Late summer I am sitting at the 169 with Peter Nolan Smith.

He comes from New England.

Same as me.

Franny Fitzpatrick hit the beach at the Bay of Pigs.

Hull fried clams

Boston. Boston.

Talk heroin.

Not a joke in New England thanks the Big Pharma.

Boston Boston.

Quincy Quarries.

They were a boy’s dream.

White boys only.

“Let’s get on a bus and head north. We’ll rent a car and drive to Hyannis. My brother has a place not far away from the JFK compound. We can go the the cranberry bogs. I was there on quaaludes once.”


No one makes cranberry pie and I hate that Ocean Spray adds HFCS to their juice.

“I am from the South Shore, not Boston. We’ll drive north listening to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. Road road road a runner. We won’t even stop in Boston. We’ll go to Cape Ann.”

“And Rockport.”

“I dove into the quarries there. Almost broke my back.”

“We’ll have fried clams in Ipswich, but at the Clam Box and not Woodman’s. The clams are the same, but I like the Clam Box’s batter better.”

“The place ain’t what it used to be, but I like a bar there. I can’t remember the name. Actually they have a lot of them. After a beer or two we’ll drive through Portsmouth through Kittery and then to York.”

I knew York well. I came from there.

I lost my virginity there.

A long time ago.

There were few places in the world better and Peter agreed with me, because he came from Maine too.

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