by J. M. Paul
Mostly as a group, Bax, Milo, Carly, and I ambled down the footpaths of Boston’s Public Garden. Periodically, one of us would get drawn to a particular object, scene, or curvature of the pond and would stop to take pictures.
As we meandered, the sun shone brightly overhead, kissing the grass, trees, flowers, paths, and people with its rays. It was an unseasonably warm spring day.
Many flowering trees were covered in pink, purple, or white blooms. Sidewalks were lined by a multitude of colorful tulips in variations of red, yellow, orange, and everything in between. The park was vibrant with life, color, and what I could only describe as hope.
After a long winter, the breath of spring brought the promise of new beginnings to everyone, and I felt it in every passerby. Their auras were alight with wonder and excitement as they hurried around the garden, looking for an undiscovered tree, sculpture, or the ideal spot for their family picnic. When surrounded by so much beauty and elation, even my darkness seemed to dull a fraction.
Enraptured by what could be a perfect subject, I veered down a path to my right. I knelt in the middle of the walkway to study an old man sitting on a wooden park bench, reading a newspaper, with sunlight filtering through a massive willow tree above. A woman walked a small dog along the path in front of him, ducks quietly pecked at the grass behind him, and a family in bold colored shirts played by the water in the background while other groups of people walked to and fro.
I closed one eye to take the landscape from three-dimension to flat—as any picture I took would eventually be—and found the best angle to support an image that would wow a viewer. If it didn’t wow me in person, once printed, it certainly wouldn’t attract an observer.
I slightly changed my angle to omit objects that would distract the eye, and I focused on the story I wanted the image to tell.
Click.
A flawless moment of light and tranquility was documented. Without looking at the digital display on my camera, I knew it would be one of my favorite shots from this portion of the trip.
I smiled to myself, lowered the camera, and climbed to my feet to survey the area for other photographic opportunities.
All of a sudden, the hair on the back of my neck stood erect, and an eerie yet familiar chill ran down my spine. It felt as if I were being watched. I surveyed the surrounding area, looking for something that would cause my intuition to peak, but I came up empty.
I guess it’s hard to let go of old ghosts.
When I stepped back, I bumped into someone. I spun around, bracing myself for anything, and came face-to-face with a surprised Bax.
He took two steps backward, putting ample space between us. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just…did you get the shot you wanted?” His eyes flitted past me to the subjects beyond.
“Yes.” A stray piece of my dark hair danced in the breeze, and I reached up to secure it behind my ear.
“Need help with the compositional order or have questions about the structure?”
I could tell Bax was trying to play off his hovering as a possible teaching moment, but I knew he was making sure I was okay after my brief stint down memory lane earlier at the church.
“No, I think I got it.” I flashed a reassuring grin.
“Cool. We should find the suspension bridge before the clouds overtake the sun.” Bax squinted up toward the sky, and I followed suit.
Only minutes before, the blue sky had seldom been interrupted by a puffy white cloud, but it was now being encroached by thicker dark clouds that promised rain.
“We should get going then.” I scanned the park one last time—looking for what, I wasn’t sure—before I turned to find the rest of our foursome.
Our group wove in and out of the people crowding the park to make our way to the bridge that landed in many photographers’ portfolios. During my research of the location, I had read it was the world’s smallest footbridge.
When it came into view, I understood why it was so popular. It was slight in size but exquisite. The detailed railings, tall lighted posts, and artistic stone structure immediately drew the eye. People posed for pictures in the middle or leaned their bodies over the sides to watch the flat swan boats carrying tourists float around the lagoon or under the bridge.
The four of us took several shots of the structure from different angles and depths, and then we meandered along the bridge to simply enjoy the moment.
Suddenly, the sky broke open to dump buckets of rain against the earth while we strolled over the bridge. While the raindrops thumped a steady beat against the lagoon and the trees and flowers sighed with quenched thirst, most of the visitors of the park broke out in a panic. The serine atmosphere had quickly washed away with the water.
I froze in place before I slouched my body over my camera and let the rain pound against my back. I didn’t care if I got wet, but I couldn’t let anything ruin my camera. It was the only piece of my family I had left.
Right before the incident that had killed my family, my parents, sister, and Jarrod had pooled their money together to get me a Nikon D5100. It was the best camera on the market at the time, and I treasured it above anything.
“We need to find shelter,” I barked above the commotion around us. “Our cameras!”
My camera.
Bax surveyed our surroundings and then motioned to our group. “Follow me.” He led us off the bridge and down the steps that descended to the lagoon.
I kept my head bowed, body hunched, to simulate an umbrella and followed what I could see of Carly’s feet in front of me through the curtain of my bangs. When we hit the bottom of the stairs, we turned right. The lighting was darker, but the wet raindrops soaking my clothes and skin stopped.
When I swept my damp hair away from my face, I noticed we were under the suspension bridge.
“Son of a mother this sucks.” I inspected my camera. It had a few droplets of water on it, but it looked like I had saved it from the worst of the rain.
“Son of a mother?” Milo asked, confused. “You mean, son of a bitch?”
