Category Archives: Boston

By the time August of 1999 rolled around, almost a year into my first office job, I’d made a name for myself in the research department at John Hancock, and more importantly to my young and foolish heart, I’d fallen in love and was set to leave the city of Boston for the city of Chicago and an apartment with my boyfriend at the time. It was time to move on from that job anyway – the research project on which I was working was entering the next stage, which meant our little group would be splintering off. There were whispers of permanent employment for those who did well and might be interested in such a thing, but that wasn’t me at the time. When asked if I wanted to stay on, I did what you’re never supposed to do: tell the truth. I was leaving, and no one could persuade me otherwise. The heart wants what it wants, and in some ways I was simply scared to stay. Immaturity works that way. 

Before my last day, I circulated a little velvet book that I asked all my co-workers to sign. Whether they, or I, wanted to admit it or not, we had formed a little work family. We also knew how to play when the day was done, and while our group was filled with all sorts of people from all walks of life, we became part of each other’s lives. Whenever you go through something at such a pivotal time of life, it informs your history, and at twenty-three years old, I was ripe for being influenced. I’ll let their words speak for whatever impact I left on them; they showed me acceptance and inclusion when I’d almost given up on both. 

“Alan, Well to top things off I would like to say “thank you” for I feel honored and privileged knowing that I am the chosen one to set things off. I would like you to know it was a pleasure working with you and sometimes hard but bearable. The advice you gave to me was a big help in some way… I wish you and P— the best wishes in Chicago. You know in a month or two I’ll probably be saying I’m manless but at least A—- is in the picture for now. Alan you are a great friend, a wonderful and crazy person, but most of all you are fun and an asshole and I love you.” – Tamekia

“Alan, I met you on January 5, 1999, my first day at John Hancock’s ADR project at 380 Stuart Street, Boston. My first job outside (full-time) the home in 16 years. You made me feel good about myself. You taught me to listen to my feelings, and show happy, sad, mad, glad. Your e-mails, signs, posters all showed me the same. Happy, you smile miles wide. Sad, you make faces (pouty) and make it perfectly clear your feelings. It has been a pleasure to know you and work with you. Your kind nature (sending my daughter a post card from Chicago) will take you far. Your love of writing (never stop) will pay your bills someday. You now need to cut the apron strings and fly on your own. Always take care of yourself first. Think before you get involved in a relationship. Best of luck.” ~ Marion

“Alan, I arrived here for my first day of work and met you. Alan, you were hung over from the weekend. Yes this is my first memory of you. Everyone asked, ‘Did you meet the Madonna fan Alan?’ Yes, I did and I’m glad I met you. You became the person I could joke with. Have fun in Chicago. It’s a fun city – you and P— should have a lot of fun. You were able to make this job fun. When you move to Chicago keep that sense of humor. Alan you were a great person to work with and call a friend. Don’t drink too much. Stay in touch, keep being that asshole you are, and never forget us in Boston. We will miss you. I will miss you.” ~ Craig

“What’s up Alan – it’s been super cool working with you. The only thing that wasn’t cool is that I missed your party and missed all that drinking (ha, ha). But on another note you’re a very cool person and I wish you the best of luck in the big Windy City.” ~ Will

“Alan, I have to say I will miss your one-of-a-kind attitude and overall personality… when you’re at your next job if you need to pull out a staple ask someone for a ‘staple remover’ – that’s what it’s called, not a candy opener.” ~ Shawn

“Dear Alan, We pretty much share the same qualities, so of course I am going to miss someone who has the wit, charm, personality and intelligence as myself! I wish you all the best in Chicago! Stay strong! For only the strong survive. Peace.” ~ Reggie

“Alan – How you ever survived a full year of this hell-hole, I will never know! You did it and you’re out – you should be extremely proud of yourself. It was wonderful having you at work everyday. You made me smile, which is hard to do… I rarely cross paths with individuals like you. I like your sassiness and your wit. Keep your head up and your spirit strong. It has been a pleasure talking with you and seeing that smile everyday. I wish we had more time to get to know each other, but I have enjoyed these past few months. If you ever need a helping hand or a listening ear, you can call or write anytime. I would absolutely love to hear from you! I envy your strength and pride, a few of the wonderful qualities you possess. You are wonderful. You have made my job more enjoyable. Thank you!!” ~ Jaime

