License to Kill
July 1, 2008 at 9:52 amI’m staying in a one bedroom sublet for the next two months. It’s a cute place, next to Fenway. The girl who lives here is studying in Australia this summer; she’s getting her PhD in something fancy. She left me some instructions about the place, where the laundry is, how to get the mail. She also asked if I could “water her plants.” Sounds easy enough. Then I looked at the next page of notes - it was entirely about how to take care of the plants. I looked around the room, scanning them. There were a lot of plants, I thought. I counted. Twenty six. Yes, you read that right - TWENTY SIX PLANTS.
There were ferns, orchids, plants in stones, plants in bark fertilizer, a virtual garden in the damn apartment. And I guess this girl thought I could handle it. Little does she know I have a black thumb. I kill everything I touch - well, everything plantlike. My mother has a bright green thumb; she can take the leaf off a branch and two weeks later have a small tree growing out of a bucket. Unbelievable. I’m hoping to have 12, maybe 15 plants left when she returns.
Speaking of plants, there’s a community garden across the street from my place. Beautiful plots, rented out by people in the city, where they create a Secret Garden of sorts in the middle of Boston. There are trellises of roses, goldfish ponds, stone walkways. It’s really a treat to have here. Toby loves walking through them.
However, what he REALLY likes, is the “dirty water” next to the gardens. The river winds through the city and the banks fo the river are overgrown with bamboo and reeds. The first few days, I let him wander through the paths next to the river….but then I started to notice strange things. Condom wrappers mostly, packets of Joe Lube, empty beer bottles. I thought it was the local youth having some fun. But then I started seeeing all the men. Various ages and types, hanging around the back of the gardens by the reeds. They were there ALL THE TIME. Morning, afternoon, evening, you name it; shady men just standing around, waiting for something. So I asked a neighbor what that something might be. Gay sex ring. Yes, you heard it, gay sex ring in my backyard. Hmm, front yard? Turns out that this area is infamous for it’s sexcapades. It’s gotten pretty bad in the last couple of years, many people don’t want to use the garden anymore because of it. The police just ignore the problem because, well, the want no part in it.
Hey, I’m all about free love, but I do have a problem with trash. Pick up after yourselves boys! Also, zip up BEFORE you come out of the reeds (saw that one the other day). It’s sad that they have to use this area for that - are there no whorehouses?











