A Most Boston St. Patrick's Day

My last St. Patrick's day in Boston as a single man was a multi-parter.

It began at noon, I had lunch at a Japanese restaurant in East Cambridge. My "date", a long-time friend stuck in an unhappy marriage. Lunch was a 90-minute session of complaints, big and small and her brilliant new plan to move her husband into the garage once the conversion to a "guest cottage" was completed.

"Why don't you get divorced, you're the unhappiest person I know."
This good catholic girl answered, "Nobody in my family has ever gotten divorced, I can't be the first, my mother would die." I ate the last tuna sushi and said, "You're the one dying, not your mom. Did she die when you were 4 months pregnant when you married him at the Arboretum instead of in the Holy Catholic Church? No, she didn't, did she?"

She was mute. This woman and I have known each other for a long time. We'd met when were both dating other people, we used to double date. We'd had an unrequited love affair for years.

I'd take her to lunch when she was pregnant. After her daughter was born, I'd carry the baby to lunch and push her in her stroller down Commonwealth Avenue. I'm sure people thought we were married, a happy couple, with a beautiful baby and big German Shepherd living the good life in Boston's Back Bay.

We sure as hell weren't that.

When I was promoted to the corporate office and moved to Florida, she'd call and cry on the phone, daily. I finally gave her an ultimatum. "Pack your bags, put the baby in the car and move down here."

She hung up. I didn't talk to her again for two years. She now lives in New York, the baby has graduated from BC and her husband lives in an apartment in Quincy. They are still "married". 

As the Irish say, "a fooking tragedy is what it was."

Teary-eyed, a kiss on the cheek and she dropped me off at my office.

The radio station was empty except for the people on the air. I did a few things in my office and left to met Tommy and Kevin across Boylston at the Pour House. A Guinness and a shot of Bushmills later. I left to take my dog for a walk, an hour later we met at Daisy Buchanan's at the end of my block. Tommy and good old Kev were in the first stage of St. Patrick's Day shit face.

My girlfriend at the time had gone with me to the New England Broadcaster's Annual St. Patrick's Day Party the year before, she wisely turned down my invitation to this year's event. After a couple of pops at Daisey's, we were off to the NEBA gathering. For unknown reasons, it was being held at Dick's Last Resort, a blues and BBQ place in the basement of the Prudential Tower parking garage. Perfect for St. Patrick's Day, right?

Dick's was in full shit show mode when we arrived, we dragged a table over to join some of our associates creating a table for 8. We ordered, Dick's had no Irish beer, we had to make do with Corona. This prompted Kevy to switch to Stoly Vodka, a well known red flag with that laddie. Kev drank his vodka on the rocks. "Tommy" spotted a TV reporter he knew and dragged her back to the table and they proceeded to fall in love.

With the full approval of my then-girlfriend, I had a date for St. Patrick's Day. A blonde, green-eyed.Lipstick Lesbian in a stylish St. John suit and matching heels. She was stunning.

I had from time to time acted as her beard and functioned as her "boyfriend" to ward off all the assholes who hit on her. Ms. H found me, gave me a hug and a kiss, prompting Kev to say, "You always have the best looking dates, you dick." Ms. H smiled and told Kevin, "Don't be an asshole, I know it's hard but, please try sweetie." She patted him on the head and gave him a peck on the cheek. Kevin was momentarily cheered by the attention of a gorgeous woman.

Ms. H and I danced to a few tunes, while we were slow dancing, she said, "I'm going to find Kevin a date."

We went back to the table, Kevvy was well into his sad Irishman mood. Now Kevvy is a brilliant guy, he's shy as hell and has real trouble dealing with women. He's loaded with catholic guilt, as in he's a good boy with nasty thoughts and impulses he never acts on, in short, he's a complicated man who drinks way the hell too much.

Ms. H is back in a flash, with two women in tow. They're sisters, one a news producer at Channel 7, the other a senior at Syracuse in town to see what a Boston's St. Patrick's Day is all about. Ms. H orders them drinks on my tab and introduces them to Kevin. He perks up, smiles, tugs on his red, curly forelock and mumbles something. The older sister throws down a shot of something clear, takes a drink of my beer and drags Kevin onto the dance floor. Ms. H is beaming. A couple of songs go by and the Syracuse sister joins them. Neither of them notices Kevin can't dance worth a shit and is a least a beat and half behind the band. Kevin is in Heaven.

