AreaCode707
Lifer
http://www.creators.com/lifestyle_show.cfm?columnsName=bca
Though normally a courageous person unless the situation involves danger, I do have some of the more common phobias: snakes, heights and Boston.
Please don't think this means I don't like Boston. I like it a lot, particularly in association with "cream pie." It's just intimidating to me to be in a city where everyone has a grandmother who could beat me up.
The last time I was in Boston, the intimidation started in the taxi line. In Boston, cab drivers bomb around the corner as if fleeing a hit and run, squealing to a halt only long enough for people to dive headfirst into the back seat before roaring off again. It's against the local religion to wait for anything except maybe a World Series championship, so when I stood still even for a moment, I was yanked out of place by a large, red-faced man with a whistle.
"Fer cryin' out loud, yer holding up the line!" he scolded, as people scuttled past me at a dead run.
"Well, I'm sorry, I just, I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to go," I stammered.
His eyes bulged at me, driven by enormous pressure inside his head. "Whaddya mean? Ya go to the taxi! Do you wanna taxi, or not?"
"Well, yes, sure. Yes."
He looked me up and down suspiciously. "Wait a minute. Where you from?"
For some reason, I named the place of my birth, the tiny village of Petoskey, Mich., famous for its large sign proclaiming "Not Responsible for W. Bruce Cameron." His face relaxed. "Oh, yer a small-town kid, huh?"
No one has called me a "kid" in some time, but I agreed that this was accurate.
"Hang on," he told me. He blew his whistle and the bustling people in the taxi line halted like hunting dogs on point. "Wait a minute, folks, this guy's from a wicked small town in Michigan."
"Aww, how cute," the crowd murmured. Several people reached out to tousle my hair as I sheepishly made my way to a waiting cab.
The cabbie leaped out as if the cab were on fire. "Yer socks are down mine too, bottom fort!" he shouted at me, or so it sounded.
"Mike, hold on," the whistle man warned. "This boy's from a wicked small town in Michigan, he don't unnerstand English so good."
"Oh. Gotcha." Mike took a deep breath. "It's OK, son. Just get in the cab. The Sox are down by two, bottom of the fourth. Just saying hello."
I slid into the cab, and the crowd waved and called after me as if I were Dorothy in the balloon. "Bye! Bye!"
Mike drove with what I suppose you could call restrained death wish, blaring his horn through intersections and veering toward pedestrians with a snarl in order to keep them on the curb. Occasionally, he pointed out a historical marker, and I would briefly glance at it before I resumed praying. Several cabs roared past us, the drivers staring at Mike in disbelief. He shrugged his shoulders at each, shouting an explanation through his open window. "Small-town kid in da back, gotta take it easy!"
We pulled up in front of the hotel and stopped, the bellman peering at me curiously, possibly wondering why Mike hadn't sped past and dumped me out like a dead body. The two of them conferred, and then the bellman came over and took me by the arm.
"You'll be OK, little feller," he told me. I paid Mike, who punched me lightly in the shoulder, then looked scared.
"Aw, I'm sorry, did that hurt? Sorry, kid, I forgot."
Mike wanted his picture taken with me, and then the bellman ushered me through the mechanics of checking in, warning the desk clerks to "take it easy on this little guy."
In my room, I was shown where to put my bag and how to call the front desk if I "got scared."
"You'll be OK, little buddy," the bellman told me. "Just stay inside and don't talk to nobody."
So you see why I like Boston. The people are wicked nice.
Though normally a courageous person unless the situation involves danger, I do have some of the more common phobias: snakes, heights and Boston.
Please don't think this means I don't like Boston. I like it a lot, particularly in association with "cream pie." It's just intimidating to me to be in a city where everyone has a grandmother who could beat me up.
The last time I was in Boston, the intimidation started in the taxi line. In Boston, cab drivers bomb around the corner as if fleeing a hit and run, squealing to a halt only long enough for people to dive headfirst into the back seat before roaring off again. It's against the local religion to wait for anything except maybe a World Series championship, so when I stood still even for a moment, I was yanked out of place by a large, red-faced man with a whistle.
"Fer cryin' out loud, yer holding up the line!" he scolded, as people scuttled past me at a dead run.
"Well, I'm sorry, I just, I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to go," I stammered.
His eyes bulged at me, driven by enormous pressure inside his head. "Whaddya mean? Ya go to the taxi! Do you wanna taxi, or not?"
"Well, yes, sure. Yes."
He looked me up and down suspiciously. "Wait a minute. Where you from?"
For some reason, I named the place of my birth, the tiny village of Petoskey, Mich., famous for its large sign proclaiming "Not Responsible for W. Bruce Cameron." His face relaxed. "Oh, yer a small-town kid, huh?"
No one has called me a "kid" in some time, but I agreed that this was accurate.
"Hang on," he told me. He blew his whistle and the bustling people in the taxi line halted like hunting dogs on point. "Wait a minute, folks, this guy's from a wicked small town in Michigan."
"Aww, how cute," the crowd murmured. Several people reached out to tousle my hair as I sheepishly made my way to a waiting cab.
The cabbie leaped out as if the cab were on fire. "Yer socks are down mine too, bottom fort!" he shouted at me, or so it sounded.
"Mike, hold on," the whistle man warned. "This boy's from a wicked small town in Michigan, he don't unnerstand English so good."
"Oh. Gotcha." Mike took a deep breath. "It's OK, son. Just get in the cab. The Sox are down by two, bottom of the fourth. Just saying hello."
I slid into the cab, and the crowd waved and called after me as if I were Dorothy in the balloon. "Bye! Bye!"
Mike drove with what I suppose you could call restrained death wish, blaring his horn through intersections and veering toward pedestrians with a snarl in order to keep them on the curb. Occasionally, he pointed out a historical marker, and I would briefly glance at it before I resumed praying. Several cabs roared past us, the drivers staring at Mike in disbelief. He shrugged his shoulders at each, shouting an explanation through his open window. "Small-town kid in da back, gotta take it easy!"
We pulled up in front of the hotel and stopped, the bellman peering at me curiously, possibly wondering why Mike hadn't sped past and dumped me out like a dead body. The two of them conferred, and then the bellman came over and took me by the arm.
"You'll be OK, little feller," he told me. I paid Mike, who punched me lightly in the shoulder, then looked scared.
"Aw, I'm sorry, did that hurt? Sorry, kid, I forgot."
Mike wanted his picture taken with me, and then the bellman ushered me through the mechanics of checking in, warning the desk clerks to "take it easy on this little guy."
In my room, I was shown where to put my bag and how to call the front desk if I "got scared."
"You'll be OK, little buddy," the bellman told me. "Just stay inside and don't talk to nobody."
So you see why I like Boston. The people are wicked nice.
