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City scene: a memorial for Mr. Butch
Jul. 23rd, 2007 02:06 amWaiting for the inbound 57 tonight, a stranger and I watched three outbound buses pass, nose-to-tail. He leaned in and gestured for me to take my earbuds out. "One of those was supposed to be leaving Watertown Square right now," he said. "They might've been held up by the memorial—you know, for Mister Butch."
Flyers were taped up in the windows of the coffee shop I was heading for, showing a black man in a rasta hat with graying dreadlocks, a sunburst grin bright white among the pencil-scribbles of his beard. It was an older version of the face I'd seen painted on the roll-down grille in front of Mr. Music, where I bought my last guitar strings—the face I'd always assumed was Marley's. I'd seen it on the scrap of paper an emphatic mourner had thrust at the bus as it passed by the International Church.
He was the King of Kenmore Square. He was homeless for thirty years. College kids used to pay him to escort their girlfriends safely home after parties. He used to have a band, playing a Stratocaster with open tuning. He died when he smashed his scooter into a lamppost, two Thursdays back. I'd never heard of him before tonight.
The coffee wasn't very good, but the music was, and the barista had sweet tattoos. There was a cartoon mural on the wall depicting storyboards from some coffee-themed zombie movie, featuring crudely-painted conehead people with tiny green fish stickers for noses. On the bus home, a middle-aged man sat next to me and fiddled with a Rubik's Revenge. A blue sign enjoined me to report any unusual packages, items, persons, or behaviors, however harmless they may seem. "Instincts tell you to do something?" it asked. "Do something."
Flyers were taped up in the windows of the coffee shop I was heading for, showing a black man in a rasta hat with graying dreadlocks, a sunburst grin bright white among the pencil-scribbles of his beard. It was an older version of the face I'd seen painted on the roll-down grille in front of Mr. Music, where I bought my last guitar strings—the face I'd always assumed was Marley's. I'd seen it on the scrap of paper an emphatic mourner had thrust at the bus as it passed by the International Church.
He was the King of Kenmore Square. He was homeless for thirty years. College kids used to pay him to escort their girlfriends safely home after parties. He used to have a band, playing a Stratocaster with open tuning. He died when he smashed his scooter into a lamppost, two Thursdays back. I'd never heard of him before tonight.
The coffee wasn't very good, but the music was, and the barista had sweet tattoos. There was a cartoon mural on the wall depicting storyboards from some coffee-themed zombie movie, featuring crudely-painted conehead people with tiny green fish stickers for noses. On the bus home, a middle-aged man sat next to me and fiddled with a Rubik's Revenge. A blue sign enjoined me to report any unusual packages, items, persons, or behaviors, however harmless they may seem. "Instincts tell you to do something?" it asked. "Do something."
