My Version of a Night on the Town
April 1, 2007
“A night on the town” carries connotations of the grandiose and the exquisite, of nights drenched in sequins that glitter all the way back to your dorm. But discerning Jumbos know that this is not always the case; a night on the town can be had in any price range, in fact, often at no cost at all. On a recent trip down to the Boston Commons, I found myself with only enough dimes for a red line ride back home to the luxurious Bush Hall. I had been robbed of my money, my jacket, and my dignity, and the only thing that made it worse was the fact that I was by myself. At first I despaired; “Surely my night is ruined!” I cried amidst sobs. A young man and woman laughed, but in my fragile state I was only able to muster a tear soaked and muffled curse. This got me a swift punch in the jaw, many kicks and an intimate view of the train floor (not as dirty as you’d think!) as well as the new Air Jordans (they easily stain with blood—not worth $125).
I nursed my wounds and ego until Park Street station and stumbled out into the cold night, made colder by the fact that my jacket was stolen. I was at a loss over what to do—I had no money and I was completely alone. Suddenly a movie by myself dawned on me for what it really was: depressing and antisocial. I silently reflected on my foolishness, hesitant to vocalize my feelings again as I already had too many Nike swooshes beaten into my shirt. I realized that I had been walking aimlessly and that I had no idea where I was. I was about to break into tears again but I steeled myself—I’m from Westchester, well-paved and well-lit streets lined with shops are where I shine! I can beat this. I just wanted something to do, someone to hang out with, but I had nothing. On the streets and completely broken, I wanted nothing more than to forget everything I’ve ever known and burrow into the mud of the Common and sleep forever, rising as a crocus in the spring.
During my dejected musings, I apparently caught the attention of a nearby hobo who beckoned to me. What the hell, things can only get better from here. He offered me a place to sit and, although I was ashamed to be accepting the pity of a hobo who had only one syllable’s worth of teeth, I swallowed my pride, choked on it, and then sat down. Turns out his name was John and he had studied phonology but, unfortunately, no one knew what that was so he had to live on the streets. He offered me a swig from his bottle—it was grain alcohol, pure moonshine of an unholy proof. All I can remember after that is playing some high stakes Scattergories in which I lost a toe and gained a tattoo. I woke up the next morning with a face full of mud, a shoe full of blood and a head full of aches. It was that afternoon that I truly learned what it meant to take a walk of shame.
In the end, I discovered much from my “night on the town.” We are so often pigeonholed by the words that we use and do not get to experience their full range of meaning. But that night I became fully versed in the not-so-stereotypical connotations of “a night on the town,” because it can mean anything: a romantic dinner filled with flirting and delicious food or a great concert leaving ringing ears and broad smiles. Or an impressive collection of bruises and a morning of temporary blindness. So don’t limit yourself.