In the early 1990s these streets were Boston’s skid row, the warehouses boarded up and vacant until artists and musicians began converting the giant factories into rehearsal spaces and studios, nailing up drywall, stripping bricks, and installing makeshift plumbing while Spagnola Realty Trust Co. turned a blind eye, ignoring that people were actually living in these spaces. The majority of rents were kept off the books, paid in cash, the trade-off an unspoken deal: We pretend we don’t live here, and you pretend not to notice we do.
The few leases that actually exist are strictly commercial, and Mario Spagnola, playing the part of commercial landlord, cuts the heat promptly at six in the evenings and on Sundays doesn’t turn it on at all. This past February was so cold I spent most of it sleeping in my winter coat, the cat’s water bowl freezing nightly, and though it pained me deeply, I was forced to eliminate the line “your place or mine?” from my repertoire.
By the time I arrived on Thayer, there were few spaces that hadn’t already been converted into some form of mixed-use loft; music from rehearsing bands or construction noises (sometimes it was hard to tell the difference) drifted into the street at all hours. Impromptu parties went deep into the night, nary a neighbor to be disturbed and call the cops. You could always find someone to lend you paint or brushes on Thayer Street, a darkroom in which to develop photos, and people to pose for them, or just stave off loneliness with a drink or a bong hit at the Rez, a dark and ratty basement speakeasy at the corner of Thayer and Albany, the site of massive after-hours parties and all-you-can-swill keggers headlined by acts like Bullet LaVolta, Malachite, and the Cavedogs.
Not everybody was an artist, of course, but the neighborhood had something for everyone: games of stickball and street hockey in the empty streets and parking lots, Sunday tag football games, atomic clouds of pot smoke emanating from prolonged huddles and mingling with the noxious exhaust from bumper-to-bumper traffic on the expressway. By all rights E-Z Wider should have paid us a sponsorship fee.
It was great while it lasted. But as the Big Dig ramped up and encroached on the neighborhood, construction equipment was routinely vandalized, leading to sporadic scuffles between construction workers and residents, drawing police attention and, finally, the city’s all-in commitment.
What was the civics lesson learned? The most basic one of all: Not only can you not fight city hall, you can’t even let them know you exist.
Evictions for fire code and safety violations were followed by rent increases, the real estate market heating up as gentrification, which had already swept through the South End proper, lapped steadily at our doors; pioneering merchants—a Chinese grocery, Korean nail salon, the requisite pawnshop—sticking their toes in the market on Albany, the high-end boutiques, coffee shops, and art galleries inevitably close behind.
For some people gentrification was as much an incentive as the construction to push them elsewhere—toward adulthood, real jobs, or wherever creative and dysfunctional people go when bills have to be paid. Like those scattered on my desk.
About that: Bills arrive with my name shining through the glassy envelope windows, and I tell my roomies what they owe toward their share. David is paycheck clockwork, but money from Nicolette trickles in sporadically, depending on whether she’s landed work. My cash flow’s steadier than Nicolette’s, but it’s often dependent on where my clients are in the billing cycle. Toward the end of a slow month, it’s not unusual for me to pick up a few days’ cash work with Zero.
But in the spirit of full disclosure, David’s timely payments often get diverted to other necessities that, as de facto head of the collective, I’ve deemed more important than utilities or rent. Like food or marijuana. Personally, I don’t have a problem with smoking in the dark.
I can’t tell if anyone’s home, but the kitchen’s still a disaster, the sink-piled dishes taking on the permanence of sculpture. The cat usually comes running when he hears the pop of the can opener, but this time he waits until I have the door locked behind me lest he be forced to show gratitude for my effort; I hear the newly opened can skidding across the floor as I bounce my backup Yokota down the stairs.
