Megorious

Two summers ago I had a run-in with the Coolidge Corner Animal Abuse Lady. Since then I have learned that no matter what, there will always be a craxy person yelling at people in Coolidge Corner. It’s just too good of a spot. I haven’t seen the Animal Abuse Lady in a while but that doesn’t mean there’s been a lack of yelling going on.

Meet Milton Kapner, aka Brother Nathanael. He was born into the Jewish faith before converting to the Orthodox Church in the late 1980s. He brings a whole new meaning to the term “crosswalk,” now that he spends his time doing The Last Supper big arms thing while screaming about Jesus in public places where people don’t want to hear it - anywhere. I’ve seen him in various spots around Boston but up until the other day, I always found myself without a camera.

You can’t miss him. He’s always dressed in black with a blinging big cross dangling from his neck and a big fuckoff beard right out of the bible. Besides his divinity, he welds two weapons of mass distraction: a giant crucifix and the most devout weapon of them all, the American flag.

Upon preparing this post I turned to Universal Hub, a Boston community weblog that carried a few of my posts in the past. I didn’t expect to stumble upon the mother load of information on Brother Nathanael. I never even expected to learn his name. I was wrong.

My path to righteousness, or perhaps the opposite (lefteousness?) started at the Overheard in Boston post, Trader Joe’s may not love Jesus. Apparently two days after I saw Brother Nathanael, he was at the Trader Joes in Brookline yelling at patrons. His Jesusantics did not go unnoticed and the Brookline police were called

You do see why the customers might feel threatened or harassed when they enter or leave the store and you’re shouting at them about Jesus… and why they complained to the staff, who had to call us…
- Brookline police officer to Brother Nathanael

From there I followed the trail to Involuntary Slacker which had more information and some pictures on the disturbance, including a comment posted by adamg that lead me to Universal Hub’s Brother Nathanael node. Apparently he gets around. Back in January the Brookline Tab reported that Brother Nathanael had been shot at in Colorado. Just a few days after the drive-by BB gun shooting, Brother Nathanael was harrassed by Warren W. Smith, a Dillon Valley, CO man who was later arrested. Apparently Smith also has a knack for dramatics:

At the time, Smith was holding a flagpole with both an American flag and a pirate flag on it. A 3-foot sword and a skull were also on the pole.

It didn’t take long for Brother Nathanael to flee Colorado since, according to talonvaki’s LiveJournal, he was back in the Boston area in early February, shouting outside South Station at the intersection of Summer Street at Atlantic Avenue.

As it turns out, Brother Nathanael is no stranger to LiveJournal. He has his own LJ, Nathanael Speaks! “and everybody listens” which includes a timeline of his path to righteousness on his profile. His archives indicate that he’s been posting since 2005.

Now back to my encounter because it has a surprise ending….

I wasn’t able to get any great shots; mayhaps because I spooked him with my camera, though that’s highly unlikely since you typically can’t spook a spook, or because I have no photography skills whatsoever. (For some professional shots of Brother Nathanael, czech out Sara Piazza’s Photography.)

I must have come across him just as his shift was ending (around 6:00 pm) because he put away his crucifix and went over to pack up his stuff from underneath one of the median street signs.

Then Brother Nathanael took off across Harvard Street, in front of traffic mind you, in what I assume was an attempt to make the train.

Just before he jetted across Harvard Street, I noticed that he dropped something, so I went over to czech it out. What he dropped was this:

He didn’t just drop it like it was hot, he dropped it like it was gayhotmovies.com. What Brother Nathanael dropped was a prepaid card with a scratch box for 30 free minutes from a gay adult website. Now there are many reasons as to why he could have had the prepaid card: It could be a prop he uses when he preaches that everyone is going to hell, or just something that was handed to him by a random solicitor, or maybe it actually was his. (Though I suspect he might prefer gayhotmonks.com.)

I’m curious to know the answer but not as curious as Brother Nathanael appears to be.

So after the heat started to smother the apartment, I decided to call The Hamilton Company back. Luckily they have a 24-hour maintenance hotline. The person I spoke to this time told me that they went to 143 Street but there was no issue. So, I kinda lost it, because it’s not 143 Street, it’s 145 Street! (We have this issue almost every time we call for maintenance.)

