Minor Speculum

Worcester Bound and Down

By Nykamp

Several years ago I received a postcard from my dear friend Sebastian Dangerfield, sent from Worcester Massachusetts. The front, in black and white, boasted a drunken Irishman passed out on a park bench in City Square. On the reverse, these words, “It’d be wise of you to find your way east. Before it all burns down. S.D.” His implication was that a devil of a good time was going down, and I should join the revolution. I politely declined at that time, as my current state of affairs would not allow for such a journey.

One could imagine my surprise when my crony Erik Lerdal headed to Worcester many years after that postcard found its way to my hands. When the opportunity arose for me to join him, Mr. Dangerfield’s words chimed through my mind. I found my way east.

I’ve been in Worcester for two and a half months now. The irony is I have no idea where Mr. Dangerfield found a postcard to send. I’ve been driving around these winding roads for two weeks now searching for two postcards I promised a Mrs. Albert Stefani, for some 2nd graders learning geography. Phone calls made, stores searched, miles driven through pothole infested roads. Not a goddamn postcard in the county. Like Indiana Jones searching for the Arc of the Covenant. NOBODY KNOWS NOTHIN.

Although postcard woes are the least of my many concerns, the overtones of the situation ring true for my life here thus far. Nothing is cut and dry, nor easy, and the answers are always just out of grasp. It’s remarkably easy to identify my dislikes of Worcester. Let me share a few.

Foremost it should be noted that Worcester is the second largest city in the greater New England area, meaning that only Boston has more scurvy Micks and Guidos. It appears as the roadways were made on the fly; winding, thin, and completely unorganized. Accommodations needed to be made for the severely hilly landscape, yes. That’s hardly an excuse.

On these roadways are “Massholes.” These freaks drive like they just snorted an eight-ball shoelace of uncut yack, and chased it with a quart of Jack Daniels. I don’t leave the house unless I’ve had at least twelve punchinos. At that point, I rip and roar, taunting others with raunchy collegiate gestures and demon-like snarls. It can be fun yes, but never abuse it.

The roads themselves and their conditions are simply deplorable. There are potholes large enough to drown a pair of mating rhinoceros (if said pothole was indeed full of grimy street water). A water main will jut out 4 inches above the concrete. Large tree roots have had their way with Route 70 near the Charter cable headquarters. Vehicles speed along at 50 miles per hour then drop down to a crawl to navigate the fifty yard stretch where a war seemingly broke out some time ago, and the mess remains to remind us of the sacrifice.

Surely there must be kind hearted folk somewhere in these parts. However, for every one found you must wade through 341 shitbags of utter disgrace. A sense of entitlement carried around like a badge on the chest. “I was born here. So was my dad. And his dad. And his.” Though these folks have never left Worcester county, they are more well traveled than I, or any other. It took me a full month just for the guys at work to make eye contact with me. Hell, maybe because I’m so handsome though… neither here nor there.

And I guess that’s my main gripe, the people and the roads. Hell, I guess that’s not too bad, huh? There are some very picturesque settings around here. Some great history. Fantastic dining and bars. Opportunities for recreational activities. Close proximity to ALL the key east coast players; Boston, Providence, NYC, DC, etc. Not to mention seafood is so readily available that you can put a pot of water on to boil, go get a lobster and come back, without the water being close to hot.

Unfortunately, those luxuries are not yet available to me. This is a place where the established thrive, a locale where money can surely buy happiness. For the struggling new professional, you’re stuck with dollar drafts at The Ship on Tuesdays. And the roads. And the people. If I’d only known this when I received that postcard from Mr. Dangerfield. I would have sent him a postcard of my own, perhaps of the picturesque pier heads where the mighty St. Joseph empties into the big, blue beauty herself- Lake Michigan. On the reverse side, the following words would be etched, “Let the motherfucker burn.”

Apr 13, 2010 • Minor Speculum