to attend the curbside meeting. Excuses were made and alibis offered and eyebrows were raised, but to the relief of some, to the disappointment of others, nobody went to jail. The little girl though, ...she went with the ambulance, taken into the care of the City of Boston until the parent could be located directly, and reunited with her child.
A less than dramatic ending, after all, at least for that day.
Still, for me, for my selfish self-interests, it had been worth it. The juice had gotten flowing, and that was good, if just for a few. I’d gotten a taste, a reminder of why I liked to do this. The waters had stirred, if not actually produced, and for a few minutes I’d enjoyed, at least, the anticipation of a good story rising to the surface. But adrenal rushes by themselves are fleeting, and fickle, and very quickly they pass, and a little does not go a long way. This story did not flesh out, and so faded off the screen.
So I’ll go back. I’ll have to go back, back on another day for more. For more fish and more stories and more juice.
There will always be more.
Life is all about energy. Life is all about fuel.
Life is all about getting juiced.
And life can be cruel.
You’ve been there. You know.
When you were young, it was easy. Everything was juice. Everything was new. Everything stimulated. The juice was everywhere.
But not now.
That was then and this is now, and now is different. Now, you are experienced, wizened, grizzled, ...and older. And age, it turns out, is an astringent. It is the anti-juice. It is the dehumidifying spirit sucking mortal enemy of creativity. Life gets dull, because, well..., we get older, the well runs dry, the juice runs out, and so we seek.
You’ve sought. You seek. I know you have. I know you do.
Me too. I seek.
Today was a seek day. I took a ride today, seeking, looking for my juice.
It was out there, I believed.
I knew it was.
I’d find it.
I took a ride into Boston. I went just southeast of Uphams Corner, to the Edward Everett Square area, to the site of the old Doughboy Donuts, now a Dunkin Donuts, that sits at the theoretical corner of Boston St., and Mass Ave, and Columbia Road, which is a crossroads and not a corner really, but in New England, qualifies as a corner and so there I was because it was Eddie Everett and Uphams Corner and despite all the indicators that tell me otherwise, I like to think I am a journalist, a photographer, a recorder of events and stories, and Eddie Everett and Uphams Corner are two of those wonderful horrible locations in Boston where you really should spend time if you want to record events and stories and maybe find some juice. A lot of stories start there, or end there, or near there, or within striking distance of there, and anyway, there is coffee there, which makes the whole waiting-seeking part a lot easier, there.
Which matters. Those places can be unsettling, but they produce. They always have. They are fertile places. They are fishing holes for stories.
Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, is difficult to say. Either area produces because it is a crossroads for all types of people in all types of situations; life, death, cowardice, courage. And the geographic centrality of these areas provides quick access to many other neighborhoods, many other fishing holes and many other fish. They have long been a place where reporters and photographers and criminals and cops, pull over to the curb , light up a cigarette, and wait. The wait is never too long. There’s always another customer, another story, another fish.
And so I went trolling in Uphams Corner, casting in Eddie Everett, because that is where the stories are. That is where the juice is.
The catch was trivial today, small. Still, it was worth it. Today I saw stuff, I learned stuff...there were characters. There were moments of confusion and moments of clarity and little of it was in my control and that’s just the way it should be. That’s just the way I like it.
I started with a parking space for both my car and my lazy butt, and procured myself three bucks worth of coffee. Then Boston Fire Alarm struck a box and I chased it. The address was a stretch, a structure fire somewhere in the Dudley Square vicinity, but with GPS it was do-able so I chased.
For a time it seemed promising. First truck in reported smoke showing, and the dispatcher’s voice took that tell-tale edge that cuts right through the din, his tone announcing that something worth looking at was going on. But two minutes later it was over, ...a wash...food on the stove, over before it started, and well before my arrival ten minutes after the truck. Once again I found myself disappointed that somebody’s house wasn’t engulfed in flames. That tells you something about me, about the lure of juice.
Nothing to see. Nothing to show. I wandered back to my perch to wait.
Coming down Columbia Road, another call, this time on the Boston EMS channel. A child had been found wandering. The parents had not. Being so close it was worth checking out. Lost and found kids are always a story, emotions overflow, and any number of photo opportunities could present themselves. I looked for the cruisers and parked.
Across the busy street a group of people were gathered on the sidewalk. Uniformed cops moved among them asking questions. Everyone seemed to be waiting. Nobody seemed particularly agitated, but no one seemed particularly relaxed, either.
A cooperative cop summarized the situation for me. He was cooperative because he was mad. The more he summarized, the more he scowled.
Shopkeepers had found a little girl toddler wandering the Uphams Corner sidewalks alone in the middle of the day, and for the past 30 minutes, nobody had called looking for her. That wasn’t sitting well with anyone on site wearing a uniform. Area residents didn’t seem too thrilled either. These are working people, family people. Losing track of a kid just didn’t compute with them. It seemed for a while that by the time it all ended, this story might involve handcuffs, so me and my camera, we stuck around.
Eventually the pieces began to come together and someone figured out who the kid was, who she belonged to, and who was supposed to be keeping her safe. The parent was out of town at a funeral, it turns out, and the babysitters just lost track. The cops conferred and the caregivers were found and invited to attend the curbside meeting. Excuses were made and alibis offered and eyebrows were raised, but to the relief of some, to the disappointment of others, nobody went to jail. The little girl though, ...she went with the ambulance, taken into the care of the City of Boston until the parent could be located directly, and reunited with her child.
A less than dramatic ending, after all, at least for that day.
Still, for me, for my selfish self-interests, it had been worth it. The juice had gotten flowing, and that was good, if just for a few. I’d gotten a taste, a reminder of why I liked to do this. The waters had stirred, if not actually produced, and for a few minutes I’d enjoyed, at least, the anticipation of a good story rising to the surface. But adrenal rushes by themselves are fleeting, and fickle, and very quickly they pass, and a little does not go a long way. This story did not flesh out, and so faded off the screen.
So I’ll go back. I’ll have to go back, back on another day for more. For more fish and more stories and more juice.
There will always be more.
© 2011 J. Mark Rast
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