About an hour later I finally got a call from some maintenance guy. This was the first he had heard of the heat being on in our building but did add that they had a similar problem earlier in the evening at 143. He asked me to go to one of the radiators so that I could describe how the heat was coming out. Seriously.

About another hour later some guy showed up. As if he didn’t believe our numerous calls throughout the day, he said he had to see (or feel) for himself. He walked over to the radiator in the living room and placed his hand over it. Then I said, “Tell me, can you feel it?”

The heat is on… In our apartment!

In the latest display of incompetence and negligence by our lord of the land, The Hamilton Company, the boiler in our building was fired up on this, the last day of May. They can turn the heat on the when it’s warm outside but in the dead of December they can’t seem to get the heat pumping. Currently it is hotter inside our apartment than it is outside – a truly remarkable feat!

I called maintenance a few moments ago and got to talk with the always angry, rude, and eternally pregnant secretary.

ME: Yes, I’m calling from 145 Street. The heat is on in our building. It shouldn’t be. It’s May.
HER: It shouldn’t be on. Are you sure?
ME: Yes. I’m standing over the radiator now. Steam is rising out of it.
HER: But is it hot?
ME: Yes. Steam usually implies heat.
HER: Okay. 345 Street.
ME: Actually, it’s 145 Street.
HER: Oh. 145? Didn’t your roommate call a couple of hours ago?
ME: Yes. The heat was on then too.
HER: Then you know we’ve already been made aware of the issue?
ME: I wanted to make sure something was being done because it’s hot as hell in here.
HER: Someone is working on the boiler as we speak.
ME: Great. So, if I walked down into the basement, someone would be there?
HER: Yes sir.

There was no one in the basement. I knew there would be no one in the basement. This is exactly what happened back on Thanksgiving in 2005. The heat was not working and it was freezing outside. I was assured, after I woke up shivering at two in the morning, that someone was down there fixing the boiler. There wasn’t then either. For the record, it took them more than a week to fix that problem.

Sauna anyone?

There’s really no other way to say this so I’ll just come right out and say it – the other day I got hit by a car.

First, let me say that I am absolutely fine. I wasn’t hurt in the slightest. Neither was anyone else for that matter. I was “hit” in the loosest sense of the word. In fact, “car” isn’t exactly accurate either. It was an SUV.

I had just left my apartment in Brookline and was on my way to Excelsior. It was quite the nice, albeit a little hot, sunny May afternoon, at least in Brookline. That all changed in the span of fifteen minutes whilst I was underground on the C Line. It looked like the end of the world when I surfaced at Boylston station. The sky was pitch black, the fierce wind blew freshly bloomed buds and petals about, lightening flashed and thunder rolled, and then the bottom of the sky gave way to a torrential downpour.

I stood at the intersection of Boylston and Tremont streets when the little walking man indicated that I could, indeed, walk. Like everyone else, I opted to run. As I stepped onto Boylston Street, the walking man changed to the flashing “talk to the hand” icon, indicating that there were fifteen seconds left to cross the street.

Two trucks were already stopped at the red light. The people running in front of me had just stepped off of the street. That’s when the SUV came flying towards me. The driver honked several times as he sped right up to me. I pushed on the front of the SUV with my hands all the while saying to myself, “What the fuck!” My body fell right up against the grill for a moment before I bounced back a few feet. If it had been a car I would have ended up on the hood.

I looked up at the driver who was, naturally, on his CELL PHONE. He honked and yelled at me as I ran off the street. Two high school-aged girls loitering outside Dunkin Donuts laughed at me or the situation or both or possibly something else entirely. The SUV quickly drove off and was gone. The light was still red mind you. He never even bothered to see if I was all right.

I went into Dunkin Donuts where a woman asked me, “Did you just get hit by that car?” I told her that yes; I did, but also that I was unharmed. The woman also added that someone should get the license plate, to which I added that the SUV was probably already running down children in Chinatown.

For all of my troubles, the Dunkin Donuts clerk gave me a free iced coffee, which I subsequently spilled.