“Alan, Alan, Alan!! It’s been almost a year now and I still can’t figure out how you stayed so long with such a good writing ability. Use those skills man and you will go very far in life, and hey maybe you’ll even met Madonna! (Did I tell you I have pictures of her house?) We have been through a lot together – Sandy’s belly-aching, JoAnn, Kira breaking the spreadsheet, but those experiences are nothing compared to what you’re up against in the windy city… [whited-out sentence] That was the most dorky sentence I ever wrote. In fact I think I might white it out. Now I bet you’re wondering what I wrote? Am I getting to you. Am I getting to you!!! But hey seriously, good luck and have fun. Send me mail, I don’t have any friends. Good luck.” ~ Shawn M.

Twenty five years ago I was working in the ADR Research Department of John Hancock Insurance. They needed people to delve into years and years of records to address a class action lawsuit, and that’s about all I was told. It involved scanning microfiche and writing down duplicate numbers and reporting our findings to people at the next level. To this day, I’m not sure what we were looking for or if any of our numbers made any difference, good or bad. All I cared about was that I was getting paid, and had some money to go out and party like I was twenty-three. (A twenty-three-year-old like myself was too busy discovering the city of Boston, seeking out love, and hoping to get past all the shitty things that could and did happen to a young gay man in the 90’s. Simple survival was a feat in an of itself.)

It was my first office job, and after working in an orchid greenhouse, a hospital cafeteria, and a store named Structure, I embraced its regular hours and laid-back requirements. Showing up on time and simply doing what you were told to do puts you ahead of the majority of people in my experience. Not being a complete dick helps too, as does some wit and style. All in all, I learned what an office was like, and it quickly became clear that it wasn’t so much the work that mattered as it was the group of people with whom you did it. Being a nameless cog among many nameless cogs was a strange and surprising comfort to me; standing out takes a greater toll than anyone who doesn’t often stand out could ever understand. 

Our office was not in what used to be known by all as the John Hancock Tower, but right across the street in a much smaller and nondescript building. While our work was done there, our lunches were mostly taken in the expansive cafeteria in the basement of the main tower, and we also had access to the observatory if we wanted to show the city off to any visiting friends or relatives. Working for a company so emblematic of Boston didn’t thrill me anymore than working for a retail store did, but it did make me feel like I was genuinely part of the city at last. And slowly, I made a few friends, and impacted the dull office that had never seen the likes of someone like me… 

For the majority of Bostonians, the tallest building in the city will always be known as John Hancock Tower. When I worked at John Hancock, we would eat lunch in the basement cafeteria of that building, but our actual work location was across the street in a much smaller building on Stuart Street. My job was technically a researcher, which at that time consisted of seeking out information on microfiche, an antiquated form of data storage. (I couldn’t tell you what I was researching because I honestly don’t know.) It was a temporary gig, and at 23 years of age, it was all I really wanted. After a few years of grueling but rewarding retail work, I was due for a change. I also had retail burnout, because for an anti-social introvert like myself, dealing with people on a daily service level was debilitating. That said, my retail job at Structure absolutely taught me how to interact and engage with strangers in a way that college never could, so by the time I walked into Bertucci’s for a pre-interview interview with someone who worked at John Hancock, I could hold my own in a conversation and give the impression that I was a sociable person. 

My friend ‘Ben’ (lean in a little – his real name is being changed to protect what he may not want people to know) whom I had dated briefly (and to whom I was largely awful in the wake of previous dating disasters) had been kind enough to keep me in mind when he knew I was looking for a job. He knew someone named ‘Mike’ (also a fake name to protect his own part in this story) who worked at John Hancock and might be able to get me a job in their research department. Ben told me that Mike wanted to meet with me over lunch to see if I might be a good fit. 

To prepare myself with any and all background information I could find, I asked Ben what he knew about Mike – how they had met, how long they’d been friends, the basic shit – not expecting anything all that interesting. Ben paused, and was suddenly skirting the simple question of how they met. Exasperated, and annoyed (and you might see glimmers of why my relationship with Ben would never have worked out) I finally just blurted out something like, “What?! Did you meet in a sex club or something? How difficult is this question?!”

