Observation Desk: Central Massachusetts

Several weeks ago, I arrived in a small town 90 minutes west (and a little bit north) of Boston at 7:30 on a Sunday night.  I wanted dinner.  And every restaurant in town–all two of them–closed at 8pm.

I ended up having really, really bad Pad Thai hunched over the greasy table in my borderline-condemnable motel room.  Afterwords, I washed my hands in the bathroom sink, yet somehow felt dirtier having done so.  Perhaps it was the flickering neon bulb above the sink casting unnatural shadows about the room.  Yes–let’s just say that’s what it was.

The next day, I awoke in my middle-of-nowhere room, and drover further into the middle of nowhere to what ended up to be a really, really great day of work.  But on my way there, I drove through this underpass.  And I wondered–who did this graffiti?  No one lives here; not one even eats past 7pm on a Sunday.  Yet–yet–someone trekked out here to spray-paint the hell out of this bridge.

Behold, the inexplicable drive of the human spirit that wants only to leave a mark somewhere, anywhere.