I woke up early this morning, much earlier than I had hoped, so I decided to make it a relaxing and casual morning. I read The New Yorker, played with Linus for a bit, and then caught the last half of Best in Show on Comedy Central. Good mornings don’t get any better than that.

After my shower, I tracked over to Peet’s Coffee and Tea to do some homework. After I stalked out my table, I sat and enjoyed my tasty and refreshing coffee. There was this older gentleman there, asking customers to fill out a survey about Peet’s. He was highly organized, with clipboards and pens and moxie. Actually, he wasn’t very good at persuading customers to fill out the survey; not because people turned him down, but because he hadn’t bothered to ask many people. After about ten minutes of actual work, he asked me, not noticing the stack of scripts I needed to read for class. I agreed to the survey because I knew I would score a free coffee card. It only took me a couple of minutes.

Then, something happened. I’m not exactly sure how it started because it happened so fast. He randomly volunteered some information about his occupation, then asked me a simple question, “Do ever go to downtown Boston?” I informed him that indeed I do, since I go to Emerson College. Now, what are the chances that this old man had once worked for Emerson College?

What follows is mostly accurate. I paraphrased bits and pieces based off of what I could remember. Since most of the information is repetitive it was fairly easy to remember most of it. None of it has been over-exaggerated.

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Moments ago there was a commotion outside on Boylston Street. At first, all I heard was a woman yelling, then it grew much louder. Everyone ran over to the window so see a protest of about 200 people as they marched down Boylston. There was loud music and plenty of signs that said, “End C.O.R.I. Now!”

We all watched for a few minutes as the parade or protesters proudly passed. But not one of us knew what exactly C.O.R.I. was. And the protesters didn’t exactly purvey the point either. It was really all confusing.
One sign even said, “No to C.O.R.I. No to Police!” I found this ironic since the protest had police escorts. We only started to vaguely realize the point after the first of two mock up jail cells passed, with more detailed banners.

After they passed, I googled C.O.R.I. but didn’t get the C.O.R.I. I was looking for. Apparently there are many organizations with the same name. I eventually found that C.O.R.I. stands for Criminal Offender Record Info.

I saw this morning that they are opening a Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits on Brookline Ave. in Kenmore Square. That’s practically down the street from me. Do you realize how fat I could become?

Valentine’s Day and National Condom Awareness week always coincide. Coincidence? I think not. I also think it’s a little silly to have a week dedicated to condom awareness. Aren’t we all already aware of condoms?

The two busiest days in the restaurant industry are Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day. Each come with their own annoying nuisances too. Mother’s Day is for shut-ins. For a lot of those mothers being treated to brunch this is the one day a year they get out of the house. Think of the mother from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. Mother’s Day is probably the one day a year her kids get her off of the couch. Valentine’s Day is for amateurs; the night when young couples try to act like adults. The girls get all dolled up in scarlet; the men take off their Red Sox hats and tuck in their striped shirts.

Last night was amateur night at Excelsior. What does amateur night mean in the service industry? It means the servers go in an hour earlier and work two hours later because the entire restaurant has to be converted to accommodate nothing but deuces. All those big tables that can seat six to ten people must be rolled away so that room can be made for all those lovey dovey couples.

My first table last night was the quintessential Valentine’s Day table. The girl was, of course, draped in scarlet but she stood out more than any other girl because of her fiery red hair. V-Day is obviously her day to burn bright. From the moment they sat down the boy could not keep his hands to himself. He was constantly holding and kissing her hands, which caused difficulty when attempting to take their order or even grab their attention. In fact, ten minutes after they sat, they had yet to order any sort of tasty and refreshing beverage. This posed a problem since Saturday Night Rules were in effect. Eventually they ordered cocktails but it was nearly half an hour after their arrival when they placed their order.

The biggest deal breaker on amateur night is wine. Many boys pretend to know what they are doing when ordering wine but the server can always tell that they don’t. Lucky for them the girl can never tell. Tucked stripe shirt declined my offer of assistance with the wine list and took the task on solo. The only problem is that Excelsior has a 40 page wine list with more than 1000 different bottles of wine from every wine region of the world. I watched from a far as he flipped and flipped and flipped whilst at the same time maintaining his controlling grasp on Scarlet’s hands. Eventually he gave up and asked me for a suggestion. This act is always clever on the guy’s part because it sends the message to the girl that the guy would rather gaze at her than waste time perusing the wine list. Naturally I referred him to my default wine, Caymus. He didn’t question me at all. Now Caymus, at $290 a bottle, is in the mid-price range. What? Did you think I was going to suggest a $40 bottle of wine? Please.

