I'm sitting in a strange kitchen right now , in a posh two-bedroom condo in Charlestown, Mass. My head is pounding. I've already maxed out on the recommended daily intake of Advil, hung over from a long night of upending pint after pint of Guinness at the Warren Tavern down the road—a legendary pub located in the former home of Revolutionary War hero Dr.
Joseph Warren, where my dad has been bartending for the better part of 20 years. My memory is a bit strained on the details, but I think it went something like this: As news broke of a MIT police officer being gunned down, followed by a hot-pursuit car chase between the two suspects in Monday's bombing, I was bellied up to the Tavern's rustic, centuries-old bar. I remember saying something like "blarphgmchp" out loud, which in my head sounded like "Good lord friends, this week has really been a doozie, what?
To come over. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, the little guy driving my core motor skills gave me just enough digital dexterity to reply with a "sure". Shit's hitting the fan, I thought. May as well. I woke up this morning with the standard one-night-stand accoutrements booze sweats, eyes and brain feeling like they've just come out of the microwave, an embarrassing case of gastrointestinal unrest. I put my bare feet down on the floor while trying to find my cell phone and my dignity both proved elusive , and in doing so I stepped on a giant shard of a broken wine glass.
It apparently fell to its end and shattered into a galaxy of twinkling shrapnel from atop the nightstand, which itself had nearly been toppled somehow. And it was then when I realized I had a problem.
The whole city was locked down. Taxis were suspended. Public transit shuttered. Cops were going house to house.