In the loading dock beside the front stairs, a pile of blankets shifts, and even though I know it’s Albert huddled under there in the pitch-dark, I twitch reflexively, a jolt of pain shooting down my back. Albert is homeless but a longstanding tenant of the loading dock at 42, sometimes even hanging a worn blanket across the front to mark his occupancy. By the time I arrived on Thayer Street, he was already a neighborhood fixture, ghost by day but arriving at some point each evening, a huddled sentry, a peekaboo gargoyle.
“You know, Albert”—I address the shifting mound—“one of these days you’re gonna give me a heart attack and you’ll feel real bad about it.”
“That’s what you always tell me, Zesty.” Albert pops his head out of the blankets. His skin is the color of eggplant, mottled with dark moles, and covered by a thick beard littered with crumbs. “But you know I’m always here. Got a cigarette?”
“Have you ever seen me smoke a cigarette, Albert?”
“Weed?” he says hopefully.
“I wish.” Albert, by his own admission, is a bit schizophrenic, his demons grown strong on years of drug and alcohol abuse. He’s thin, but you wouldn’t know it, multiple layers lending him a false thickness and outsize girth. I contemplate giving Albert one of Sam’s blue pills, but it’s probably not a good idea. At the moment he seems a little skittish; his head is jiggling like a hobo bobblehead. The smell coming from under the blankets is pretty funky too. His last shower must be at least a couple weeks behind him. Once in a while Nicolette or I will invite Albert to use the bathroom and clean up, maybe give him a bite to eat or a few dollars, but once he’s inside, it’s hard to get him out, and honestly, his stench lingers for days.
“How you been, Albert?”
“Good. Fine. Can’t sleep, though.” Albert blinks rapidly, narrows his eyes. “Damn, Zesty, what happened to you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Mmm, I’m not much in the mood for long stories. Where you off to?”
“I got a few errands to run, then maybe over to Foley’s. Quiet night?”
“Yeah, not like it used to be, right? I’d rather have it busy. Safer that way. Hey.” Albert’s voice turns conspiratorial, somewhere between a hiss and whisper. “Man come around couple hours ago looking for you. ’Spicious-looking. Why didn’t you answer the door?”
“Part of the long story,” I say. “He say anything to you?”
“Naw. He didn’t see me. I can tell it’s your bell he ringin’, though. Got that annoying sound like when you answer wrong on a game show.”
“You recognize him?”
“You got some weed, Zesty?”
“Like I said.” I hold up empty hands.
“Oh yeah. Naw. I never seen him before. Black dude. Biiig. Like he made outta bricks.”
“Okay.”
“Big black bricks. Nigga bricks!”
“I get the picture, Albert.” If Albert begins to stray in conversation, it usually turns weird.
“Nigga bricks.” Albert mumbles to himself, his head shaking a little more, trying to jiggle a thought free. “Why’s it we never see no black bricks nowhere? I seen white bricks. Yella bricks. Red—”
“I’ll see you later, Albert.”
“Pull up in a black Pathfinder. Not alone neither. Scoping your windows. I took one peep and turned myself into a pile of laundry, know’m saying?”
“They look like police?” Or is that a stupid question? For all I know, these are the cats the government sends to claw back their Pell Grants.
“I ain’t seen them around before. Then again, ain’t been straying too far and wide lately. Circling the shopping wagon, you might say.” Albert smiles mismatched teeth at his pun. “Neighborhood’s changing. Pretty soon you gonna have to win the lottery to stay ’round here.”
“You play the lottery, Albert?”
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“Fuck no! I’m homeless, Zesty, not stupid. Ain’t got no money to piss away. You?”
I reach deep into my pocket, feel the crumpled hundred-dollar bill between my fingers. “Down to scratch myself,” I tell him.
FOURTEEN
Mission Hill isn’t considered a hot zone anymore, but like most Boston neighborhoods, it’s cycled through its share of despair and renewal, the hillside overlooking Brigham and Women’s faring better than the back end, which slopes dejectedly toward neglected Roxbury projects and run-down brick-fronted apartment buildings.