Last night was slower than expected though, mostly because Boston was encased in ice. Amateur couples came and went except of course for Scarlet and Striped Shirt, who were so engrossed with one another that they marinated for over three hours. Even when their entrees came they refused to unlock their bony digits. The food sat there for about twenty minutes before they touched it. Striped Shirt ate everything of course, Scarlet ate about a third.

But the biggest reason Valentine’s is amateur night has to do with tipping. The tips are shit, usually between 10-15%. (21% is the norm.) This is why wine is key. Servers have to jack the check up as high as possible: 10% on $400 is a lot more than 10% on $200. And no guy wants to look cheap on amateur night. That’s why you sell as much as possible. The guy will never complain or even ask about the price because there is no limit to his love. There is however a limit to his credit card.

At the end of the meal the $470 check must have been a bit of a shocker. You can always tell by the way the guy quickly glances over the check. He opens it, scans down for the total, and then slides in the plastic. The real amateurs will always flinch by reopening the check for a split second to make sure they saw the right price. There is nothing they can do though. They go home, (hopefully) get some action, then fret over their deficit in the morning.

Valentine’s Day makes no sense to me. Maybe it’s because I’m single and don’t believe in love or maybe it’s because I see no reason to spend so much money trying to impress a girl. There are plenty more romantic gestures than buying chocolate or jewelery or dropping $500 on dinner. Personally, I’d rather serenade a woman with Danke Schön.

As many of you may have already heard, the Mooninites invaded Boston today. Cartoon Network decided to promote the new season of Aqua Teen Hunger Force by planting electronic Mooninite lightboards in boxes in hot spots around the city.

Federal, state and local police swarmed around the city as reports poured in of suspicious devices, closing roads, tunnels and bridges for hours. The chaos touched off a traffic nightmare and prompted a tense press conference from Gov. Deval Patrick and Mayor Thomas M. Menino, who assured residents the matter was under control.
[via The Boston Herald]

Turner Broadcasting, parent company of Time Warner, issued an apology:

The ”packages” in question are magnetic lights that pose no danger. They are part of an outdoor marketing campaign in 10 cities in support of Adult Swim’s animated television show Aqua Teen Hunger Force. They have been in place for two to three weeks in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, Seattle, Portland, Austin, San Francisco, and Philadelphia. Parent company Turner Broadcasting is in contact with local and federal law enforcement on the exact locations of the billboards. We regret that they were mistakenly thought to pose any danger.

Shirley Powell
SVP, Corporate Communications

The packages in question have since all been destroyed by the Boston Bomb Squad.

But wait, there is more moon related news!

Tonight there is a ring around the moon unlike any I have ever seen before. This isn’t your typical ring. It’s not very close to the moon, at least from the ground view. It’s distant and bright and beautiful and creepy. It’s kind of like a halo. But it surely can’t be a legitimate halo. A halo would never appear over our pathetic, dying planet.

I tried to take a picture but it came out like crap. So here’s a picture of a lunar halo from 1998.

This is a “ring around the moon” or lunar halo. Vastly overexposed in this 8 second exposure, in the center of the frame, is the moon.

Halos are caused by sunlight being refracted by cirro-stratus clouds. In the case of this lunar halo, the sunlight was first reflected off the gibbous moon, which was three days past full. Cirro-stratus clouds are thin clouds, very high in the atmosphere, and are composed of ice crystals. They bend light at a 22 degree angle, which creates a solar halo or lunar halo that is 44 degrees in diameter.
[via astropix.com]

Maybe it’s a sign from the Mooninites….

A few weeks before Christmas I was fired from Restaurant L, the job that I held for nearly two years. I knew that my eventual demise was approaching. I was counting on it. I was pushing for it. It was four months in the making.

