Jacob's Ladder (Chapter 11)

Parade Day

The St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Boston is a quintessential city event. For the thousands of people across the city, Massachusetts and New England who have the chance to attend, it is usually a memorable experience, to put it lightly. The crowd that lined the streets of South Boston decked out in shades of green, sporting nearly every kind of alcoholic beverage on the market (concealed, of course) made it a unique and truly unforgettable experience during my freshman year.

I, of course, could not resist the opportunity to join in the day’s events. The parade was the topic of nearly everyone’s discussion on campus in the week leading up to the Saturday event. Who you were going with, how you were getting there, whose dorm you were pre-gaming at, and, of course, who was in charge of purchasing the copious amounts of alcohol for your group. I was invited by Sam to go with him, his group of friends, and a few others from our hall who he had become close with. I took him up on the generous invite.

The day started clear and rather cold. Spring weather had not quite set in and the notoriously windy Fenway was living up to its bitter name. As is the case with many pre-parade gatherings, we planned to meet at our friend Josh’s room down the hall bright and early at 8 a.m. I woke up, dressed in many green layers, a Celtics hoodie covered all, grabbed my black North Face backpack and headed down the hall to join the group for the day.

As I approached Josh’s room, I stepped down the hall with my backpack over my shoulder. It was clear the party had already started. On both sides of the hall, each room was blasting music, laughing, yelling, and amping up to leave for the coveted parade later that morning. The hallway was filled with muffled Dropkick Murphy’s music, various rap music, conversation, and clinking bottles and cans, all with stifled laughs of the many groups of students lightly vibrating the doorways and walls which casted a white noise on my walk to room 208. As I reached the room and knocked, the door opened hitting me with a wave of noise, commotion, and activity. Josh invited me in.

“What’s up, man?” he asked, holding a Bud Light can.

“Here’s your bag,” I said, and ignored his question. He asked me to bring a backpack to conceal our stock of beverages on the route. “Getting an early start with the morning coffee,” I joked and gestured to his can.

“Yeah,” he said, and handed me an identical one.

Josh was also dressed for the occasion. An already heavy-set kid, he wore a few warm layers underneath a green overcoat making him look slightly bigger. He also sported a backwards green Celtics cap and a black goatee-style beard.

The rest of the group introduced themselves to me and I did the same. Joining Josh, Sam and myself were three girls all in our class - Emily, Sarah, and Taylor, all enjoying Truly’s and making conversation over the music filled-dorm room. I had met Emily and Sarah a couple of times in the previous semester, but Taylor was new. All three were dressed nearly the same - sneakers, black yoga pants, and much like the rest of our group, layers of green.

“Let’s pack the shit and go,” Josh said, as he anxiously opened the few backpacks to prepare it for their concealment.

I began to load the bags along with him carefully and strategically placing cans of Bud Light, Truly, and sleeves of Fireball and Smirnoff in the various compartments. The joys of the important things in college.

Our group assembled, finished off our remaining drinks, and with the slightest morning buzz, we left campus to board the train to South Boston joining the hundreds of others making their way to the parade. The walk to the train was full of excitement, laughs, and getting to know each other. Our plan was to meet up with a couple of other groups of mutual friends, all gathered at about the same place. I had only heard of the coveted parade a couple of times before and was mostly ready to experience it.

The train was crowded and hot. Each car was loaded end to end with hundreds of students of all class years, ages, and appearances. A sea of green jackets, hoodies, beanies and gloves filled all the cars. You truly have never been to any major parade in Boston if you haven’t experienced the train in this condition. It is the pain before the payoff, the hell that you never really do forget. Waiting on the outdoor platform at the Fenway Station, heavy backpacks and speakers slung over our shoulders, the train approached and we squeezed our way into the first car which was stiflingly hot, cramped, dark, and sweaty as all the rest.

