15

I feel like a whaler reaching port after a four-year voyage as my feet hit the pavement in Boston. The morning commotion of traffic, and the pedestrians all vying for dominance as they stream toward office buildings and shops, catches me by surprise as I come out of the bus terminal. I have a ticket to New Bedford in my back pocket and exactly forty-five minutes to find the warehouse and Artie. And if not Artie himself, at least another clue as to where he might be. I have decided that he is still here. That there’s no way he’d simply turn around and head back west. He’ll need another job, another truck loaded with something needed west of the Mississippi. And surely that will take time, time enough for me to catch up with him.

I go in the opposite direction of the human current, heading away from downtown and toward the street where the warehouse is located. I’m lucky; it really is fairly close to South Station. But not that close. I still have a good walk ahead of me, over a bridge, down an unpopulated side street flanked by windowless warehouses. From the bridge, I can see the interstate highway with its thrombosis of cars working their way into the tunnel beneath the city. Overhead, a near-constant stream of jets coming in and taking off from Logan. A traffic helicopter makes a wide swing over the scene, hunting for accidents. I’ve lived in cities all over: Brooklyn, Louisville, Los Angeles, but I always think of Boston as the best. I guess everyone who grows up in eastern Massachusetts thinks that way. I shove my duffel behind me and pick up the pace. My nostalgia is costing me time.

By the time I actually reach the street where the warehouses are, I’ve got about fifteen minutes to locate Artie. Two long warehouses opposite each other have at least a dozen trailers backed up to loading docks. Men driving forklifts and other men watching them crowd the open bays. The trailers are in such perfect alignment, if I stand in the right position, it looks like there is only one. But there are no trucks attached to these trailers. I need to find the truck lot to find Artie’s dull green cab. I don’t have time to do this; I’m running out of time if I’m going to catch the bus to New Bedford this morning as I promised. But I have to find Artie. The urgency literally squeezes my heart.

“You lost?”

I turn to see a big black guy wearing a gray uniform, a yellow and black security badge sewn onto the right breast pocket of his shirt. He has a nightstick holstered in a belt that squeezes him so that he plumps up over it and below it. He has the look of a guy who has found a legitimate way to be a badass.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“You need to check in at the office.”