Meanwhile, Tommy and his TV reporter are so in love, they are giving each other wet kisses at the table.

We're saved by old Billy W, who announces, "Enough of this shit we're going to the Black Rose!"
There's 7 of us, we need two cabs, Billy steps out into the middle of Huntington Avenue and with the luck of the Irish, he gets two Town cabs to stop and off we go.

When I first visited the Black Rose on occasion in the 70s, they were passing the hat for the IRA. Now the Black Rose is an upscale Irish bar in the Fanuel Hall Market, it's on the edge of the financial district, so it's filled with bankers, stockbrokers, and venture (vulture) capitalists and tourists. We last one drink, after fending off a couple of stockbrokers from hitting on Ms. H with bullshit pick up lines, we head to Cambridge for a real Irish bar. Billy does his magic trick and two more cabs appear and we head for The Druid. It's Tommy's favorite.

Ms. H and I order fish and chips and a couple of Guinness Stouts, Kevvy and his girls stick with vodka as does Billy. Time goes by, we join in and sing a few old Irish favorites with the band, the ones I recall, Black Velvet Band and some ditty that starts, "in the year of our lord 18 hundred and six". More Clancy Brothers than Clannad or the Chieftains for my taste.

I notice that Tommy and his "new wife" have disappeared. I ask Ms. H. if she knows where they are. Billy jumps in and says, "my guess is they are making love on top of the dumpster in the alley, it's their wedding night, yah know." We never see them again.

Meanwhile, the grinning Kevin is getting kisses from both the sisters. I notice he is copping a feel or two. They don't seem to mind.

After an hour or so at the Druid, we're tired of the music and the drunken Harvard students. We head for the Cantab on Mass Ave.

The Cantab is a classic working-class bar with a varied clientele. Retired guys and their tired wives, blue-collar workers, students, waiters and waitresses, the occasional drug dealer and other Cambridge hoodlums. It's a fun slice of life in The People's Republic of Cambridge.

We lose Billy, he decides it's time to go home. Ms. H, Kevvy and his dates and I squeeze into seats at the bar. The Cantab is smokey, it's hot and the punky-Irish band is doing their best on the tiny stage. They're playing the Clash's 'London Calling" when we slip in the door. Sitting next to me is an old Irish guy named Jimmy, he's a retired T conductor, we meet only because he tells me I'm sitting in his buddy Duke's seat. He adds with a grin, 'it's okay because the old fuckah went home early, he couldn't stand the god damned band". He makes his point by yelling, "turn that shit down!"

We have a few pints, Ms. H and I dance to a few tunes. We sit down when the pogoing starts. Jimmy pokes me and says, "You tappin' that good lookin' broad?" Ms. H hears him and says, "Of course he is, he makes me scream like a banshee, don't you honey?" She adds an exclamation point by licking my cheek. Jimmy's eyes bug out and he grins like a Cheshire cat, "He does, does he?" Ms. H leans over and says, "Yes he does, but your heart couldn't take the details."

 Kevvy buys me a shot of Old Bushmills, I'd had with drinking it at this point of the evening, I slide the shot in front of Jimmy. he downs it and I've made a friend for life. It's time to go home, as we're leaving, old Jimmy says, "Lad, it must be grand to wake up in the mornin' and see that beauty lyin' beside yah."

"I'll tell you, Jimmy, she usually wakes me up and believe me most mornings she's pretty damn frisky." I get a slap on the back and a "That's my boy." Ms. H gives old Jimmy a peck on the cheek and we're gone.

On the sidewalk, Kevin and the girls are arguing about where to go. Long story short, Kevin got nowhere with either one.

Ms. H is in no condition to drive, I took her home with me. I handed her a t-shirt to sleep in, she stripped down in front of me, pulled the black Bruins T-shirt over her head, tossed her long blonde hair and said, "We can snuggle, but keep your hands to yourself." She crawled into my bed and passed out.

I took my German Shepherd for a long walk.

All said and done, a great St. Patrick's Day, I wish I could have given you a more erotic ending, but sometimes you can only do what you can do.