Just BU — unless you’re drunk
It’s my first weekend in Boston, and I’m exploring the city with a group of friends from my hometown. We’ve spent the night at an Italian restaurant in the North End, where the six of us split two dishes and scarf down a basket of free bread because that was all we could afford. Now, we are catching one of the last T’s back to our side of town. I’ve found a seat and am slowly being lulled to sleep by the melodious sound of the subway screeching to a halt (seriously, though, can someone explain to me why one of the best transportation systems in the country regularly makes the sound of a pterodactyl being shoved into a wood chipper?), when I’m awoken by a group of college students undoubtedly having the best night ever.
See, I know that these people are having the best night ever — in fact, everyone on the train knows — because only someone enjoying his or her night to its fullest capacity would feel comfortable announcing enjoyment to a group of strangers.
I’m still new to living in a city with functioning public transportation, so try to excuse my naiveté, but for some reason, I believed I’d be able to take the subway on a weekend night without encountering a group of drunken strangers.
Oh, how wrong I was.
It’s not just that they’ve obviously had too much to drink — I applaud these random college students’ efforts to avoid drunk driving. However, students already have a pretty awful reputation in Boston, since they take up basically the entire city. The least we can do is try not to further worsen the lives of all those over the age of 25. I personally haven’t yet met any of these fabled “old people” in Boston, but I’ve heard they exist.
I’m trying to decide if the murderous sounds of the T’s stops and starts are worse or better than the drunk guy belting Beyoncé next to me, but my thought process is interrupted by his friend, who has struck up a conversation with the poor woman standing in front of her. I don’t actually feel bad for myself — I guess you could just say I’m in perpetual mourning for the loss of respect for college students everywhere.
My friends and I crossed our fingers at each stop, praying that these people will disembark not only because we’re tired of hearing their TOTALLY AWESOME stories from the night, but mostly because we can’t stand the thought that they may actually attend the same school as us. They seemed like artsy types, so I’ve spent the ride hoping they’ll get off near Emerson, but as we pass Boylston, I feel a sense of despair.
The train stops at Boston University East. They lurch off the train as the couple in matching Boston College sweatshirts shakes their heads in disdain. I silently remind myself that it is still very possible to embarrass oneself even without a faint memory of doing so. And then I watch my new friends stumble into the night, perfectly representing youth, fatuity and the repercussions of eating a few too many Jell-O shots.
Jessica Depies is a freshman in the College of Communication studying journalism. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.