Critical Exponent

The months of painstaking work and artistic obsession have come to fruition. Knox’s art show, whichever stone you lift–, finally opened. If you’re in Boston, check it out at the Brookline Arts Center.

And if you’re not in Boston, get in touch. We’d love to take this show on the road.

“Send the dessert up to our room.”

Funny guy, I thought. “No, we don’t really have a room here. I’ll—”

“You might want to know what your room is,” said the waitress, placing the check, Knox’s credit card, and a room key on the table.

Thus did we cap an extraordinary meal at Spire, one of Boston’s top restaurants. After all the negotiating and sorting and packing and moving and hassles and cleaning and goodbyes, what I thought would just be a fancy meal out turned into a night (and morning!) of pampered luxury at Hotel Nine Zero, where Knox and I first met.

The following, uhm, afternoon, on the spur of the moment we decided to go into King’s Chapel for a Christmas recital. We were treated to some really lovely holiday music.

Over the past two years, we have been trying to get Knox’s crowd to come visit us in Boston with little success. With us moving across the country, this is the very last chance—and we were delighted when Knox’s mom took us up on the offer and came up for the weekend.

We treated Judi in style. Although she was shocked by the social coolness of casual interactions in Boston (”Take her home!” the airport shuttle driver apparently told her when she tried to make conversation with fellow passengers), she was delighted with the many culinary delights we presented: dinner at Tasca, dessert at Athan’s, snacks at TeaLuxe, the chocolate buffet at Café Fleuri (which was Mike’s farewell celebration for me), the meal at Mr. Sushi’s, brunch at Great Bay, dessert at Caffé Vittoria, and dinner from Bazaar, the Russian deli.

She was enchanted by Boston architecture, charmed by the North End, and impressed by Harvard Yard. She quickly learned that the balmy weather on Friday was not typical when the temperatures dropped over the weekend. We all marveled over the glass flowers at Harvard, and while she took in BodyWorlds 2 at the Museum of Science, Knox and I went to the butterfly garden (a treat in itself!) and the show at the Theater of Electricity.

Judi also provided some fun of her own. She not only regaled us with a few stories from “son’s” youth, but she also introduced me to the game of Rummy. I am almost as slow in Rummy (and as bad a loser) as I am in Cribbage, but I finally got it! We stayed up way too late playing cards, but I held my own: Judi had two victorious games while Knox and I had one apiece.

Now, with Judi back home, we set our sights on our last week in Boston: sorting detritus of the past, saying good-byes to our Boston crowd, and planning the transition.

If you are reading this, then you too can swap soup!

The First (Inter)National Soup Swap Day is scheduled for January 23, 2007. There will be soup swaps occurring in Seattle (here’s the last one), Boston (here’s the last one), and Washington, DC (new location). If you are not in any of these cities, or want to participate with your own crowd, set up your own soup swap (here’s how) and tell us about it. If you are in one of these three cities but have not participated before, let us know and we will add you to the invite list.

Click on the logo for more info:

Contacts

Seattle: Knox, me

Boston: Wolftone

Washington, DC: Gracious Bowl

Yesterday morning, I got up early to go vote, hoping I could still catch one of the early trains to work. There were a few people waiting at the doors to the school gymnasium. At seven, cellphone time, the nearby church bells tolled the hour, and before their peals ended we were inside.

The results are here. It looks like it will be a Patrick-Murray ticket on the Democratic side.

Ahh, there’s nothing like exercising your right to vote to make you feel virtuous. (Unless your voice doesn’t count, in which case you must feel like a chump.)

“What th–”

The van’s dark hood was right in front of me. I caught a glimpse of the passenger-side window as time slowed to a crawl. Powerless, I saw the bike approach the car. A glimpse of the trees and sky. And then, the pavement. I held myself up on my forearms, moaning. A gash on my left arm. Blood. And some white tissue—fat. I whimpered rhythmically, too sore to move, too shocked. Work. I needed to get to work. That’s why I had left early in the first place.

The driver got out of the van. “Are you all right?!” he asked. “The sun was behind you, I didn’t see you.” He flipped open his cell phone, called 911. A stranger stopped and knelt beside me. “Don’t try to move. Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?” I had no patience for silly games, but I wanted to reassure them I was fine, and I answered.

The police came, and the ambulance. As the paramedics pulled out the gurney, a police officer asked me if I had any ID. I told her to look in the handlebar bag. As they rolled me over so they could slide the stretcher under me, I could see the officer take out my driver’s license and copy down my info. They put a padded orange head restraint on me. I called out to make sure the handlebar bag came with me. “I can’t get it out.” “Push the orange button… and lift,” I feebly tried to shout.

