Ticket to ride

The realtor stared at me across her desk. "You knew the ride before you bought the ticket, didn't you?" she asked. I answered that I did but I wasn't prepared for the heart-stopping thrills the destination had in store. "Due diligence is the client's responsibility," she replied, "It's not ours. We represented your apartment in Savin Hill as factually as we could under the circumstances."


I'm not complaining. Dorchester is more than I could have expected and more than that besides. The Red Line trains that run through my back yard rock me to sleep and the rattle of my dishes every few minutes has become a lullaby. We spent the night in Roslindale recently and the lack of rumbling, elevated subway cars until 1:00 AM and after 5:00 AM gave my companion and I a fitful sleep. We couldn't tell what time it was. The whole night was a perpetual 3:00 in the morning when nothing is going on in Boston. The T, like roosters or morning songbirds, is a mark on our day's yardstick. Without the the trains, what time is it?

I wasn't there to negotiate my rent but to pay it. In fact, I would be willing to pay a hundred dollars more a month. Lucky are the hapless souls who make Dorchester their home. A big city writ in lower case cursive, where small amenities and conveniences are kept amenable and convenient; all Dorchester's streetscape is a stage and a haven, a honey pot and a larder, a reservoir of good will and fresh air. Nothing stinks in Dorchester except its reputation and that is only because its reputation is moldy. Not enough people visit to provide fresh insights and reportage on developments in the Dot.

If you are not interested in Dorchester, it is just as well. Your neglect keeps everything affordable. I would hate to see the Harp and Bard be bought out by Chili's or the Tom English's become a TGIFridays or Gene & Paul's Market become a subsidiary of Stop & Shop. We already have a Shaw's within walking distance on Morrisey Boulevard.