Ben’s silence spoke incredulous volumes, and for someone who had seemed as basic and boring as vanilla, he suddenly became one small bit less annoying to me. He confirmed that yes, he and Mike had met at a sex club, but it would probably be best if I didn’t mention that. 

(There was the annoyance again, as even I understood not to mention such a thing.)

Back in the 90’s, there was a place called the Safari Club in Boston. I wasn’t yet 21 to gain access to, or even knowledge of, the place, and by the time I was old enough and brave enough to entertain such entertainment, it had closed. It was a sex club – a gym/sauna/workout scene that was a merely a front for a place where guys could hook up for an entry fee. Back then, Ben and Mike had met and struck up a… conversation in those hallowed halls, and from that was born a friendship that brought him to mind when I indicated my search for a job. 

At Bertucci’s, sitting across from Mike (and probably scarfing down a Silano pizza because they were the best) I nervously made small talk about my employment history (HA!) and a brief description of myself (HA HA!) while Mike sat in soft-spoken elegance and office wear. He was not at all a man I’d have considered a sex club kind of person, an early lesson that it was almost impossible to determine who was a sex club kind of person based on appearance and demeanor. His erudite way of speaking, and a charmingly disarming wit, did not hide his homosexuality, but neither did it reveal it to anyone other than those who had been briefed beforehand. 

After feeling me out and likely realizing how harmless I was, he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially that he assumed I knew how he and Ben had met. Since he brought it up, I merely confirmed that I knew. While I was crazy curious, I decided not to pursue the line of questioning that I so badly wanted to pursue. Our lunch ended on a good note, a hopeful note, and a few days later I got a call from Mike with a contact name at John Hancock. From there, I went for an interview and got my first office job. 

Sunday dawned in sunny fashion – more spectacular than November has any right to be – and we had an early brunch date with two other dear friends – Anu and her daughter Riley (my spirit animal). It was a last minute addition to our Friendsgiving weekend – and a very happy one at that. Riley was looking at three of the schools that I considered in my college search: Boston University, Boston College and Tufts. A legendary trajectory indeed. We had a lovely brunch at Mooo… in Beacon Hill, taking our time to catch up before sending them on their way to BC. 

Kira and I walked back through the Common, but turned out of it before the Public Garden. The sun was strong; we’d been lucky with the weather the whole weekend. I’m not sure our hearts could have withstood any rain or clouds. Sometimes the universe eases up when you need it the most. 

Here is some music fit for a Sunday morning stroll, as much as for a Saturday night lounge session, and one of the only artists who can span such a marvelous spread is Shirley Horn, who has provided the soundtrack for this entire Friendsgiving weekend. Here’s looking at you!

We stopped to look in at the recent-revamped Four Seasons Hotel overlooking the Garden. Designed in whimsical fashion by Ken Fulk, it looked like a promising environment for some future holiday fun. We still have our Holiday Stroll reunion to look forward to in a couple of weeks – something we haven’t been unable to pull together since before COVID. How much has happened in those years… and how much we still had to share…

Suddenly it was a mad dash for Kira to make her train in time, and I was back on the Massachusetts Turnpike, already missing my friend. A Boston weekend had ended much too quickly. The memories, and these posts, will have to sustain us. 

As we near the final portion of our Friendsgiving weekend adventure, we return to the preamble that started it all: a pause in our walk back from a reunion dinner at Reunion. At this juncture, Kira and I had made our way into the sumptuously-lit environs of the Mandarin Oriental on Boylston. The lobby was adorned in its customary elegant splendor, with a fireplace flicking white flames into the air, but stepping outside of tradition, we bypassed that space for a quiet and or intimate second floor sofa, where we took a load off our feet and paused for brief respite. 

A slow jam then – and super-slow at that – to commemorate this stop. Obscure hotel hideaways are my favorite part of any city adventure. There is something intoxicating about being half-hidden from the world while sharing a moment of rest with an old friend. It always goes to my head. 

Our wild nights now consist mostly of such moments, followed by the hurried scuttling through windy weather to reach the warmth of the condo. There we light candles, listen to Shirley Horn, sip tea, lounge languidly on the couch, and give silent thanks for not wanting to be wild anymore. 

