Friday evening we took the MBTA into Boston to see the new play, Johnny Baseball, at the American Repertory Theater (the ART). It was graduation week in Harvard Square which meant a lot of people were out and about, some of them even decently dressed. The play was cute, clever and even touching, and the house looked full. I suspected that non-Bostontians might miss a lot of the references, but the audience seemed genuinely appreciative from the ovation at the final curtain.
We caught the Red Line home and at Park Street, two gentlemen in Red Sox shirts got on. They looked a bit glum, and said the Sox had lost big. We were surprised, since going into the theater the team had led by three runs. Whatchagonnado?
So they sat there, looking down in the dumps, Boston Irish faces if I've ever seen them. . . men of a certain age. A pretty blond girl is sitting next to me. Kids, by now it is way past eleven, but the girl, in spite of her sporty attire, must have one hot date, because she begins a major makeup session on the very public "T." I became aware of her activities when a) she began brushing on bronzer and b) the faces of the Red Sox fans across the car went from hang dog to interested. I had obviously missed the foundation application, but the bronzer went on and on and on. Gee, have I been doing it wrong? I brush a bit across he cheek bones, and on chin, nose and forehead. Blondie was plastering on a 1/4 inch. Note to self: check makeup book or web for how to do this properly.
Then came the colorless lip gloss. Again, 1/4 inch. Then some pinky lip stuff (not lipstick) on top of that. Now came the mascara. These trains aren't always the smoothest running vehicles, and I worried about her jabbing herself in the eye (as I would have likely done), but nope, she's got the steady hand of the brain surgeon.
In between each type of makeup, she checks her cell. By now the entire car is watching. After the mascara, she redoes her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and then up with a fancy clip. Hot date for sure.
But wait: Blondie call her mom and chats for a while. Mentions she's on the red line. No hint of where she's going or whom she's meeting. Maybe Mom already knows. She sounds kind of worried about Mom and my heart softens a wee bit. Baseball fans debark.
Blondie gets off in Quincy Center, and we continue on. Almost every trip on the "T," especially late at night, involves a story.
Did I ever tell you about the man with cherries on his hat? No? Well, another day. Off to write something. Finally.