Chapter 3: Boston

The summer between my junior and senior years was the first big change. All the social sciences require field work. The one I chose was to the slums of Boston. In some ways, it was like living in the flat, without the homework. My alcove became a dorm bed, with half a closet and a military foot locker. Showers were communal and hot water a rare privilege. Food was done on a chore schedule. Same old, same old.

Forty hours a week I spent working at a transient shelter. Another twenty were at a legal aid office, filling out government forms for people that could barely read. It was something that stayed with me when I went into politics. Another few hours were spent on daily notes. The rest were spent with Veronica.

Roni loved Elvis Costello's song Veronica. She would hum it all the time. Whenever we were about to do something daring, or even just a bit risqué, she would sing the line, "You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica." Her name in lyric seemed empowering. Certainly, she was as wild as the girl in the song.

We met standing in line. Veronica sang that line, over and over, til she was called. In seconds, she was a screeching harpy, gouging flesh out of a civil servant's hide. I stood to one side and handed her things as the need arose—paper, pen, copy of the regulations, etc. I was the perfect contrast, standing quietly, but towering over the desk.

Eventually, the clerk picked up his phone and progress was achieved. Roni hrumphed with feeling. I presented my paperwork for the clerk to stamp. That done, we left the office. Once the door was shut behind us, she threw her arms around me and said, "I don't know who you are, but I owe you coffee. They never give in that fast."

Veronica bought two lattes to go, then I walked her home. She invited me in. We spent an hour on her sofa necking. Things might have gone further, but her roommate came home. Introductions were made and I left, promising to call. The next night we attended a poetry reading. The night after, Saturday, it was a 1930s art film marathon til five AM. We slept together and had sex for breakfast. She could not cook any better than I could.

It's easiest to describe Roni was a stereotypical redhead Irish New Yorker, with the temper to match. She was Dutch, brunette with no freckles, from Providence, but her attitude was so familiar my New Jersey roots felt at home. For two months, Roni led me around. I even let her put a ring in my nose. Actually, it was three rings, but one sufficed to give her control a literal reference.

When I say it that way, it sounds bad. It was not one sided. I learned a lot of things about sex, women, the club scene and politics. Always the politics. Veronica was a master of offering you three ways to make her life better. She could make you grateful for having a choice. Fortunately for me, she was not the Mistress of choices. That might have ended more badly.

I was an intern for my thesis research. Time with Veronica was like a second internship. Of the two, Roni taught me more. My sister-in-law, Sheila, has a lovely phrase for it, Learning hurts because part of your innocence died. They make up words like bittersweet to describe my relationship with Roni.

The end came a few days before I was going to blow off my next semester and stay on for the fall. As was my normal routine, I left the legal aid office, stopped by the news/coffee/sundries store and picked up two lattes with an extra shot. I knew as soon as I opened the door that something was wrong. Two hours later, still with two lattes in hand, Veronica was gone from my life. She always told me a clean cut heals best.

I did not cry then, or ever, about the breakup. Cruel cuts were an old enemy. I knew how to hold the edges together until scar tissue formed. Oddly, it made things easier at the shelter and legal aid center. No one knew Veronica, but they knew her tactics. If you read Othello, the only person that believes Desdemona was unfaithful is her husband. I was the only one that thought Roni had deep feelings for me. All the people I worked with considered her a manipulative bitch.

Maybe Roni's abrupt approach did leave less scarring. It kept me from taking some irrevocable actions, for which I am thankful. Not having her around allowed me to focus on my notes and preparation for my thesis. My new emotional state caused me to reconsider my basic approach. It may be funny to think that a sociologist would forget human factors, but that is what I had done.

Work proved good therapy. My last Monday, I dragged in on less than three hours of sleep. Mimi Montenegro, the director, told me to grab a cot and get some sleep. Four hours later, they had pulled together a going away lunch. I was touched. While I made no friends that summer, several people respected my work and my dedication. We had a fine time over chicken wings and pizza.

It came as a shock when someone asked about Veronica. Suddenly, the whole room went quiet. It was so much like a movie, I had to laugh. That broke the ice and soon everything was back to normal. Later that afternoon, Mimi told me that she had been worried about suicide. I did not mean to laugh, but I couldn't help myself. Then I couldn't stop.