Townie Tales: Lady on the line
Been a while since I dropped one of these, so here’s a quickie:
It’s nighttime in Boston’s North End.
Our beloved Boston Celtics have just defeated the Philadelphia 76ers in a decisive game 7 to advance to the Eastern Conference Finals for the second straight year.
The city is buzzing, and the energy is palpable everywhere you look. Waves of green and white begin to flood the North End from the nearby TD Garden, as joyous Celtics fans search for a late night bite at Bova’s or a celebritory drink at the Corner Cafe.
I myself am returning home to my apartment, presumably from a bar, though I genuinely don’t remember. I wasn’t drunk or anything; I just don’t pay a lot of attention to what I’m doing. As I round the corner onto my street, dragging an ankle that’s swollen for no reason other than I put too much weight on it by existing, I spot a woman who is not sharing in the revelry around her.
She looks distressed, angry even. It’s especially curious because this woman is, in fact, adorned in a Celtics jersey.
As a fellow adult-jersey wearer, I’m perplexed. You don’t wear a jersey unless you’re truly a fan of the team. If she was just a disinterested woman supporting her boyfriend’s psychotic fandom then she would be wearing one of those girl outfits that’s like “a play” on the Celtics color scheme but not actual Celtics apparel. Like she’d wear a camo jean jacket with a white tank and maybe a green Sox hat. Something that's more fashion over function and way more complicated than just buying a fucking t-shirt at the Pro Shop.
Anyways, that’s not her. She’s rocking the Celtics jersey, no undershirt, and the backwards hat of the cool girl you knew in college who didn’t get along with her roommates so she hangs with mostly guys, claiming to be “one of the boys,” even while 3 of those guys are actively trying to hook up with her. In other words, this woman knows ball.
At her side, next to her ripped jeans, she holds in her left hand a lit cigarette, it’s smoke drifting off into the brisk Boston night. In her right hand, clutched tightly to her ear is a cellphone, apparently mid-call.
She speaks into the phone with the gruff, raspy tone of someone who started smoking at 16, but is still young enough that it hasn’t fully caught up to them yet. There’s a slight slur in her voice, indicating her night began long before the Celtics tipped off 2.5 hours prior. Her speech is marred even further by a thick Boston accent.
However, the words that come out of her mouth are unmistakable:
“Fuck you dude, FUCK. YOU. I’m standing on the cornah right now alright. I’m standing on the fucking cornah and you’re gonna give me this shit? I hope you die of cancer. I hope you fucking die of cancer!”
I quickly shuffle past her and buzz myself into my building, worried that I might catch a stray if I linger too long outside.
Once securely in my apartment, I sit down on my bed and fully reflect on what exactly I just heard. This woman just wished for someone she was presumably close with at some point to “die of cancer.” That’s just about as fucked up as you can get in an insult. Honestly, it might qualify more as a hex than anything else.
And look, I’m not judging this woman. I fully understand that people don’t always mean what they say and can cross a linguistic line when emotional. Hell, you watch any Patriots game with me and you’ll probably catch me wishing death on a strong safety I didn’t know existed until that very moment. There usually isn’t even a good reason for it. 90% of the time the guy just did his job well, which angers me as it works against my team. But the thing is, I don’t actually mean it.
I don’t really wish death upon anyone. I’m just a hyper competitive guy who doesn’t manage his feelings well.
But once you go around wishing specific manners of death on people, directly to their face (or ear in this case), you’re at a whole other level of hate. Especially when you choose cancer, arguably the worst and most plausible way for someone to die. That is fucked up in a way that even I can’t comprehend.
I disengaged from my shocked state of thought, and made my way to the window where I could gaze down on the streets below me. The woman had gone, probably never to be seen again. And with her, went her story.
All that remains of her are questions:
Why was the Celtics postgame the time for this conversation?
Why did she opt to have this dialogue in the middle of a very public through-street?
How was her standing on the corner in any way relevant to the argument she was making?
What exactly does she think a corner is cause she was standing in the exact middle of the street?
Finally, and most importantly, what in the FUCK did the guy on the other end of the line do to her to get cancer wished upon him?
We may never have answers to these questions. They will likely be lost forever, buried somewhere deep in the annals (lol) of the timeless anthology known only as, the Townie Tales.
