Wednesday, November 17, 6:13pm
Wednesday, November 17, 6:13pm
Beyond the parking lot at Yawkey Station a widely spaced string of plain white light bulbs demarcate the roof line of Fenway Park. Snow has finally fallen here, though not on the playing surface grass as I had once contemplated. That grass was rolled up just days after the World Series and the whole field dug up to finally install a decent drainage system. It will be interesting to compare photos from previous years to see if any of the huge domed drainage camber remains. The old field was literally a low hill made to shed rainwater. Given a few days of casual gravity, it tended to drain, but that hardly solved the problem of a night game after a day of passing rain showers.
Past Braves Field the train is gaining on Mass Pike traffic and again I wonder just how many are passively aware of a speeding commuter train making good progress out of the city, or how this might be a better choice for some of the regular Pike commuters.
William is gone from this evening train – now running the trailing end of my morning commuter. Norm is gone altogether and it might be a while before I hear his opinions on anything. I’m glad to have William as the official face of the early commute – but I’m sad not to see Norm anymore.
Autos linger on the Pike as we take our leave through brief woods, light industry, and across Route 128. It has become a matter of faith lately to say that we’re making progress as we cruise in pitch blackness through the false wilderness of eastern Wellesley. For all I can tell, the terrain simulator’s scenery projector has bitten the dust partway through our amusement park ride and its time to ask for a refund.
With imagined carnival ride tickets in hand still lingering – suddenly and without warning a very real eastbound train blows past my window compressing the air between while distending the glass inboard – all with no reactions from other passengers even though 250 tons of steel, aluminum, and humanity traveling at relative speed of 130mph just roared within arms length of us. Except for passengers queuing to leave at West Natick Station, the atmosphere and the mood of this rail carriage remains unchanged since Back Bay as I shiver with wonderment at how we can outwardly ignore such an immediately violent moment while so many might cringe at the mere mention of a nutcase hiding in Pakistan.
Underway heading for Framingham, the train leaves its warm air behind and in its place a cold draft enters through open doors. The train stops and starts at a certain rate, yet the shiftless air inside the train does not follow this same pattern, especially when there is a pathway for escape and a way for the cold to sneak aboard.
Am I being silly by giving these breezes a personality? I suppose it’s natural to envision all actions driven by a conscious mind – like the pre-science pagans who saw spirits in everything. Nowadays things happen and hardly anybody seems to notice until a well-crafted hot-button scare is released – compelling the raving masses to abandon ten thousand years of civility and once again worship those plants and rocks that might attack without warning.