Carly giggled, and Milo winked at her. With his wet fingers, Bax tried to wipe the raindrops off his camera.
“No.” I shook my arms out, trying to rid my body of some of the chilly moisture.
“Uh, chica, I might be Mexican, but I was born and raised here. English is my first language, and the saying is, son of a bitch.”
I turned to watch the veil of rain splatter against the uncovered cement and splash into the pond.
“I know how the saying goes,” I grumbled.
“So, say it right. You sound estúpido.” Milo was joking, but it made my spine straighten.
“Milo, shut up,” Bax snapped.
“You shut up, chico. I was just messin’ with her.”
“If you mess with her, then you—”
“Both of you, shut up,” I cut Bax off.
The last thing I wanted was some guy coming to my defense or two of the group’s members fighting over something this ridiculous. It would already be a long three months of traveling with this foursome, and I didn’t need our time together to get any more awkward.
“I don’t swear,” I said loud and clear.
For almost ten seconds, the only sound around us was the pounding of the rain against the earth.
“What do you mean, you don’t swear?” Milo finally guffawed in disbelief. “Why the hell not?”
Because it’s the only good part of me I have left. The only vow I can keep for my parents.
“I just don’t.” I twisted my ponytail to wring some of the water from the soaked strands.
“What kind of college student doesn’t swear?” Milo looked between me, Carly, and Bax, perplexed.
“You’re looking at one.” I raised my eyebrows.
Milo shook his head. “Why deny yourself the use of all the fun words, chica?”
“Why does it matter?” Bax interjected.
I shot Bax a warning glare.
Why is he alw
ays sticking up for me?
Milo ignored Bax. “I bet you have a lot of pent-up anger. You need to release that with a good and hardy string of cuss words. Say fuck for me.”
I stood quietly, watching him. He was challenging me, but I wouldn’t fall for his antics.
“How about shit? Or damn—that’s one of the nicer words. I could teach them to you in Español. They don’t count if it’s not your first language.” Milo sent me a cheeky grin.
I let out a little laugh to make him feel better, but I didn’t want to explain the details of why I didn’t swear.
My reasoning was personal. It was the only thing I had left that I thought would have made my parents proud. I don’t swear. It seemed pathetic and small, but it was all I could hold on to.
While Milo and I had been bantering back and forth about my lack of cussing, the shower had dissipated. It was a quick spring soaker.
“Well, this has been fun,” Carly said sarcastically while she wound her long blonde hair up into a bun, “but can we head back to the hotel? I need to change out of these wet clothes and find a stiff drink.”
Milo clapped his hands, the loud noise echoing under the covered bridge, and then rubbed them together. “Party night! I think it’s time we all got drunk and real.” He wore a devious smirk. “The best way to get to know each other is through the drink. I wanna know everyone’s dirty secrets, and alcohol always pulls them out.”
“I don’t know about gossiping like schoolchildren”—Bax gave Milo a pointed glare—“but I could go for a beer. Want to head over to Acorn Street in Beacon Hill real quick? We could take some pictures and then head back to the hotel to change. Then, we won’t have to carry our cameras to the bar.” He looked at each of us, waiting for an answer.
“Sí, muchacho. Now, you’re talking,” Milo said.
With that, we set out on foot to find the most photographed street in America.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds stayed.
As we made our way to our next destination, we stopped to take pictures of Bostonians, intriguing architecture, a display of produce separated into wicker baskets at a local shop, little hidden gardens tucked into alleyways, and a white flowering tree growing out of the side of a building.
Daylight started to fade into evening as we walked along the brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill. Streetlights glowed to life, casting a slight gleam over the still-wet buildings and pavement.
Google research had told me this area was one of the most desirable and expensive neighborhoods in Boston. As I took in our surroundings, I didn’t need the Internet or Zillow to tell me that the houses sold for millions of dollars. The beautiful, serene atmosphere, the fancy cars, elaborate front doors, and general tidiness of the region screamed that it was filled with money.
“If my GPS is correct, Acorn should be coming up on our right.” Bax pointed up ahead.
We strolled a half of a block before we found our destination. If we hadn’t been searching, we probably would have missed the road.
It was a narrow lane paved with evocative cobblestones and lined with Federal-style row houses on both sides. Black vintage streetlamps and porch lights were scattered around the space, adding an elegant radiance to the road. Light bounced off the cobblestones and cement, making it look as if everything was covered in a soft sheen of ice. There was a small downward slope toward the road, and one lone American flag hung next to one of the front doors.
Taking in the magnificence surrounding me, I understood why it was the most photographed street in the United States. My hands itched to start snapping pictures of everything, but I forced myself to stand in awe of the history and to feel the story I wanted my photographs to tell.
My research had also told me that, in the 1800s, Acorn Street had once been home to coachman employed by families in Mount Vernon and Chestnut Street mansions. I wondered if the handlers of the historic horse-drawn carriages ever imagined their once-considered modest homes would become the most coveted mansions in Boston. It was surreal to think about.