Britta’s house is easy to spot, brown paint chipped and peeling, the intimation of a picket fence surrounding the property. A row of prickly thorn bushes lines the walk, but they seem to exist more as an afterthought, the stubborn perseverance of nature in the face of so-called civilization.
I lean my bike under an open window at the side of the house. The second-story room is dark, but Elvis Costello is drifting out, crooning about the dangers of the working week from My Aim Is True. The front door is a battered oak with a rectangle of wire mesh protecting stained glass at the top, a rusted mail slot sitting waist high blooming supermarket circulars. Buzzers to the right: A. Korvell on the bottom, B. Ingalls above. I pull one of the fliers.
Britta Ingalls.
Getting the swing of this detective work now, only a matter of time before I rent an office with frosted glass doors, a bottle of whiskey stashed in the top desk drawer, dames in furs waiting to throw themselves at me.
It’s not late, but most of the houses on the opposite side of the street are also dark, people working overtime or maybe I’m not the only one with unpaid utility bills. Cars line the street, a few jammed in the narrow driveways between homes. I ring the top buzzer, hear it chime off-key somewhere upstairs. I ring the bottom buzzer, but nobody answers.
I’ve already leaned twice on the buzzer next door, getting set to leave when a woman’s raspy voice exclaims, “Hold on. You young people don’t give an old lady a chance to do anything.”
The door opens the width of a chain, one rheumy eye peering below it, a slice of stringy gray hair held back by a bright yellow barrette.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for Britta next door. Do you know your neighbors?” I point to Britta’s house.
“What?”
“Britta,” I repeat. “Ingalls. She lives next door.”
“She lives next door.” The woman throws caution to the wind, slips the chain off the lock. An oversized men’s dress shirt reaches below her knees. “Is that what you just said? Well, that’s what happens when you have the same set of ears for eighty-four years; I’m not going to apologize for them. You’ll just have to speak louder. And straighten up, young man, or you’ll look like me before it’s your time.”
I do as I’m told, pulling my shoulders back. “Have you seen her today?”
“No. Once a week she stops by with the girl downstairs, helps me water my plants. Those I can’t reach.” She opens the door wider to show me overflowing planters hanging off hooks drilled into the ceiling. “I broke my hip trying to water those spiders. Now I don’t move so well. I tell all my friends I broke it ice-skating. I used to skate the most lovely figure eights. Who did you say you were?”
“A friend of Britta’s.” The lie slides easily across my lips. Murder police, little old ladies, makes no difference.
“Then how come I’ve never seen you before?” She narrows her eyes to bring me into better focus.
“You know, I was just thinking the same about you.”
“Hmm.” She allows herself a small chuckle at that notion. “Don’t go thinking I’m some fuddy-duddy, young man. It’s just an old lady in this neighborhood has to watch out for her comely young neighbors. My ears might be going, but my memory is just fine. And don’t think you’re the first to come knocking for Britta either. If I’d any sense, I’d pin a note on my door ‘if you’re looking for Britta, I don’t know where she is.’ Save me the trouble of seeing all your disappointed faces. Which, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to yours?”
“I fell off my bicycle,” I say.
“Oh dear. But got right back on I see.”
“You say someone came looking for Britta before me?” I try steering the woman back on course.
“Why yes, dear. As a matter of fact, he looked a good deal like you.” A thought occurs to the woman, and she flaps a playful elbow my way. “Trying to get an inside track on your competition, eh?” She winks knowingly at me.
“Something like that,” I admit, reasonably sure she might be talking about Gus or roughly half the messengers in town.
“Well, I can see she likes the long hair on a man. She told me so herself. What’s your name again?”
“Zesty,” I say to her for the first time—this old lady is working me like a two-way street. I fish a card out of my bag and hand it to her.
“Anyhow, like I told the other fella, I haven’t seen Britta today. Peculiar.”
“What is?”
“He’d driven up in her car and then parked along the side of the house but didn’t know where she was. You’re not worried, are you?”