This particular night was not that different from any other in our long history of Boston nights – we followed the tea with a viewing of an old movie – ‘Mildred Pierce’ – and then it was time to sleep. Shirley sang us through to the morning, and the melancholy arrival of Sunday, always too soon.

A Boston evening arrives all too quickly in November – at least, the darkness of a Boston evening arrives too quickly. Where we might usually take a lovely, well-lit stroll to our dining destination in warm and still-sunny weather, was suddenly cloaked in the pitch-black of midnight, and it was only 6:30 PM as we left the condo. 

I’d made reservations at Reunion – the name was fitting, and it was a BBQ joint in the former location of Masa, which Kira and I once adored. One day we’ll do a proper homemade Friendsgiving meal – this was not that day. Kira doesn’t cook, and I couldn’t be bothered. A whole turkey for two people also felt a little excessive, I don’t care if it is traditionally a feast. I’ll have enough culinary work cut out for me when I have to bring the yams and tres leches cake to our family gathering. 

On this night, it was a Friendsgiving meal in the South End, so cue the food music of ‘The Main Ingredient’ by Shirley Horn, and peel me a grape!

Comfort food is ideal for a Friendsgiving night out, and Reunion served up a decent collection of pulled pork, tender brisket, mac and cheese, collard greens, and some margarita mocktails. Of course the food wasn’t the focus of this weekend, and we slipped back into the past, into the early days of working at John Hancock together. Kira had started seeing the man she would marry, and I had just begun dating the man with whom I would move to Chicago, and we were both too young to do anything but flounder our way through all of it. Not that they were bad in any way, but they were doomed, and we didn’t see it then. 

All these years later, we could look back without hurt, honor our pasts and our history, and find gratitude that all involved parties were still doing the best we could do.

A meal of thanks and a toast to that.

It invariably happens, especially as we get older, that our favorite moments of a weekend in Boston are not in new restaurants or visiting Broadway shows, but rather the simple in-between moments caught in a quiet side street, or the sun-soaked afternoon spell in the bedroom while the first half of ‘Meet Me In St. Louis‘ plays. Is there a more perfect segue into the proper holiday season?

When we returned to the condo, we had a cup of Earl Grey tea. We watched the fountain outside, now still and quiet. And we simply breathed, taking in the moment. 

A pause, then, in our narrative, in honor of that. Take your own moment now. 

The chill in the air was welcome, as I opened the window that looked out onto Braddock Park. At the fountain, a few people worked at either cleaning it up or closing it down for the season – I feared it was the latter, even as I knew it was later than usual to shut off the water. A late lack of freezing temperatures had kept it going this long, and as Kira came out into the front room, we watched as the last few drops of water fell for the last time this season. It was time for the fountain to slumber; we would see it open again in the spring, if we were lucky enough to be alive then. The notion of gratitude for the moment – and for this weekend together – kept us grounded and happily enjoying one another’s company. Despite the hint of existential pondering, the morning felt buoyant, and gleefully familiar. 

The sun was strong, though the day couldn’t quite be considered warm. It was fall – almost Thanksgiving – and the cool air kept our steps quick. Along the Southwest Corridor Park, flowers still bloomed, valiantly defying the colder nights, and richer in color for having made the effort. Zinnias chatted in their noisy cacophony of bright hues – a reminder of the summer we mostly missed, and the promise of another to come after we got through the winter. Pushing the thought of something so far ahead of us from my mind, I refocused on our day – which began with us riding the T to our usual shopping starting point: Downtown Crossing. 

With an eye on some gift-procurement, and some future planning for a holiday stroll, Kira and I quickly fell back into our usual rhythm, finding some presents for family and friends, and a few for ourselves. As we wound our way through the stores, treading those time-tested cobblestones, we paused for a brief break at the Omni Parker House, the place where I got Kira to try her first oyster probably a decade ago. That little bar/restaurant was closed now, to our dismay, so we simply sat near the hallway where a mirror reputed to be haunted by the image of Charles Dickens (who once had a room there). 