We didn’t speak much on the ride to South Station. Most of the ride was spent brushing elbows, arms, legs, shoulders and other various body parts with the mass of students populating each of the train cars, each stop added dozens more. We were nearly gasping for fresh air, space to move and an escape from the smells of alcohol and sweat. We reached our destination, left the car, traveled up the escalator to street level and finally reached the middle of the parade setup, already bustling with activity, music, festivities, and intoxication at the tender hour of 10 a.m.

We traveled as a group. Josh and myself lugged the heavy backpacks nearly bursting at the seams as we fought the crowd against the Boston police barricades and claimed our spot with just enough room to stand as a group. The parade kicked off on time, among the various City of Boston community groups, there were floats decked out in all shades of green, cars and trucks of all sizes blaring their horns, and groups of bagpipe players. It was time for my first drink at the parade. Josh handed me a semi-cold Bud Light from his backpack, I popped it’s tab with a crack as the foam rose above its lid having been thoroughly shaken in his bag on a long walk. Josh stood next to me and did the same, while he filmed the event on his phone. The others each opened their drinks and began taking selfies and video of the start of the parade.

The group struck up conversation about the big day in the city, about where we were all from, what everyone liked to do in Boston and any parties they had been to. We chatted and continued to enjoy the event over a few more drinks while Josh played music through his backpack speakers. All was right with the world I had come to know, at least for the time being.

* * *

The parade ended in the late afternoon. Our group had moved a few different times during the event as we had met up with a few other groups of students from Emmanuel. We gathered everyone and our bags and got our bearings as we tried to find the train back to campus; however, there was just one problem. I was drunk. Really drunk. Drunk in a new city with new people at a new event. Drunk with no sense of direction. Drunk with no purpose. Really just drunk.

Being drunk in college is something that all who attend can likely relate to. It happens at parties, dorms, sports events, parades, bars, restaurants that line the streets of college towns across the country and even at graduations. I had one consolation at least, Taylor was also drunk. Really drunk. Misery really does love company.

“Guys, let’s try to get the next train back. My phone says it’ll be here in 15 minutes. That way we don’t have to wait forever,” said Emily to the group.

“Yeah, let’s go. Just follow the crowd,” Josh added.

By this time, the alcohol had worked its way thoroughly into my system. My vision was blurry, my balance was off-center and I avoided speaking to hide the heavy slur of my speech as I had begun to realize that it may be a long trek home after way too much alcohol throughout the morning and into the afternoon.

As the group started off, Taylor added in a slurred and desperate tone, “I go- gotta- pee.”

“Me too,” I add.

The group looked back at us in exasperation.

“Okay,” said Emily, “I guess we’ll wait. Just walk down the street and go find one. Meet us at the gas station over there, and then we can head out.”

We all do things that we reflect back on and regret. We all look at our past decisions and wonder why we did things a certain way, why we chose that person or that location, or why we didn’t use our best judgment. This, needless to say, was one of those times. Why our group decided to send the two most intoxicated people from the day on their own to find a restroom in the middle of Boston at 18 years old is beyond me. Yet, for some reason, be that as it may, that is exactly what happened.

Taylor and I set out, side by side, stumbled along the cracked, broken and can-littered sidewalks of South Boston in search of a restroom. And fast.

“Let’s try over there,” I said, and we made our way to a McDonald’s.

No public restrooms, the sign said on the glass door.

“Ugh, I gotta go,” Taylor said, and grabbed my arm. “Wait,” she continued. “There,” she pointed to a tall, narrow glass building with black trim. In the windows were large mural paintings of various colorful designs next to many clay sculptures of various people and poses as well as different animals and nature scenes. It was an art museum.

“We- we can’t go in there,” I said.

“Yes, we can. Come on, let’s go,” Taylor replied.

