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Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Meet the Monitor. Early every weekday morning, without fail, he appears. He stands there, just inside the rightmost entrance of the Back Bay T-station, maybe for hours, a blind-man's cane in his right hand and a high-powered walkie-talkie in his left. Well-dressed, eyes closed, the radio never leaves his ear, and I've never seen him move from his chosen position. Nearly two years running and he's hardly missed a morning.
 What is he listening for? The chatter of the train controllers, directing this busy intersection of commuter and subway lines? Is he scanning the emergency bands, eavesdropping as dispatchers dole out early-morning alerts? Or is it something else entirely? Is it some sort of therapy? Is there a kind of comfort in the communication that maybe makes up, just a little, for a lack of eyesight? Maybe something only he can hear, or something he's never heard but thinks he just might, from this perfect spot? Thousands of commuters walk by him, step around him as they start their downtown Boston days. But this is the start of his day, his regular routine. I don't have it in me to ask him what's out there, partly because I wouldn't want to interrupt... and maybe because it's more fun wondering.  |
 neil halstead live in cambridge, ma on november 14th, 2008 previously: joy formidable - boston 2011 recent posts on the 'nac...
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