“If I just leave early enough, I can beat everyone into Boston,” I say.
It is 6:30 in the morning, and the interstate is already gridlocked.
Everyone else had the same idea.
The sun has barely risen above the horizon,
but it is enough light to see people putting on makeup,
to eat a fast food breakfast,
to drum fingers on the steering wheel in impatience.
A morning show fills one car’s speakers,
a family trying to win tickets to the theme park.
A podcast fills another, something about an underground city.
Boston has an underground city, too—
over 80 miles of subway tracks and traffic tunnels.
It is just as crowded in these spaces as it is in the greenways above,
where cars once traveled on elevated highways.
An hour and a half later, I will drive through these tunnels,
my journey almost complete.
I will travel five and a half hours round trip today, just like every day.
It is the price of living in a place that’s not the size of a closet.
This is a living situation I will come to know.
My first apartment was smaller than a dorm room.
I slept on a platform above my desk and dresser;
I had to crouch to use both.
I only spent time there to sleep—the rest of the day
was spent exploring the city.
It had a wonderful view of the Charles, though.
It was hot all year long and the walls of the building,
a brownstone, were not thick enough to hide
the neighbors’ frequent fights and lovemaking.
It was enduring all that or the endless drive, though.
And winter was coming. So I learned to eat from
a toaster oven and bathe in a shower the size of
a telephone booth. It wasn’t in the way I thought,
but I was living my dream. Today, I live outside
the city. I travel north on highways just as crowded
as before. But I’m near enough that I can beat nearly
everyone into the office. It is 6:30 in the morning
and I can sleep for another fifteen minutes.