Other mysteries of fall would remain cloaked in autumnal splendor, before falling off their tree branches and rejoining the earth from where they came. Time with an old friend brought back memories and reminiscences, from our earliest days together right through the present moment. Descending through Boston Common and into the Public Garden, we discovered the lagoon was under renovation, and surrounded by a chain link fence. Some creative cropping later, we managed to find the beauty there, before heading in the direction of the condo… and our afternoon siesta. 

Our planned Friendsgiving/Reunion/25th Anniversary weekend went off as scheduled – a feat in and of itself these days. I wanted to ride the high a little longer, but Monday morning came, and with a backlog and deluge of work e-mails and issues, my stress level instantly decimated that peaceful high – another sign that eight years of work will not pass quickly enough until I can retire. 

In that sour spirit, and the spirit of Monday mornings – and even the scary Sunday night before it – ‘The Meaning of the Blues’ feels like a fitting tune – and Shirley Horn’s ‘The Main Ingredient’ album will thread its hungry way through the next few posts. 

Rather than sum up our lovely weekend in a single post, I’m going to try to elongate the feeling of friendship and comfort that I found during this Friendsgiving adventure with Kira. We begin with this little jewel of a moment, in which we pause before the journey. The rose bouquet pictured here was in a secluded little hallway above the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental, where we stopped for a sit-down and breather after walking much of the day away. We sat there in the expensive light of decadence, not able to afford it on a regular basis, but happy to simply brush against it now and again. We took off our coats and leaned back into the couch, content to take stock of the day, and the afternoon hour, before the darkness descended.

It had been well over a year since Kira and I had seen each other last. It was enough just to be in each other’s company. Enough to sit beside a friend who had experienced loss and sorrow, and find comfort in the quiet, shared sympathy. We didn’t quite pick up where we left off – how could we after so much had happened? – but we began anew in the happy place of friendship where we’d always found safety and surety.

Rather than playing any more tricks with time, I’ll reset the narrative from the beginning, starting with this evening’s blog post, which will find us reuniting on a sunny Friday afternoon in Boston, back where it all began… 

Our first fall baseball foray had the potential to be as magical as Boston can be at this time of the year, but as we set off on our annual BroSox Adventure, it felt like the world decided to continue taking a dump on any fun plans I might have made this summer, and with all the obstacles mounting, this trip was doomed from the start. 

It began with our rescheduled structure- we had originally penned in an August Red Sox game, when summer would be at its height, but reality intervened and made our original date impossible. Shifting to September thanks to a lovely birthday gift from Sherri and Skip, it sounded like we might make our very first fall outing. That was fraught with its own memories – my very first Red Sox game with my family was in the fall of 1986, when they were in the running for the series. That trip remains a happy family vacation memory, as much for the game as for the brown paper bag of four paperwhite narcissus bulbs that I had procured at Faneuil Hall prior to the game. A return that reminded me of that game could be a welcome reminiscence, or prove a tricky bit of sadness if it only recalled things I’d lost – either way, Skip was a safe friend to have along for such a moment, and the idea of a fall baseball game without heat and humidity was a refreshing change of pace. 

As we finalized our tentative plans, Skip noticed that the tickets he ordered were not for the Saturday game as we originally planned, but for Sunday afternoon at 1:30. We’d usually be returning home to upstate New York by 1:30 on Sunday afternoon. He put those tickets up on SeatGeek, but at this point in a losing season, there were no takers for seats at half that price. The weather forecast was suddenly looking pretty awful too, so we ended up going forward with the Sunday game plan. Honestly, I didn’t mind as long as it didn’t mess up our traffic flow, which would already be disrupted by a Friday afternoon departure. 

That drive into Boston was lovely. The sun was out and behind us, just like summer on its final day of the season, and we made good time right up until the end, when a sign indicated that the seven miles to Boston would take 28 minutes. Skip was driving by that point so I leaned back, let go, and let God, as the quasi-religious gypsies say. It worked, as we made it into town half an hour later, found a parking space, and were slurping on pho in Chinatown as a warm welcome to a cozy fall weekend. We walked off the soup and made it home for a quiet Friday night in.