Some woman named Lindsay hired me at L. When I went in the very next day I learned that she had been fired. Her assistant, Mike, was thrust into the most undesirable job ever. Mike was a great boss though, probably the best boss I ever had in a restaurant. I had also never seen someone get so burned out. Mike was given no support in any way, shape, or form. He was always at the restaurant; usually working 80 hours a week. I was always impressed that Mike never dropped dead at work. But all good things must come to an end….

L never made any money. Never. The reason was that the nincompoops in charge didn’t know how to run a restaurant. Actually, they couldn’t even run Louis Boston, the poshly over-priced glorified retail store that excreted L. Mike’s exit was the result of pressure from his bosses to churn a profit. But it was never Mike’s fault. It wasn’t the fault of the restaurant employees either. And is certainly wasn’t the fault of Chef Pino Maffeo’s avant-garde cuisine. It was the fault of Louis Boston but they would never admit to that; so Mike was ousted…
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It was 70 degrees the other day. In Boston. I kid you not. 70 degrees in January is something I’d expect in Louisiana but not in Boston. Something isn’t right in the state of Massachusetts.

Statistically, January is the coldest month. The average high is 36; the average low is 22. We haven’t had any of that yet. Autumn was beautiful. Many days were consecutively sunny and mild. Very spring-like. But not Boston spring. Oh no. Boston spring, at least for the last two years, has been cold and rainy.
Even looking at the extended 10-day forecast you will notice a disconcerting trend. The temperature averages begin to drop somewhat but they quickly rebound after only a day or two, with the high temperature Friday reaching 52. The nightly lows seem to be near some level of normalcy, dipping into the 20s once of twice, but mostly they reside in the 30s and even the 40s. This is not the Boston I have known for two years.

But perhaps most alarming is the lack of snowfall. Since I moved here it has always started snowing in October. So far this winter there have been two days of minimal snow. Both in December and both gone within hours. So really there hasn’t been any snow. Not like the past years at least. Usually when I come back from Louisiana after Xmas I find snow all over the place. This year there was none. It’s almost as if someone canceled Winter. It was probably Jesus®. From what I understand he’s in charge of climate.

While I sit here, patiently waiting for some freakin’ snow, mayhaps someone can identify this classic G.I. Joe character. If you guess correctly you win a pot pie.

This mornings Metro had an article about possible delays on the MBTA green line today. The reason: temperatures are expected to reach 101 degrees. The article stated that if temperatures exceed 100 degrees then the tranny could run 20-30 minutes behind schedule. Well, considering that the green line always runs 20-30 minutes late and that there is no substantial evidence that the MBTA even has a schedule, this should make for a more miserable than normal T Day.

Amy decided to move out. YES! Though she is gone now, her exodus was the most excruciating process that I have ever been through. Amy planned on moving out the last weekend of June, that left us with less than three weeks to find a replacement for her. Plus we still were looking for Kathryn’s replacement. To add to the problems we hit severals snags with potential roommates. The first three roommates we liked we had to pass on because Amy didn’t like them. Then she decided to move out. She could have saved all of us a lot of time (and money) but she didn’t.

Once the dust cleared we ended up going with my school chum Valentina and Nick, a musician. Valentina couldn’t move in until September, so we found a sub-leaser, Peter, for her room for the summer. Nick couldn’t move in until the end of June, making Amy legally responsible for June rent. Amy didn’t take this news well.

Below are the final emails exchanged between Wednesday, May 10 and June 1, 2006.

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Oh my my my my my my my my my. Here’s a quick recap of where things stood around 1:30 PM on Tuesday, May 9, 2006:

• Amy is a big freak.
• Amy is trying to cheat Kathryn out of getting her deposit back**.
• Amy still has no clue when I am available to show the apartment.
• Ryan is available thrice as much as Amy is to show the apartment.
• Sarra, the potential roommate, is just as big of a freak.

**The way the roommate change works is very simple. When someone moves in, they pay first and last month’s rent and a security deposit ($1537.50). When someone moves out they find a replacement. The replacement pays their first month’s rent ($615) to our landlord. Last month’s rent and the deposit ($922.50) is paid to the roommate they are replacing. There is no penalty for breaking the lease. It just that since Boston is a college town, the landlord doesn’t want to deal with the refunding of moneys. It’s left up to the tenants to work out. Every single person who has moved into our apartment has done it this way. Amy just decided to attempt to alter the procedure this time.