We open the large glass door and step inside. The museum was large and spacious. Bright hardwood flooring spanned the large gallery area with several paintings, drawings, and sculptures scattered around the space, each with a small white plaque indicating its specific information. On the walls were more paintings and drawings, along with several boxes of supplies, works in progress and buckets of paint and ink on the floor. The space was extremely well lit and nearly blinded our glossy eyes as we stepped inside. A gentleman in his forties, tall and wiry, with a precisely trimmed beard, wearing a solid dark sweater and khakis and a dark scally cap on his head, greeted us with a rather confused look.

“Hi?” he asked and raised his eyebrows. It was clear, even in my compromised state, he knew that we were steeped in the throes of alcohol. “Can I help you?”

I had no idea where we were or what we were walking into.

The room was dead silent, which made this exchange even more awkward for all of us. The couple of artists working quietly in the space began to glance over at the three of us as we stood in the doorway. Taylor and I fidgeted as the need to urinate grew more and more intense.

“Can we- can- can we please use your bathroom?” I slurred out of my mouth.

The man looked us up and down and still tried to piece together why two 18-year-old drunk college students were standing in the doorway of his gallery on St. Patrick’s Day asking to use the restroom.

“You mean… together?” he asked in a tone that started to express some anger instead of confusion alone.

“Uh…” I replied as I blurredly looked at Taylor and back at him, “Well…”

Taylor all of a sudden blurts out, “Of course together, duh!” her crass comment boomed through the galleries and high ceilings and walls.

The other artists working now glared over at us.

My face turned bright red with even more embarrassment of the situation as I tried to keep down the drinks that crooned in my stomach and coursed throughout my body. Whatever chance we had of using this guy’s bathroom in this random art gallery was now essentially finished. I hurriedly tried to walk back her words.

‘Well, no, not, not together. I mean, together, but not together like that. We both just really need to go.”

I swallowed hard. I was so mortified even in my drunken state. I began to wonder if I would ever make it back to campus as the late afternoon turned to evening of a very long blurred day.

“No, there’s no bathroom here. Try down the street,” he told us and stepped closer in a gesture that told us to please leave.

“Oh- okay- okay, s- s- sorry to bother you. We were at the parade.”

“The parade?” he asked and grew more agitated every second we continued to stand in the doorway.

“Over there,” Taylor said and pointed to the crowds who were now exiting the streets for the train and the hordes of Boston police cleaning up the metal barricades that lined them.

“Ahh,” the man said and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Okay, then. Take care.”

He stepped in the doorway from the inside, effectively closing us off, and shut the door in front of him. Taylor and I stood out on the sidewalk and looked blurredly at each other again.

“What are we- what are we gonna do?” she asked and hiccupped.

“Hang on,” I said and I guided her to another gas station and convenience store up the road from where we were.

It was a Cumberland Farms station with a store attached. We stumbled our way to the door, opened it and looked to the back of the store which had a few patrons decked out in green waiting in line to purchase all of the salty, fatty snacks they could carry to satisfy their intoxicated cravings following the parade.

“Can- can we- sorry- can we please use your bathroom?” I asked the young male at the counter wearing his store-issued uniform.

At this point, Taylor and myself were ready to relieve ourselves nearly anywhere.

“Uh, sure,” he said, “but it’s for customers. You gotta buy something for a key,” he replied.

Oh my fucking God, I thought. Taylor and I looked at each other. She groaned in frustration. Before I could respond, she bent down in front of the counter, grabbed a pack of gum and tossed it on the counter with a $5 bill. The cashier made change, gave us a receipt and the key. Taylor and I nearly sprinted to the back of the store. She went first, and then me and the South Boston St. Patrick’s Day bathroom hunt was over.

After we returned the key and Taylor took the gum, we made our way back to the street.

“Where the fuck are you guys?” Josh texted me. “We’re about to leave.”

“Sorry,” I replied. “Couldn’t find one. We’re good now.”

I attended the St. Patrick’s Day parade in the following year, yet somehow it never held the same weight with the same thrill as being drunk in your freshman year in college trying to find a bathroom.