The next morning was overcast, with rain encroaching on the rest of the weekend. After the short misty walk around the corner, a pair of counter seats at Charlie’s Diner proved available for a late breakfast, which included some of the best biscuits Skip claimed to have ever had. We made a customary walk along Newbury for the tranquility of Muji and provisions from Eataly. A welcome nap (as we are at the age of necessary naps, and grunting whenever we bend over to reach something) and some snacking passed the bulk of mid-afternoon. Our favored stoop-watching practice was derailed by the rain, but we had a loftier vantage point from the window. 

Dinner that night was at the Smoke Shop BBQ at the Seaport, where we’d also planned on checking out the mini-golf scene at Puttshack. Continuing the doom and gloom of this particular trip, the whole evening was booked, thanks to the weather at hand driving people indoors, and all the damn college kids now inhabiting the city. That’s the most blessed thing about summer in Boston: they’re all gone. And yet somehow we had a grand time at dinner. More than grand, in fact, as I was aided by an edible, and time seemed to still as I got lost in laughter in a way I haven’t done since before summer began. 

Outside, the rain came down, and we made hurried motions to cross the river back into Boston proper, where we found our way to the Langham Hotel for a moment in their chill lobby. There were memories here too – fall memories, coming at the same time of the year in which they were first made – and they should have proved at least slightly problematic, but thanks to Skip’s indefatigable attitude, we found fun in a hopeless place. When at last our Uber dropped us off, we sailed deep into the night playing Heads Up until we both crashed.

Game day dawned with the threat of rain. With the closing of our beloved Cafe Madeleine, Flour would have to stand in, even if it was a longer walk, and a more annoying line. We took our food to go, had a brief siesta back at the condo, and as the rain started in earnest we began our trek to take the T rather than get gouged by a $31 Uber trip to Fenway. By the time the above photo was taken, in the muggy “subterranean hell” of the Copley Station T-stop, both of us were thinking that $31 would have been a steal after some crazy person jumped onto the tracks and stopped subway traffic for half an hour. 

We arrived to a rainy game already deep into the first inning. Our seats were soaked, but a friendly woman in the next row up gave us a wadded-up pile of napkins to wipe them off. Our raincoats were working overtime, but the seats were good, and as we sat down and soaked our asses, it looked like the sky was brightening. 

“That’s just the game lights,” Skip assured me. Oh, of course. And the longer we sat there, the more it rained.

The mind wanders at such times. I looked out onto the field and tried to remember the first baseball game that my Dad took us to – it was there, but the memory was different. That day had been crisp and sunny. We had been young. The world had felt hopeful. On this day, the rain came down harder. The world felt darker. But I was with a friend, and out again in the world, even if it had dimmed since earlier in the summer. 

“Wait,” I said suddenly, as my eyes fell upon the other team going underground, “Is it called a dugout because it’s like ‘dug out’?” The revelation felt almost too simple – and what kind of simpleton calls a place such a stupid thing? 

Skip laughed a little and said, yes, then marveled that the realization was coming 48 years into my life. 

By the fifth inning, the rain was pouring down. We were soaked, but we hadn’t had our Fenway Franks yet, so we headed indoors, scarfed down the dogs, and walked around inside, heading upstairs as throngs of people began leaving. 

“Where is everyone going?” I asked.

“They’re leaving!” Skip laughed.

“For good?”

“Yeah!”

We stood in the rafters looking at the scene below. A tarp had been pulled over the diamond, and Skip proposed leaving. The last time we left a game early, Neil Diamond came out and sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ live just minutes after we exited the park. This time, there would be no song and dance, and as the rain showed no sign of abating, we joined the crowds exiting into the pouring rain, and were back on the Mass Turnpike headed for home within an hour. 

This should have been the worst BroSox Adventure we’ve ever had – instead, it was one of my favorites, and I don’t remember having this much fun with Skip in years. It was also one of the first excursions after the awfulness of this summer, and it was precisely what was needed. I think it was good for Skip too – his spring was as difficult as my summer, and we were both in need of letting loose. Looking at the pictures here, I am smiling because they don’t exactly portray the fun that was had, which cracks me up even more, and Skip would say the same. 

I’d almost forgotten the powerful healing aspect of simply hanging out with a cherished friend. The older we get, the darker the world grows, and finding refuge in such a friendship is the surest method of finding your way home. Thanks Skip.