“No, ma’am. But would you do me a great big favor? If you see Britta, would you give her this card and tell her to call the number on it right away? It’s kind of important.”
“I’m sure it is.” The old woman throws me Groucho Marx eyebrows.
“No, really.”
“Keep your tight britches on, young man. If I see her I’ll tell her. Only don’t you think it might be wise to give your face a chance to heal? Women like pretty faces too, and you have wonderful bone structure, even though you slouch. You know, it’s not all buns and muscles, washbasin stomachs and all that.”
In lieu of a washboard stomach and probably a few inches short of “all that,” I give her a big smile and walk to the opposite side of Britta’s house, where I’d missed seeing a car covered by a heavy tarp parked as far back from the street as possible. A light mounted to the side of the house flicks on as I step into the gravel driveway, and a wave of nausea passes through me as I lift the front corner to look at a scratched chrome fender, a long metallic scrape the color of my mangled Fat Chance running toward the center. I fold the entire corner back and the tarp snaps off like an ill-fitting sheet, revealing the gold Buick shining in the spotlight.
I leave the sheet where it fell, try the car doors and the trunk, barely suppressing the urge to kick in the window, the sound of breaking glass sure to attract unwanted attention.
When the light clicks off, I circle around to the back door, but it’s locked. I find my bike where I left it and step from the frame to the seat and boost myself to standing. I gain a toehold where a shingle’s missing, reach a grip on Britta’s window ledge, and chin myself up, my legs speed-cycling over the outer wall as I get my elbows and forearms over the sill.
The stench hits me before I tumble onto what’s left of a futon, the stuffing everywhere except where I needed it to cushion my fall. “Britta?” I have to retrieve my tongue before it can flush itself down my throat. Flies strafe the air, kamikaze window glass.
This would seem an opportune time to panic. But I’ve been dragged to a Phish concert before, so it’s not the first time I’ve smelled this much patchouli, only never in such high concentration; the futon is soaked with the oil. I rush to strip off my shirt, my eyes stinging wet, my cuts and scrapes burning like they’re on fire. Waves of hippie waft off my skin. I hear nothing. Not even Elvis, whom I must have unplugged midlyric, the cord hot to the touch; no telling how long he’s been playing.
Sift uninvited through the belongings of someone you don’t know, you’re a private eye. Grunt, lift, and charge by the hour, you’re a mover. And if nothing else, working for Zero has given me the ability to gauge a person simply by strolling through their home, giving their belongings a quick once-over. Britta Ingalls is no exception. Except her things have been largely destroyed,
making them just a little harder to read.
So what does Britta’s shabby chic with a dose of kitsch tell me? What do I learn from her gutted futon, shattered mosaic coffee table, colorful Bakelite ashtrays, a scattering of batik-dyed throw pillows, threadbare kilim rugs, just about everything destined to decorate the curb come trash day?
Nothing helpful, except that whoever tossed the place has done a thorough job of it, debris in the hallway leading to destruction in the living room. Even the fridge is cleared out, except for a bottle of Amstel, which I pop open to swig the taste of patchouli out of my mouth before pouring some over my head and neck. Now I just smell like Harvard Square on a Saturday night.
From under the living room shades, there’s just enough light to admire Britta’s collection of vintage rock posters, an obvious perk of her job at Black Hole and worth a small eBay fortune: The Modern Lovers. The Zulus. Robin Lane and the Chartbusters. The Neighborhoods. The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. There’s a scattering of work papers and old-style Polaroids strewn about the floor, receipts, pay stubs, apartment lease, credit card bills. Big credit card bills.
There’s more than one picture of Britta and Gus together, which doesn’t surprise me, Gus being the lead singer of the unfortunately named but not altogether terrible Gizzard Blizzard, last year’s second-place finishers in the long-running WBCN-sponsored Boston Rock & Roll Rumble and signed to a record deal at Black Hole, which is how he landed the messenger account in the first place.
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