Shook the Spot

In the interest of getting back into the fwavlosphere, here's the first of a few posts on what the fuck Shook's been up to . . .

Shook's alarm goes off at 7:15 every morning. Invariably, I turn that loud motherfucker off and roll back over in bed until maybe quarter to eight, when the roommate's finally out of the fucking bathroom. Some mornings, I grab the Journal, delivered gratis, out on my doorstep before showering. If I'm running late, I pick it up on my way out the door.

It's at this point, reaching for the paper and a cigarette, that I think about how fucked the newspaper business is and how nobody's going to be reading the Journal in print sooner than we care to think. A few weeks ago, the newly anointed publisher gave the bureau a presentation on the company's finances and its plan not to collapse. It was kind of fucking depressing, though fascinating to watch everyone else's terrified faces as he declined to promise that layoffs are not on the horizon. I've got nothing to lose here, and in all likelihood, I'll be writing for an online publication when I'm they're age, or so I hope. But holding the Journal in the morning, it seems a shame that this thing is fleeting.

Out on the street, I cross Park Drive, my humble byway. Across the intersection from my apartment, there's a crepe place (that's much shittier than Arrow Street), an empty storefront (that's showing signs of maybe becoming a falafel joint, which would be sweet), a 7-11 (score), an Armed Forces Career Center (that despite offering a convenient plan b in case this journalism shit don't work out, is kind of like living across the street from the mouthpit of hell), and a pizza place (that I've yet to hit up). On Beacon Street, I pass Dunkin' Donuts number one and wait for the T. My stop is St. Mary's Street on the Green Line C.

The trolley is usually packed, if I'm running on time. There's enough room to eat my Quaker Oatmeal fruit bar but not enough to read any more than the fronts of each section in the paper. I stand until Park Street, when much of the car empties, and sit for one more stop to Government Center. Hopping off there, I pass Dunkin' Donuts number two and take the escalator out onto the street, where I am immediately confronted by Dunkin' Donuts number three—and a Starbucks for good measure. It's just another block before Dunkin' Donuts number four, which is my Dunkin' Donuts. I order a medium iced coffee—sugar and just a little bit of milk—for $2.17.

Walking out, I pick up the Freedom Trail (yeah, Shook walks the Freedom Trail to and from work) by one of those old-as-fuck cemetaries that's probably got a few famous people, though it would be satisfying to discover that it's just a bunch of nobody corpses. I pass the Omni Parker Hotel and a hugeass Borders before descending into the real corporate downtown hood—the land of shirts and ties, as I say to myself. Two more blocks and I'm in Post Office Square.