My mother had died the week before and I was stunned, so my friend Jane's family threw me a birthday party. They had a huge family. Crunching the numbers in my head, I come up with 12, but I think I'm missing a brother who was religious and living in Utah, that I never met. The household was loosely ordered with everyone coming and going as they wished. An elegant but unnoticed microcosm—no fighting that I ever saw, and amazingly, everyone helped with the work. Three people cooked. This included a number of packages of hamburger helper, someone made jugs of koolaid, got pitchers of water, set the table, yelled that dinner was served and started passing huge bowls.
After, they brought me a cake and Matthew, who was probably four or five back then, gave me a little necklace with a star in the middle. I still have it even though the gold wore off a long time ago from constant wear. I remember sitting at the head of the table with all those warm people facing me. I barely managed not to cry because it meant so much to me. All this was just the prelude to the moment.
Jane lived in the top floor of a three decker on Innman Square in Cambridge. Legal Seafood started there. Two guys and bench tables. When we were too broke for anything else, we'd go over and get pints and quarts of fish chowder in cardboard containers to eat at Jane's apartment. That was another place where friends and family passed through at any hour. Need a friend–find a friend. Need a bed–find a bed. Need a meal–find a meal. Cooked brownies–bring em over. Plan an expedition–let's all go. Man, do I ever miss that. Now, I have to make an appointment if I want to have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with someone.
A few Sundays, we went to Irish brunch at the Plough and Stars. There was music and a boiled Irish dinner. The place was such a dive, that on occasion, you might have to wait for junkies to get out of the bathroom. I loved going there. Very homey. The drinking age was still 18 so we used to go to the Innman Square Men's Bar too. It was nifty. The booths had hanging lamps over the tables and high backs. The bartender was a huge, bald guy who looked scarier than anyone I've ever seen, but he handed over the drinks with a wink and a smile. I think the name of the Band I loved was the Travis Shook Band, but I'm not sure. They later became the Incredible Casuals and were the reason for many blissful hours dancing in the Grog when I moved up to Newburyport.
OK. Here's the moment. Sitting at a worn wooden table in a booth, beers in hand, and the hanging lamp shining a circle just large enough to include all our faces, someone asked "How old are you?"
I answered; "twenty. How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
Then around the table: "Twenty-six."
"Twenty-four."
"Twenty-five."
And at that moment—THE moment. I was confident that I would never be THAT old.
Live through that…
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