Up I went, looking at the sky, then into the ambulance. We waited there for a moment. What for? Paperwork? I tried not to panic, but my thoughts were swirling: this had happened to me. This would disrupt my plans. Would I ever bike again? Would I want to? Finally, they closed the doors and we were off. The EMT tried to put an IV in me, but it was difficult; I was sweaty from biking. Then he came over to my left side, “I know these bike clothes are probably expensive, but I’m going to have to cut them.” Bye, bye, polka-dot jersey that Knox gave me. “You have big gash right there.” He covered my now-naked form as the ambulance pulled into the hospital.

I watched the ceiling lights stream past, just like on TV. In the big room, a whole team of doctors was expecting me. They lifted me onto the bed. Everyone was talking. “Do you want us to call someone?” They looked up Knox’s number on the cell phone, but couldn’t reach him on the land line. “Oh, it’s long distance.” We decided to wait until after I’d been sutured, which wouldn’t be long, they promised. All the while, nurses and doctors were talking. “Where does it hurt?” “We’re going to stick this in you” “I’ll need to probe your butt to make sure there’s no bleeding.” Like a rag doll, I lay there, trying to be helpful and agreeable, but just letting them poke and prod me.

Finally, I was wheeled to my own curtained-off room. I had a chance to calm down. But I didn’t, not consistently. I was trying to go with the flow and accept this, let it be, but then doom and despair would hit me. One of the nurses came back to talk to me. Then they wheeled me off to get X-rays. A police officer stopped me to get my signature on a form, and said he’d leave an accident report for me. “Your bike looks like an L,” he said. “You might want to get in touch with a lawyer.” Great.

The periods of inactivity were the hardest. When people were doing something, I could hold it together. But during the lulls, in the X-ray room when the film was being swapped out and later back in my room waiting for the resident to come back and finish my sutures, a disconsolate anguish would take hold and make me quiver. A few hours and a couple of doctors later, however, I was finally all stitched up and had time to myself. The nurse had handed me my cell phone. I called Knox.

“How are you?”

“Not so good. I— I’m alright, but I was in an accident.”

And then I completely lost it.

That was three weeks ago, Friday, August 11. During my morning bike commute through Newton, an oncoming driver waiting to make a left turn did not notice me and cut me off. It was one of those chance encounters that would not have happened had I left home five minutes earlier or later, but which instead became a reminder that control over our fates is not as tight as we like to imagine.

At the end of the day—and a long day it was, twelve hours before they discharged me—I had a gash on my groin (off-center, thank goodness!) and one on my arm, both of which required stitches. Two metacarpals were fractured in my left hand. My left shin had a large arc-shaped scab (chainwheel?). Both my left shin and foot were swollen, making it hard to walk. My right buttock was bruised, making it painful to sit. I also had a respectable case of road rash on my right shoulder.

All in all, I was lucky. I could have been killed. I could have had internal trauma. As it was, I was wearing a helmet, did not pass out, and suffered injuries that will heal just fine (with some battle scars I can use as a conversation piece). In the days and weeks that were to follow, I would keep this fact in mind: things could have been worse. Oh, yes, they could have been much worse.

My friend Bill picked me up from the hospital and put me up for two nights in his guest room. As the doctors had warned, the day after the accident was the hardest. I was sore all over, could hardly get around, and was still getting used to having my left hand in a splint (another lucky strike: I’m right-handed). Bill helped me get set up at home on Sunday with a cane he lent me and first aid supplies we bought. Mike brought dinner that night, and the next day I was able to work remotely.

The doctors in the ER and at the follow-up appointment at the hand clinic both said I could go ahead with my previously scheduled trip to Seattle on Wednesday. Knox and I had discussed whether it made more sense for him to come to Boston to look after me instead, but I felt that it would be too frustrating to give up the trip I had so been looking forward to. Having gotten no medical vetoes (but an email warning from my primary care doctor to get up often in flight to prevent deep-vein thrombosis, for which I was now at higher risk), I decided to get on the plane.

As it turns out, that was absolutely the right choice.

We still have twenty minutes to go. That should be enough time for the sun to go down behind the trees and allow me to look at the stage without squinting. I lie back in my rented picnic chair and grab another cracker. I meticulously spread the goat cheese, and then put the last of the smoked salmon on top. I savor this delicacy; smoked salmon and cheese on crackers are synonymous with a picnic.

“What did you think of the smoked tuna?” I ask Bill. He doesn’t like it. Too gummy, he says. I have to agree. It was worth a shot but I’m not buying that again.

