Looking Up At Central Square
Surprises in Central Square abound. And yet, nothing surprises. Even fights appear run of the mill and quotidian. Brick sidewalks undulate and collect broken glass. Bums, drunks, and vets call each other names and sleep on soft grass. Police tire of peeling them off of curbs and doormats.
Wendy’s and CVS buttress T stations where the Red Line transports passengers from Kendall Square and Harvard Square. MBTA workers snap their jangling keys to their belts and assist the elderly with Charlie Cards. Subway cars dive into the earth on the Cambridge side of the Charles River and snake toward Alewife, sniffing the darkened recesses of underground passages.
Dozens of college kids congregate at the corner of Massachusetts Ave and Brookline St, filling up the corner in front of the Middle East. They’re here to listen to M83 or We Are Scientists or Deerhoof or Pretty Girls Make Graves or !!!. They smoke Camel lights and show off their skinny jeans and clever T-shirts.
Middle schoolers strut and shout. Minivans lean on the pavement and accommodate children leaving school. Backpacks, jackets, and basketballs attach to boys and girls. A Bluetoothed woman tightens her grip on the leash while the dog tugs at the collar.
Grads blend in with crazy-bearded men and hoarse women. The crowds of Central Square are quaint compared to the rabid hordes of Davis Square and Porter Square. Central manages to impart the sensation of open sky and scattered parking spaces, a welcome respite from the suffocating sea of humanity and cabs close by in Harvard.
We didn’t grow up in North Cambridge or East Cambridge, but here we have all grown up with the yammering youth of Central Square. They play in front of hoops and walk to the bus stop. Their mothers bust them walking down the street when they should be inside studying.
The pizza never gets better at the sub shops, and other constants maintain. Cambridge Community Television continues to broadcast “BeLive!”, the door stays propped to the JAX Liquidation Outlet, and the Blockbuster sucks harder every day. The Enormous Room ebbs from empty to stifling, white tablecloths smooth Rendezvous, and pool players disrupt nearby tables at The Field.
Find a clean bench and a flaky pastry. In the coffeeshops, between mugs and power cords, sandwiches wait in cellophane. Batteries come in many sizes at Radio Shack. Sirens and horns clash while we turn our backs.
