I like the summer rain in Boston, usually passing through in the early evening. It doesn't settle in for days like does the winter rain or even the springtime soak. I like to hear the summer rain come down the street, moving in from the bay. It starts like a faint rustling off in the distance, not quite sure if it is not by a rising wind. Then the air begins to cool and takes on a certain fragrance, that good air scent you find when you stand in the midst of the mist of a waterfall. You begin to hear the first rain drops plop on the roof, the scouts for the cloudburst to follow. And then it comes, the full rain. It has a certain sound when it first arrives but as the puddles form, the rain takes on a deeper, fuller sound. And then as the streets become soaked, the city lights, especially the neon, begin to paint their streaky watercolors all over the place. Then as the rain moves on, it leaves behind a steamy mist that changed the street lights into romantic little lighthouses, their softened light diffusing through the temporary fog.
Yes, there is nothing like the summer rain. I love it. I believe Boo does too. It is one of the few times that he sits and gazes out the window with his chin resting on his paws.
I think I am beginning to drink too much. My Southern Comfort bottles are beginning to pile up between grabage days. I didn't use to feel sorry for myself, even after Margo and I split up. I think I might be on the way to becoming a lonely old man. God, I can see myself in this apartment fifty years from now, peeing my pants and petting Boo's great-great-grandson. I'll keel over one night, the cat will take off out the window, and three weeks later some rookie cop will get a call that my mail is piling up. I can't keep living like this.
"This is just getting pitiful, isn't it, Boo."
But Boo does not even give me a sympathetic look, but keeps on giving himself his nightly paw bath. I should get a dog. Cats, they don't care about what's going on with you. They will purr up to whoever has the can opener for the cat food.
I did laundry, hauling three duffel bags down to the basement laundry room. Mr. Bernstein was down there, doing the laundry for himself and his invalid mother. They lived in the corner room on the second floor, 201. I'm not sure if I ever heard Mr. Bernstein's first name. He ran a watch repair shop down the street, inherited from his father, who inherited from his father. The old man was killed, hit by a bus one morning when he was crossing the street. Mr. Bernstein took over the business, worked there each and every day, I suppose like 'clockwork'. His mother went a little looney when the old man died, and then she had a massive stroke.
Yet, he was a nice enough guy, a little quiet, a little strange, a life long bachelor and a good guess would be that he would die that way in room 201, twenty or so years from now.
God, I've got to get a life.