Love That Dirty Water

This past day was Boys' Day Out in Boston.  We went to the Public Gardens, diligently following the course of The Ducklings as each of us cited moments from The Text, and then riding on the Swan Boats.  As we paddled around the man-made pond for this ten-minute Odyssey, we were treated to a few "concerts" among the entertainers on shore, including a one-man band performing "Mr. Tambourine Man," I think, and an older, rather eccentrically attired lady performing on an electronic keyboard.  As we passed the lady, Ian was wondering if, upon disembarking, we should go over and give her some money.

I bought the boys small stuffed ducks, of the Beany Baby variety, when we landed, and Daniel diligently picked out  a larger, more expensive stuffed swan for Madeleine.  This impressed me a great deal; requesting something even better than what you, yourself, have, for your day-to-day rival, who isn't around to speak up for herself.  Ian was quite guild-ridden about the stuffed animals, the water, the lemonade and, eventually the snow cones that I bought them, and urged Daniel to be more restrained in the things he asked for, which, typically, were in great abundance.

I marched them across the Public Garden and into the Boston Common - stomping grounds from my own early childhood, especially on Sunday afternoons, except that in 2012, you don't see quite the cast of characters you saw out and about circa 1971.  I knew the exercise would do them some good, and that eventually they'd find their own entertainment.  After some time on the playground, we eventually found ourselves with lemonade over by the big water fountain, and it was a matter of minutes before the lads - led by Daniel - were reaching into the fountain to re-purpose the coins which unwitting, superstitious tourists had squandered there.  This made me yell things, and the whole thing provided entertainment for park visitors of all ages and backgrounds.

One young guy told me that he heard Ian say something like, "How much luck can anyone expect to get from throwing money into a fountain where people can reach right in and take it?"  I attribute both the wit and the boys' enthusiasm for cash to their ancestry - certainly the Scottish cultural genes that they got from me, although I can't imagine that Mommy's lineage could have influenced the cocktail...  Some people just go the extra distance for a modicum of prosperity.  I screamed at the boys to take their hands out of the fountain - although it was just a water fountain on the Boston Common, so I can't imagine how bad the water could possibly have been - and not to take things that don't belong to us.  They weren't very moved by the exhortations, but eventually I reigned them in.  In the interim, one middle-aged guy pointed out that Daniel had exactly the same expression and preternatural smile that I did.  I told him that my namesake has been pronounced the most aptly-named child in the universe.  He told me that the boy had a good father...

The good father was at his wits' end.  The tourist center had just closed, so I couldn't wash their hands.  So we went for a subway joy ride.  Down into the belly of the city, at Park Street, and off, over the Salt-N-Peppa bridge into Cambridge, off to Harvard Square, where you can turn around and go the other way without exiting the subway (and paying a second fare), as you would have to do at Kendall Station or Central Square.  On the inbound platform at Harvard, there was a thirty-something-ish Black man doing a bit of karaoke for the waiting passengers - probably Boys II Men, whatever it was, it was a nice harmonious little piece that I recognized - and this was finally the moment for redemption.  Ian had been itching to give money to every musician that we passed, and here was one right in front of us, where we were waiting.  (I had hoped to give some money to at least one musician to encourage a bit of magnanimity in the boys, but Ian was way ahead of me...)

So both boys deposited at least some (maybe all?) of their ill-gotten gains from the Boston Common Fountain of Coinage into this performer's donations box (he seemed very moved).  In the train on the way back into Boston, Daniel asked me why the man had the box in front of him.  I explained that this is how musicians give us a chance to thank them for providing free music to us, and with this, Daniel became bitterly disappointed.  Daniel had thought that the box was there to collect money for the poor - we sometimes see such charitable collections outlets, after all - and when he found out that the money was for the performer himself, and not for the poor at large, Daniel was very, very upset that he had squandered his hard-earned coinage for such a not-so-philanthropic cause.

I went to great pains to explain to Daniel that, when you give money to street musicians, you really are effectively giving to the poor, since pretty-much all musicians (without Madison Avenue contracts) are poor, and they make more money doing other things besides playing music, but they still play music because they feel like they need to, and they want to share it with the people around them, so we're really doing something very good by letting street musicians have a bit of money for playing their music, and we all benefit, because we get the music itself.

Daniel was having none of it.  It was only our arrival at Park Street station that distracted him from this fog of Contributor's Remorse.

Meanwhile, Ian found the Comics section of the Boston Sunday Globe on the seat where he and Daniel were about to sit down.  (Of course, on Sunday the comics are a section all their own, big and colorful, and something of a find...)  He diligently asked the young lady at  a nearby seat if it was hers; "that's yours, baby."  So he read the comics, with Daniel's head cocked in attention next to him sharing in the wealth.

We went back to Copley Square to get my car, and I got the boys snow cones from an ice cream truck outside Trinity Church.  As we headed back to Cambridge - this time for Grandmother's birthday dinner - Ian was speculating.  He said he that he had been saving his money from the fountain to buy bubble gum, but instead he gave it to the performer, and then he found the Comics   maybe God sent the comics his way to reward him for giving money to the musician... and on top of that, he ended up getting bubble-gum in his Snow Cone anyway.  (I had made a point of voicing official, playful disapproval of gum in the snow cones, and now I was finding that it was a significant acquisition...)  Many adults might scoff at Ian's speculation, but I suspect he's probably onto something; we might not think of God as someone who sends comic strips to children by means of the subway, or bubble gum at the bottom of a snow cone, but I think that, considering that this event really did serve to reward an eight-year-old's altruism, in exactly the commodities that an eight-year-old would value, Ian's hypothesis seems quite plausible to me.

So we went to Veggie Galaxy in Central Square, which looks like any all-American burger joint except that the burgers, along with every other "meat" dish on the menu, are made from one or another form of crushed, reconstituted bean or soy - tofu, seitan, black beans - and the waiters and waitresses look, some of them, like something from a punk rock video, and we celebrated Mom's/Grandma's birthday.  As we were getting out of the car - I had just gotten a call from my brother - I said, "Let's hurry boys - Uncle Andrew is already there."  The very mention of Uncle Andrew transfixed the moment and the evening.  After an initial trip to the men's room, where I quite literally scrubbed the boys' hands and most of their arms with soap, for several iterations, Uncle Andrew headed out with our boys and Cousin David, and didn't come back until I called him on his cell phone to let him know that dinner was being served.  Upon their return, Daniel's hands were now filthy again - this time more visibly, rather than just microbially - and we headed back to the "lavatory," but I was thrilled to discover that the field trip had been to the fire house right down the street, and the boys got a tour, and Uncle Andrew had pictures of each of them doing things like "riding" in fire engines.  Uncle Andrew and David and Daniel disappeared a third time, I think when we were waiting for desserts, and came back with big, shiny red plastic fireman's hats from the same destination, and with an extra one for Ian.

So now the boys know Boston a little better, and Boston knows them somewhat better as well.  It wasn't that different from an afternoon I might have had on the town with my parents, except that things would have gone a little differently, I think, if it were on my father's watch and I were the one who retrieved coins from a fountain on the Boston Common.

(June 24, 2012)