Seacoast Fog

A Good Twenty Dollars

A few seconds after the intercom beeped in the alcove of my tiny Boston apartment I heard a few words of gibberish. It was part of the suspense of Boston living in 1973; the tinny speakers made every voice indiscernible. I pressed the admit button and hoped it wasn’t the four pushy Hare Krishnas I inadvertently let into my apartment last month. They ruined a quiet weekend afternoon by broadcasting incense throughout my apartment as they tried to convince me to join their religious sect, shave my head and adorn a silky orange robe.

A few minutes later, I heard a loud knock on the triple-locked door. I peered through the tiny peephole and blood-shot eyes looked back. A voice native to Massachusetts said: “Lemme in.” It was my hometown friend Ed Hailey, a.k.a. Hailstones.

Ed hadn’t changed much in the past year. I last saw him leaving a package store carrying a case of Schlitz bottles. Tall and thin, his unruly black hair made him look like he just fell out of a speeding car. His eyes had prominent red streaks caused by his dislike of sleep. His face was an irregular collection of tiny red ruts caused by a lost battle with a skin ailment. He spoke in a calm, deep voice; his slow delivery probably caused by his life-long consumption of a ton of cigarettes and a boxcar of beer.

I knew Ed from the basketball courts and house parties of our hometown fifteen miles south of Boston. He had an easy manner and a chronic disregard for authority. I told him to “make yourself at home.” Ed dropped his worn army jacket on a table and slid into an overstuffed chair with failed springs. He fondled a bottle of Schlitz Draft wrapped tightly with a brown paper bag then he removed the bottle cap with a worn “church key” he kept in his pocket. He curled his leathery fingers around the bottle, took a gulp, and said: ”Can I stay for a while? This will be great for both of us. I’ll sleep on the couch. If you have any stay-over girlfriends, I’ll sleep in my car.”

I drifted toward approving his visit, then I thought about Ed’s economic provenance—he invented deficit spending. Back then few of us had money, but Ed never had any money. He survived with his copping skills; he could beg, borrow, or steal anything.

While Ed quaffed his beer, I pondered my options. I could tolerate his sonorous snoring and open the big bay window overlooking Commonwealth Avenue when he chain-smoked Marlboro cigarettes, a habit I disliked because of my bad lungs. His beer bottles had to be managed and his voracious appetite could be controlled if he bought his own food. I didn't own anything but my clothes so he couldn't steal anything of value from me. Most importantly, as a poor college student, I needed help paying my rent. I looked over at his Basset hound eyes and said, “You can move in, but keep up with the expenses.”

We shook hands. I told him about city life; watch your wallet and keep an eye out for bad men lurking in the shadows. I told him to play by the law and everything will be fine. I also told him about my ex-girlfriend who took one look at my messy apartment and said: "It sure looks lived in around here." She ditched me in favor of her hometown sweetheart, and I now dated a waitress named Gaye. Ed had a collection of sometime girlfriends but his only steady was Bessie, a faded white 1966 Chrysler sedan with wide seats that he described as “great for lovin.”

“This is the city and you can’t park anywhere you want,” I said. “ By the way, where did you park Bessie?” He casually pointed toward the window and said, “ Bessie is parked out front. Don’t worry about it. Your too damn paranoid.” I looked out the window and Bessie was gone.

The Boston Police Department had towed Bessie to Ricky’s Towing Storage, a mile away. We walked to the lot and there she was, parked in a warren of abused, homeless, unloved sedans. Ed needed Bessie and I noticed a few tears on his crimson streaked eyes as we walked into the tow yard office. A bearded man with bad-man eyes snarled behind a scratched safety glass barrier and said: “ Seventy-five dollars and not a penny less. Cash only and no twenties!” Ed shrugged. We had twelve dollars and no chance of adding to that total.