Saturday, February 21, 2009

Paul Revere

Imagine stumbling toward Haymarket Station at 11pm. You're not drunk, but you can't stand. Every sharp, icy breeze almost knocks you onto the frozen ground. Your chest feels like it's about to explode and you have to stand still occasionally to take jagged, insufficient breaths.

Fast forward to the Green Line. The chunks will not be kept down. You try to tell yourself that the train is actually moving along a straight path, but each time you open your eyes you see the halves of the trolley car flapping violently in opposite directions as the train navigates tight curves, squealing and screaming under downtown. The motion and sound compound the sense of panic. You can't imagine how embarrassed you will be if you throw up on the train. People might think you are from the suburbs.

This, friends, is what happens when you eat a Paul Revere, a sub of "Romanian pastrami and corned beef" served at the pub mentioned below. I was expecting actual corned beef, not sliced deli meat. I was expecting to have a good night out with my friends, which is to say: not be rendered physically useless by a sandwich.



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