I wipe my hands on the already wet napkin. I should have brought more paper towels; it annoys me to run out of napkins. I look around at all the people. Most are picnicking like us, a few are reading, some are sleeping. The volunteers in their bright green T-shirts are making their way haphazardly through the crowd, some handing out programs, some requesting donations. It’s a great thing, this Shakespeare in the Park. I’m glad Bill and I are attending again. I remember last year, we saw MacBeth. Oh no, he says, handing me the program. MacBeth was three years ago, see right here?

Good grief, he’s right! How can that be? It feels like only last year! Is this what getting old feels like, I wonder. All those memories are just compressed, they are so vivid and immediate. I reach down and grab a Roma tomato. I pop it into my mouth.

Oh, my God! I can’t believe this. The tomato just spurted three feet in front of me. On the woman seated in front. Oh, no, she’s got tomato pulp and seeds on her arm. Did she notice? Crap! There’s some on her lap. She’s turning around. I can’t believe this. “Excuse me! I am so sorry!” This can’t be happening. It’s alright, she assures me. Oh that’s so polite. I would be pissed. Maybe she’s pissed. Her dad is seated next to her. Is he going to get mad? No, he doesn’t react much.

I should help her clean up. A napkin. Where’s the napkin? Oh here it is—the used, wet napkin. I offer it feebly. It’s all I have, I say. She takes it and dabs her lap. And she’s got some tomato pulp on her arm and back. Should I pretend it’s not there? She can’t see it. No, it’s too embarrassing. People behind me can see it. Oh, the people behind me! Are they laughing at me? How could they not be? No, no laughter. Maybe no one noticed? No, can’t be. They’re all being more polite than I would be. Note to self: don’t laugh at the misfortune of others.

But the stuff is still on her. She turns back and hands me back the limp scrap of a napkin. “Here, you’ve got some on your back.” I reach over and dab her arm, and the back of her tank top. Oh, my God, what am I doing. I’m pawing a woman, a young girl I don’t even know. It’s sexual harassment! She’s probably a minor. I’ll go to jail. I can see the headlines: “Gay man arrested for fondling woman in the park.” It’s not what you think! I’m not a creep! But I can’t not wipe my gastronomic disaster; I’d be a jerk! I’m just making it worse. “It’s alright,” she says, with a polite smile. No, it’s not! I want to scream. I just inconvenienced you and I don’t know how to make it up. I apologize again and slink back into my chair. Obviously, it’s my turn to be the Obnoxious Stranger Everyone Talks About on the Way Home.

“Apologize profusely and offer to pay for the dry cleaning,” says Bill in response to my query: what would Miss Manners do? Yes, I suppose that is the right thing to do. I did the apology bit. It sounds lame, and repeating it yet again won’t help. And it’s just a cotton top, it can be thrown in the wash. It seems awkward to offer to pay. Right? Or am I finding excuses? All through the play I’ll have those tomato seeds stuck there, taunting me. I wipe the sweat off my brow. So much for being cool.

Oh, look, they’re getting up. Are they offended? Are they taking a break? Moving their chairs? They just walk away. Well, at least I don’t have to see my tomato spurt victim. I catch my breath. “Man, that was as embarrassing as it gets.” I keep eating, more gingerly this time. The next tomato goes into my mouth, the whole thing. Fine. I can handle this. It’s over, move on.

Five minutes till curtain. Here they come. She’s wearing a long-sleeve T. “Shakespeare in the Park,” it says. Oh, good, she changed. I don’t have to feel bad that she’s uncomfortable or dirty. That was a nice way to handle it. Should I offer to pay for the new shirt? It’s a souvenir. They would have gotten the souvenir anyway, wouldn’t they? Or not. She glances at me briefly as she sits back down. I offer her a grimacing smile, as if to say, “I am so embarrassed I wish the ground would swallow me whole.” She and her dad continue talking. I focus my attention away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company’s production of The Taming of the Shrew. Please turn off your cell phones and refrain from flash photography.”

Showtime!

It’s hot in Boston. I wish we could set up a beach on the Charles, just like Paris did on the Seine.

I’ve just come back from Seattle, where most of the city is Wi-Fi enabled. While some residences are on secured networks, most cafés and libraries are open and free.

Why can’t Boston do the same?

It’s astounding that a city boasting world-class universities and high-tech business is lagging so far behind. There is an initiative to bring free public WiFi to Boston, first announced in February, but when will it happen? Wil it be enough? Dishearteningly, some of the institutions that do provide WiFi block many non-web and non-mail ports. This is true of the Brookline library, and, reportedly, of the BPL.

Here’s one list of WiFi hot spots and here’s another for the Newbury Street area.

C’mon, business owners, it makes good sense to provide free unrestricte WiFi: people will linger more, create more community by being out of their homes and offices, and shop more as they surf.