Bax, Milo, and Carly had already climbed the slight incline to take close-ups of the antique lampposts, the flag, front doors, or windowsills with hanging flower baskets. I slowly followed behind them, observing. There had to be something hidden that hadn’t landed among the millions of images already saturating the Internet.
Any picture I could take had been done before, but I could add my unique flair to it. Most, if not all, photos I had seen displayed the elegance found on or around the street. Observations of my peers told me they were documenting similar likenesses. It was a lovely place for pretty, but I was dark and troubled.
Bingo.
I walked to the top of the hill and waited for Carly to move out of the shot. When she did, I lay on my side, set my camera at ground level with the curb lining the street, and worked the shutter several times. I changed the zoom, aperture, and my location slightly, but I knew the vision I was hunting.
My angle would depict the 1800s version of this road to show the wear and tear that came with age and the poverty it had once symbolized.
The location was striking in color, but it would be stunning when I could turn my photos to black and white. The harsh shadows mixed with the old light posts reflecting off the wet pavement, the downslope, and the border of row houses provided exactly what I was after. I knew, without a doubt, that I had created the perfect scene.
“Everyone get what they needed?” Bax’s voice boomed into the night.
The group had been working in silence, and I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was long enough that my soaked hair and clothes had dried.
We met at the bottom of the hill and decided to bypass the bar and stop to grab a quick bite on the way back to our hotel. We were exhausted from a day of traveling and exploring Boston.
Another busy day of sightseeing was planned for tomorrow, and then we would be off to New York City. I couldn’t wait.
I always wanted to visit and experience the Big Apple, to be a part of the energy and chaos. It was claimed to have a heartbeat all its own, and I longed to be the pulse, to sense it vibrate through my veins, so I could feel alive again, if only for a brief stint while in the city.
My body begged to get lost among the monotony of individuals trudging to and fro without a care or regard for the person next to them. I aspired to be of no significance, just another person with another sad story, in a sea of bodies trying to find their happy endings. But I wasn’t certain happily ever afters existed, especially for me. Maybe everyone constantly chased an unobtainable dream, a falsehood that childhood fairy tales said existed. Humans wanted to believe in anecdotes that claimed fairy godmothers were real and had magical wands that could sprinkle glitter over our botched lives to somehow make them better. If fables were true, our days would be filled with flowers, rainbows, and handsome princes galloping on unicorns instead of grit, crime, fear, and hate.
My life had exploded with the latter, crushing the fairy tales in their wake. Happy endings hadn’t been weaved for me.
I was knocked from my meanderings when a guy stepped on my foot as he shoved around me and then disappeared in the horde of New Yorkers swirling through the underbelly of the city—also known as the subway.
“Arness muncher,” I mumbled my made up swear words to myself as I climbed the stairs to the street.
“Come on, chica, ya gotta swear better than that,” Milo said next to me. “We’re in the land of the rude and crude. You have to act like a badass or get treated like a sewer rat. Swear like a sailor.” He lifted his arms up in eagerness. “You know you wanna.”
I peered sideways at him and then rolled my eyes. Ever since he’d discovered I didn’t swear—at least, not technically—Milo had been trying to get me to say all manner of vulgar phrases. The more I fought against him, the harder he would try.
“Screw you, Milo.” I adjusted the camera case strap, pulling it closer to my body.
There were many thieves in my li
fe who had taken almost everything I had to give, but I wouldn’t let the pickpockets of New York steal my only prized possession. It was the one thing I cared most about and the only object I had that reminded me I had been better at some point.
My life had started as a beautiful snapshot, then had been somehow overexposed somewhere along the way, and had turned into a useless print to eventually be discarded. I was simply surviving until it was time to pay my debt and disappear. The end to my unwarranted existence would be the payment for the colossal mistake I had made years before.
The thought of that error stabbed a dagger right into my heart, and I fumbled over the last step. Before I went headfirst into the concrete, a strong, masculine hand reached out to grab my arm to steady me.
I waited for the instant recoil and debilitating terror to claw at my throat and chest, but it didn’t. The panic was there but subdued. The absence of overwhelming anxiety was foreign and made my breath catch in my lungs and my skin pepper with chills. When I was stable, Bax’s hand released me, allowing me to inhale oxygen and courage.
A scruffy man in tattered clothes sat and played a guitar out of the way of traffic, thumping the beat of a song that only he knew. His head was bowed, his long dark hair covered by a Yankees ball cap. Tendrils covered his face, but I could see his mouth moving.
New Yorkers circled around us at lightning speed. Their bodies were a circus of motion, impatient to get to their destinations. Their voices, barking orders or talking and laughing with friends, rose up in a chorus to mix with Scruffy Man’s guitar, the loud whir of the subway, and the clanging of opening and closing doors.
I twisted toward Bax.
His eyebrows were raised in silent question, asking, Are you okay?
The inquiry was quickly becoming a broken record between us.
Someone bumped into him from behind, causing him to sidestep. Even though his balance was tested, his hazel eyes never left mine.
My head nodded slightly before I continued to climb the last stair to the garish spectacle of Times Square. I could feel the overwhelming throb of energy pulsing before we even broke through the doors.