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Yup, my Tuesday ended like that. I was under the impression I was going to watch the Sox kick some Mariner ass; little did I know the gauntlet I was about to enter into trying to accomplish said goal. I drove to the T, dumped the car, paying $3 in doing so, loaded up the Charlie Card and away I went. Now, I know the T always smells like a mixture of garbage and bum, the two generally not being mutually exclusive, but there's a certain kind of elevated effect that occurs when you throw in the fact that all the moisture in the world has been trapped in the air for the last 3 days due to constant cloudiness. Basically, that business lady wearing too much perfume, the little girl who dropped ice cream and left it there, those college kids who drank too much last night and consequently ralphed Coors Light and cheese fries everywhere, all those people, though they may be long gone, have left their stench behind to stay.
Finally, the orange line came to a screeching halt and I, along with every other nut determined to sit through a monsoon, either because of their determination to get their $20 worth or because they actually were just insane fans, crowded on. Here we have a gambit of people running, from dads with their kids to old guys having some sort of heated discussion pertaining to the downfalls of prestuffed canolis (which I have to say I quite agree with) to two people on some sort of awkward date. Wait ten minutes, hop on the green line, and swap out the old guys for some inebriated 20-somethings and the dad for a confused and annoying soccer mom.
Ahhhh yes, Kenmore Square, I have arrived! The dew drops (well, downpour is closer but who's counting?) hanging about Lansdowne Street, the Citgo sign gleaming in the distance, it just warms the cockles of my heart. So, onward I march, triumphant at the fact there's merely a delay. My Red Sox wouldn't cancel on me and the Mariners are from Seattle, the land of depressing, rainy weather, so they're used to this crap anyway. When all of a sudden, what fresh hell? "The game's canceled!" screeches an annoying preteen boy at me. Whatever! He could be lying or falsely informed. I proceed forward, determined that not only will I sit on the soaking bleachers for hours, but also stopping off at the Sausage Guy first. So, hah! Take that you prepubescent jerk! "Its not happening!" "It's cancelled!" "Game's off!"
Ahhh! OK, I get it. Fenway failed me! So no game, no sausage, no Sweet Caroline. What I can take away from this experience is some soaking hair, an empty stomach and a lighter wallet.
"Oh! But wait," you say, "what about the rain date?"
Well, my dears, I spent the rain date, which might I add, was no less rainy, at my super duper fun job I couldn't call out of. How might I sum up the night for you?
"Cornbread or Italian?"
"Yes."
Insert me banging my head on the counter repeatedly.
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