Written By: Bryan Donegan
Clarendon Street, South End, Boston:
It was the time of night when the city was wild and screaming for someone else to come join the madness. That someone else was nine year old, Francis Martin. Every Saturday night, while his socialite mother was out enjoying her many suitors and his father was away on business, Francis would express his desire for some, “much needed sleep” to his aloof au pair. The need for him to express this to her was unnecessary, due to the fact that she was usually sleeping with her boyfriend in the guest room, responding to his request for bedtime with, “Okay, Franky, get out, don’t tell your parents.”
Usually he quipped back with an innocent response such as, “Oh I won’t Sandy, I’ll be in as much trouble as you for staying up past my bedtime!” However, tonight he just looked at her, trying to catch a glimpse of her naked body, and replied, “God, you are so sexy, goodnight.” Before she could reply, he closed the guest room door and headed for his room.
His room was upstairs, on the third floor of the Martin’s brownstone, and when he walked up the flight of stairs, he dragged his finger along the wall, weaving through carefully placed photos of his drunken mother with John F. Kennedy Jr., his father holding a Heineken with First Lady Clinton, and a picture of Francis posing with his beloved dog 'Marcus Pawrealius'. There were faint black lines along the wall, leaving proof of Franky’s innocent little habit of finger dragging.
In his room there were many books scattered on the bed, on the floor and on his dresser. Most of the books were about nature, travel, poetry, some “classics”, and most recently about the art of rocking chair making. (In the corner of his room was a beautiful, flawless, rocking chair, which he had finished just three days prior. It still had to be stained.)
Walking through the pile of books, clothes and toys on the floor, he reached under his bed and grabbed his L.L Bean backpack, which was a gift from his father’s mistress. Inside were his three favorite books (Meditations, A Farewell to Arms, and the Wind in the Willows), a pack of cigarettes he stole from his aunt, a pack of cinnamon gum, and hair products to keep his curly dark hair from looking, “too bohemian.” He then stuffed a few days worth of outfits into the already filled back pack. This was his weekly routine, precisely, every Saturday night. After fixing his hair, he carefully placed black Way-Farers on top of his head.
He went to his dresser, and took out an unfolded a weary looking, hand-written note which read:
Dear Mom and Dad, I no longer wish to be part of this so called “family.” I do not expect you to be shocked, even saddened, for that matter. My only concern… is that of Marcus Pawrealius. Please do not be cruel to him. He has feelings, like you and I. And do not forget to feed him, but just one cup full, Dr.Nguyen says he is getting too fat for his breed. Aside from my beloved friend, please learn to love each other again, it breaks my heart…well, I must go. -Francis X. Martin
He left the note on his bed, which of course was barely noticeable within the company of other notes and books. He dressed himself in a tuxedo that belonged to his dead cousin Jerry, and after fixing himself in the mirror, he then proceeded to tie knots onto the ends of his scattered clothes, creating a giant rope. After this he tied one end to his bureau, and threw the other outside of his third floor window onto the street below.
Even with this being his 14th attempt, he still feared the descent down towards the street. After he reached the street, he looked diagonally to his right and watched the ballerinas walk out of the Boston Ballet Academy. “My type of gals,” he thought to himself. The nine-year old then took out his aunt’s cigarettes and packed them perfectly, and took one out to smoke.
He walked towards Tremont Street, smoking casually, dressed in his slightly over-sized tuxedo and gave a cat call to the ballerinas. Most of them thought it was cute, except for one who said that she was a person and not a "sex thing."
For a moment he felt guilty, but then thought to himself, “Hey baby, I’m a man about town. If you don’t want some, I’ll find a broad who does…” He felt guilty again. He took a right turn on Tremont, walked past his favorite pizza place, and kept walking until he came across a group of 20-somethings drinking on a stoop.
Francis walked up to one of the young men and said, “Hey pal, you got some gin?”
The young man in his 20's (who was obviously drunk) took offense to this nine year old, chain smoker, wearing a tuxedo and said, “I ain’t your Pal! What are you? A midget? Get the fuck out of here midget, go by your own booze, if midgets can even buy booze…can they?” Asking his friend who just smiled and smoked a joint.
A bit startled by the hostility of the situation, he walked on, after apologizing several times to the men on the stoop. “I should have never ran away. I don’t belong around these folks. I need to be around sophisticated people. You know what I’ll do, I’ll buy a plane ticket to Vienna. Classy folks there, so I've heard,” he thought to himself as he headed back home. He had only walked to Massachusetts Avenue. This was the furthest he had ever made it before returning back to his family's brownstone.
“Yes, Vienna, that's where I’ll go. Maybe next Saturday.”