Last night in Boston

Before I closed down the exhibition, ended my two-week-and-some-change work trip, before I hit up Logan again, before I crashed with a nasty cold from too many hotels, airplanes, exhibition halls, and strangers, I had this kind of blow-out night in Boston.

All I've got is this photo which I took at about two am in the Boston Eagle. That's Friend Tom who drove up from Providence and Dan from the internationally-famous, critically-acclaimed band Neptune.

We had been out all night, mostly at Jacques, throwing back cheap beers and watching the drag show while Dan told us stories of his days working the door and booking shows. I was lamenting the fact that an author of mine, whom I had just met earlier that week, wasn't able to join us.

He and I had really hit it off--we had never met before even though we had worked on his manuscript together and I had signed it up with glee. He had come over from England for the week and a few days earlier we had had dinner and bonded over our love of gay dive bars.

Fast forward to the last beers of the night at the Eagle. I noticed my author and another man at the door and I was suddenly happy--I thought he'd get along well with my friends. But before they could cross the threshold they were basically pushed back out onto the street by the bartender.

"What's going on?" Tom asked.

"I have no idea--weird. I'll go out and see what's up."

I went outside to smoke a cigarette, and saw my author leaning against the brick wall of the bar with a very angry-looking man. Explaining that his new friend here was denied entry to the bar, he turned to the sullen man for an explanation.

"Fuck. I spit on one of the bartenders once."

Well, that'll do it, we sympathized.

"You would have done it too," he continued, "had the guy done to you what he did to me."

While we didn't press him on this, I did silently muse, while continuing to smoke my cigarette, as to what someone would have to do to me to cause me to spit on him. In any case, my author and his new friend weren't getting in. Pissed off and probably embarrassed, the guy bid us goodnight and set off down the street toward Fritz. My author bounced on the balls of his feet, doing a sort of nervous little jig as he watched his new friend head off into the distance.

"Were you going to fuck him?" I asked.

"Yes," he sheepishly answered...

"Well, go after him!" I commanded. "What are you waiting for?"

"Really? Are you sure? You won't mind?"

"Of course I won't. Now go. Go fuck him!"

And with that, my author dashed off into the night. He caught up with his sullen piece of rough trade just before they both turned a corner and left my sight.

I had to chuckle to myself. I often order authors to meet their deadlines or finish their conclusions but I've never ordered one to go fuck a stranger.

Ten minutes later my author was back at the Eagle, alone, and buying me and Tom a beer. "That guy was really scary," he told us.