Now, this is where things get nasty…

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When we last left off, Amy had arranged for some girl named Alison to come and see the apartment at 9:15 PM on Monday, May 8, 2006. I repeatedly told Amy that I would NOT be home at that time. She either didn’t read those emails or was so absorbed in her own warped world that the information failed to register in her lazy brain. I’ll go with the latter. I wasn’t supposed to be home but my plans were canceled at the last minute so I was home for the evening. Kathryn also had two guys scheduled to come earlier in the evening but, of course, Amy couldn’t be there. One of Kathryn’s friends never showed, though he did call every hour to say he would be there shortly. Punctuality precipitates persona people!

This next slew of emails took place Tuesday, May 9, 2006 before 1:30 PM.

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And so on….

My big freak of a roommate turned the seemingly simple assignment of finding a new roommate into an all out unwarranted attack on my character. [For the record, my character is Ryan.] After a morning of sitting back and ignoring Amy’s ridiculous emails I decided to strike back. Before you read the emails below I suggest reading the first string of emails so that you will understand exactly what I am talking about. The emails that follow are from the same day, Monday May 8, 2006, as the previous emails. This new slew of badgering came after Amy’s lunch. Remember, this is still Monday.

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The roommate search is not off to a good start. Below are the email exchanges that took place between Sunday night and Monday afternoon. Pay particular attention to the times of the emails, especially the early Monday morning emails. Amy is impatient and needs immediate gratification, just like when Amy came crashing into my room at five in the morning.

These emails are in their original state and the content has not been altered in any way.

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I haven’t talked about my roommate Amy a lot because frankly, she is so insane that most people would think I just made her up. Amy is 29 and sober. She’s been in the program (Alcoholics Anonymous) for about a year and a half now. She goes to roughly ten meetings a week and leads her entire life by their rules. She can’t make a single decision without discussing it in a committee. Basically, the program has made her crazy by making her list every messed up thing that has ever happened to her throughout her life.

One thing I have learned about Amy after living with her for a year is that she firmly believes that everyone who is not in the program is a sick alcoholic. When I first moved in she was very forceful in trying to get me to go to meetings with her. I told her I didn’t have a problem and she replied with the textbook standard, “Denial is the first sign.” Well, you just can’t win in that case. When I first moved in here I was in a non-drinking mood. I actually went six months without having one drink. Amy told me this was one of the fist signs. I thought denial was the first sign? She told me then that the next time I would have a drink that I wouldn’t be able to stop. My life would spiral down into a haze unless I got help. I had one beer that night and didn’t have another for a month. Amy told me the first sign of alcoholism was not drinking. How many first signs are there? Even though we obviously don’t like each other, Amy and I usually get along. Probably because she’s never here and we hardly see each other.

There was one incident last fall though….
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Ben shot (and narrates) this video from New York. You can hear the exact moment he loses interest in filming. I thought by pushing this giant cube I would open a secret level ala The Legend of Zelda. I was wrong.

Work was dead last night. As a result we spent the majority of our evening quoting “Family Guy.” The few of us working just stood around outside doing absolutely nothing productive. Occasionally I went inside to check on my table (table singular) but then I would rejoin in the tomfoolery outside. Jack came out to smoke a cigarette and joined in the conversation. We didn’t talk about anything in particular at first but then the conversation turned to smoking. Actually the conversation turned to not smoking. Jack has been a smoker for years but he really wants to quit. We all told him the best way to quit smoking is to just quit cold turkey. That’s where the conversation turned ridiculous. Where did the expression “cold turkey” come from? What does it mean? And why is it so funny to a bunch of guys bored at work?

Cold turkey means to quit something, usually a drug, in a sudden and abrupt manner. We had no real theories as to the origin of “cold turkey,” though the idea of a turkey chilling in the cold was rather humorous for some reason. Eventually I wondered aloud if anyone had ever literally quit cold turkey. TED, for instance, loves turkey, whether it be fried, smoked, hot or cold. If TED ever became addicted to turkey in its cold state, in such a manner that an intervention was required, would he be able to shake his cold turkey addiction? How does one quit a cold turkey addiction? Cold turkey? See, the comedic possibilities are mind boggling!

