Besides snow, there is nothing a motorcyclist detests more than rain. It is raining today. Donning an oilcloth fedora and my trusty French trench coat, I trudged between raindrops this morning on two feet rather than zipping along on two wheels. I didn't gambol very far afield and sightseeing detours were fewer than usual. The weather didn't stop me from taking a right turn onto Spring Garden Street rather than heading straight. It is spring, after all, and a garden needs to be watered. I thought I would witness this process in action.
There is no line like a bee line, unless it's a conga line.
It wasn't a party atmosphere around Savin Hill this morning. Pedestrians were travelling head-downwards and sidestepping puddles. Though the sky was weeping, when people did look up, their faces betrayed the bemused attitude common in Dorchester. Luck seemed against them again but they took it in stride, putting one foot in front of the other.
A stream of rainwater flowing down Spring Garden Street's gutter floated an empty Zagnut wrapper that got caught in a ball of twigs and fishing line before twisting itself free. The Zagnut wrapper and I were headed in the same direction, so I slowed my pace to keep it company and track its progress. It disappeared down a storm drain and I abandoned it at that point. I watched it go between the bars of the grate with a young woman who was equally hypnotized by the swirl of water and jetsam heading underground.
She looked up at me and said, "I love Zagnut." I admitted I enjoy a Zagnut myself from time to time. It's a good candy bar, one that is difficult to find in other parts of the country. I observed to her that we are lucky to live in Dorchester where Zagnuts are so plentiful their wrappers make up a common feature of our urban landscape. She agreed. When we parted company, the wrapper gone but not forgotten, she told me she was headed to D&D Convenience for a candy bar. When I said I was headed home, she pointed out that I was already there.