Porn Store Post, Part 2 (the Neighborhood)

The store is in a part of Boston known as the Fenway. And yes, for you baseball fans, it is indeed directly across the street from Fenway Park. On one end of the block is one of the swankiest clubs in town, Sofia’s. On the other, a gay bar and club called The Ramrod (not even I could make that up) and the Machine. In between, the porn store. All directly across the street from Family Friendly Fenway Park!

On Friday and Saturday nights, the street would be packed. Red Sox fans on one side of the block; gay men in leather or drag on one side of us; and young hipsters in the latest European young-hipster fashions on the other side. And a little bit of everybody coming in to check out the porn store.

The best part of the evening was an hour or so before the game started. Here’s the thing about the Ramrod ~ there is no signage, no marking, nothing to indicate that it’s anything other than a neighborhood bar. Inside, you are in a neighborhood bar. No matter who you are, walk in, have a seat at the bar and you’re gonna get a stiff drink or a well drafted beer. What always made me laugh, though, were the college kids. You know the type. God love them ~ they look alike, they dress alike, they sound alike. They could be from any college campus anywhere in the country. Inevitably, I would be sitting outside, smoking a cigarette, watching the world go by, and a group of college boys would come down the street, laughing and loud and being their macho, cool, going to the game with the guys selves. One of them would notice they were passing a bar and decide they should get a beer before they had to pay stadium prices. I could count to thirty and they would come scrambling out as if Satan himself was on their butts. The bartender would follow them out and shout “Come back anytime, boys” as he waved them down the street. He and I would smile at each other and laugh at the ignorance of some people. Beers are cheaper at the Ramrod and the seats are cleaner, too.

On Sundays, the Machine turned itself into a lesbian bar. One of the few in Boston, sadly. Since I regularly closed on Sunday nights, I became close acquaintances with the women who worked the door. My Sunday night routine quickly became close the store, head over to the Machine, have a shot, smoke a cigarette, have another shot, smoke another cigarette and go on home. Heather, the bartender and I became close the way two people who see each other regularly in one place but nowhere else become. She started making me her signature shot. One night, I asked her what it was so I could order it elsewhere. She laughed and told me I couldn’t because it wasn’t on a menu anywhere. Okay, I asked. So, what do you call it? She laughed and said “Pobble, you’re the only straight woman in Boston who gets to taste ‘Heather’s Snatch.’”

On the other side of the Ramrod was a 24-hour convenience store. You never, ever ordered anything made there. Even the coffee was questionable. Of course, I drank it but no one else I know would. And I understand why. Still, these were the guys who would tell you not to buy the candy on the bottom shelf because it had been there for so long. They would then turn around and sell it to someone who wasn’t “neighborhood” without batting an eye but they took care of their own. I lived in the neighborhood as well as worked there. One night, I was very sick and out of meds so I pulled a coat on over my pajamas (really, really sick) and went there ~ the closest 24-hour place around. They wouldn’t charge me for my NyQuil and forced me to take hot tea with me.

Across the street, next to the park, is the Howard Johnson hotel. Only Howard Johnson I’ve ever seen with a Chinese food restaurant. We lived on Chinese food. One of us would call in an order and I would head over. I was allowed to sit in the bar and smoke (do you see a pattern here?) while our food was being prepared. The bartender always gave me water with lemon. It would be waiting for me at my spot by the time I got there. And yes ~ they gave us discounts as well.

Sometimes, at one of the establishments, someone new would give me a hard time about where I worked. It never lasted long. While I don’t know what was said because it was never corrected in front of me, it never happened more than twice.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.