Wednesday, September 29, 2004, 8:30am
Wednesday, September 29, 2004, 8:30am
“Natick”
This morning Norm is working this trailing end of the train as usual.
As soon as I write those words “as usual” I realize how – ‘usual’ – is a matter of perspective. How long does something have to remain the same before we see this as a status quo? Norm once worked aboard the 6:05pm express train and for nearly six months after that stint I saw him no more than a few times patrolling some odd daytime Framingham run. Was that usual or unusual? I suppose usual is what seems normal given enough time to forget what was once the old routine, which must mean that someone with a poorer memory lives in a world hardly unusual at all.
It’s still raining as we make our fast run between Natick and Wellesley Square stations this morning. Through the gloom beyond this permanently foggy window I can see hints of red brick buildings across Route 135 – Wellesley College again in its usual spot, flashing through wet leaves.
It is Wednesday, and every other Wednesday evening Chris and I play Dungeons and Dragons (DnD) at Don’s house in Ashland. How this came about is quite unusual where I’d once asked for some technical assistance via the Internet on a pocket watch model for my Thief campaign, and this is how I met Randy, who just so happens to be a friend of Don who lives only a mile from our house. Randy telecommutes from Vermont to a place in Rhode Island every two weeks, staying a few nights in Ashland each time. A few years ago one of the DnD playing gang moved to Oregon and I suggested Chris as his replacement. Unlike me, Chris is an avid DnD player, and after several months I was also invited to join the game myself. With a few years of casual experience and coaching I can survive okay. If not for Chris and the camaraderie of the group I might not bother.
Outside this train window I watch a rushing slurry of wet highway traffic slashing past dripping trees, soaked billboards, and sweating office building façades. Some of these moldering buildings are part of BU – though I can’t say where BU ends and where the generalized city begins. Some sort of athletic center adjacent to Nickerson Field has been under construction ever since I began this commute two years ago. And this might be part of BU because of the hockey rink shape and its close proximity to the football field. But for now this is only inferred.
From aboard this single-decker car I can’t see the football playing surface, though several encircling dormitory towers define its location with little doubt. When Nickerson Field was once called Braves Field – a baseball park – it could hold more than 40 thousand fans to watch National League games just a mile west from Fenway Park. From what I’ve seen there aren’t that many seats for college football fans.
East from both ball fields, I return to the crucible of the present to watch the usual procession of columns supporting the I-93 concrete canopy overhead. Non-stop, the pillars drift one-by-one past my view this morning without the usual stop for outbound traffic. So it’s time to pack up for my soggy trudge into South Boston.
