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September 10, 2003

So last Friday, I was supposed to help Badger shop for his big-ass BBQ. We went on a doomed quest for Market Basket (a.k.a. Ghetto Basket), the cheapest grocery store this side of the Charles. Then we realized, after driving past it like three times, that the Brooks Pharmacy had eaten the Market Basket. So we had to park in front of the Brooks Pharmacy for a while and make out.

He decided to take me on a little field trip to his old neighborhood: Winter Hill, erstwhile turf of Whitey Bulger (Did you know that the base of his nefarious operations was right above the post office?). So we parked in front of the purple house where he used to live and looked at it for a while. He told me some stories about living there, how his ex used to call it the aquarium because he was working from home, and he just swam around in the aquarium all day long. Then we went for a little walk through the old hood. Okay, it turned into a long walk.

We dropped into the park I've driven by a million times on my way to Home Depot or the North Shore, and he even pushed me on the swings. Then some little Spanish-speaking girls asked him to push them too. It was very sweet. Then I pushed him on the swings.

They take their futbol very seriously in the Winter Hill park. There were like three leagues scrimmaging at the same time on the fields, and a good number of the players actually sported slick jersey and shin guards. Apparently, they take their futbol so seriously that there's always a patrol car there during practice hours. Just in case the argument over the goal line get extra heated. There's kids around, after all.

So we kept walking. And walking. We circumnavigated the park, braved the underside of the Route 28 overpass, strolled through a number of seedy parking lots, and the light kept getting dimmer and dimmer. And then, voila, we arrived at the cutest little Carribean restaurant: Sunrise Cuisine, "Where good friends meet to eat." He told me it was a Jamaican restaurant, but I'm thinking that the owners are actually from Haiti, as the food was different than any other fare I've sampled—I know my Jamaican, my Cuban, and my Puerto Rican Cuisine.

Regardless, it was delicious. The restaurant was full of silk flowers, and the staff was friendly and welcoming. We were the only two white people in the place. They were showing Star Wars II on the televisions, and there was one over each of our shoulders. So Badger and I would be deep in conversation and then all of a sudden we'd just zone out to George Lucas's special effects.

In the front of the restaurant, about three home boys were hanging out. All of a sudden, we heard from one of them, "Yo, Star Trek is off the hook, y'all!."

We looked at each other and smiled.

Later, leaving the restaurant, I had to correct homes. "It's Star Wars," I said, giving my hip an extra wiggle as I stepped toward the door.

"Yo, I tried to tell him!" said one of his buddies.

Badger liked that. Now that's geek love for you.

It was off the hook, yo.