For lunch today I had a cold turkey sandwich. It was delicious. Is it possible that my cold turkey conversation last night foreshadowed my lunch today? Probably not. I can have a turkey sandwich anytime I want. It’s just a coincidence that I bought cold turkey from the deli two days ago. Although, if I had been mindful at the time I was devouring my sandwich, I might have realized that this was foreshadowing what was about to happen to me. I wasn’t, and what happened to me next was quite the surprise.

I left the apartment for school. I descended the stairs fiddling with my iPod, not paying attention to anything besides my music selection. Four steps before the bottom of the well I looked up. Perched outside the glass door of my apartment building was a turkey.

Last weekend it was quite beautiful and warm. The highs Saturday and Sunday topped 70 degrees. Some might even say spring finally sprung but we lapsed into a winter remission yesterday. It rained and got down to near freezing last night. This morning it was even colder and I awoke to snow. SNOW! Later the snow turned back to rain but the winds picked up and the high temp soared to a whopping 37 degrees. So yeah, it got cold.

I stood on the fourth step in awe of the giant turkey just a few feet in front of me. In addition to being cold, the turkey, who I named Freedom, seemed confused. Freedom was also in my way. I had to go, but there was a 4 foot tall turkey blocking my door. I didn’t know if Freedom was simply lost or if he was there to avenge his brethren who I just so happened to devour on toasted bread with mayonnaise.

I pushed the door open slowly and Freedom moved aside. Across the street, two immigrants watched and laughed at the cold turkey while smoking cigarettes. If someone invents the cold turkey burrito tomorrow, I’ll know who. I cautiously exited the building as Freedom cautiously moved away. I thought about going back upstairs for my camera, but I needed to get to school. I didn’t want anything to happen to Freedom though. It would be a shame if he got hit by a car this far away from Thanksgiving. I thought about what I should do and the only option was to call Brookline Animal Control.

DISPATCH: Brookline police…
RYAN: Uh, hi. I thought this was animal control. I wanted to report an animal on the loose.
DISPATCH: What kind of animal, sir?
RYAN: Umm, a turkey.
DISPATCH: A turkey?
RYAN: Yeah. Is that weird?
DISPATCH: Where did you see it?
RYAN: On Freeman street, near the intersection of St. Paul.
DISPATCH: Are you sure it’s a turkey?
RYAN: Pretty sure.
DISPATCH: It’s not a duck? -
RYAN: No. Definitely not a duck.
DISPATCH: - or a peacock?
RYAN: (pause) Um, are there normally a lot of peacocks in Brookline?
DISPATCH: Sir, I don’t have time for pranks.
RYAN: This isn’t a prank. There is a turkey standing ten feet in front of me.
DISPATCH: Ok sir. Turkeys are wild animals, it’s not that uncommon to see them.
RYAN: Ok.
DISPATCH: Turkeys are protected animals.
RYAN: Oh. I didn’t know.
DISPATCH: How does he look?
RYAN: Cold. And wet.
DISPATCH: Sir…I meant, does he look disturbed?
RYAN: Um, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a turkey before, let alone a disturbed one.
DISPATCH: Well does he look dangerous?
RYAN: Um… No. He looks delicious!
DISPATCH: (slight laugh) Don’t worry about him, he’ll fly away soon enough.
RYAN: Uh, I didn’t think turkeys could fly.
DISPATCH: No, they can.
RYAN: Are you sure?
DISPATCH: No.
RYAN: Now Freedom is in the street.
DISPATCH: Excuse me? Who?
RYAN: Freedom. He’s in the street.
DISPATCH: Who is freedom?
RYAN: The turkey!
DISPATCH: Sir, don’t name the turkey.
RYAN: Why not?
DISPATCH: Is there anything else I can help you with?
RYAN: No. I just wanted to tell you about the cold turkey.
DISPATCH: Ronnie!? Is this you?
RYAN: Huh?
DISPATCH: Very funny. Calling about a cold turkey the day I quit smoking.
RYAN: Uhhh…
DISPATCH: I’ve got work to do. (hangs up)