Becoming The Hub

by Sean Goodwin

Wearing a rumpled gray suit and holding a scuffed leather satchel on a cold December night, Carl steps past the conductor, off of his train and onto the crowded South Station platform, looking bleary eyed and every bit the man who just spent six hours on a train next to a small child with a big attitude. All for a two-hour meeting tomorrow and then back on the train again.

At least back in the day, Carl could beat the sting out of these trips with a couple of adult libations, but that was before Congress felt the need to meddle in everyone’s lives with Prohibition. Now, you have to worry about getting pinched every time you even think about it. More often than not, it’s not worth the bother. But tonight? It’s worth the bother.

Carl leans his head inside a cab outside the Station, speaking in hushed tones.

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but you wouldn’t happen to know…” Carl starts, but stops when the Hack smiles and nods his head toward the back seat, and the two drive silently through the Boston night.

The Hack pulls his rig up on School Street, where the song “Blue Skies” can be heard – loudly.  Carl is further confused when he looks across the street from the noise; and finds a sign that tells him that building just happens to be Boston City Hall.

“I think there might be a misunderstanding,” Carl says, leaning his head into the front seat.

“You want a couple pops, right?” The Hack asks, and Carl takes a quick look around, then nods. “Well, here you are.”

Carl stares at the confusing sign again.

“In City Hall?” Carl ponders out loud, and the Hack shakes his face in disgust.

 “Don’t be a fool,” the Hack snaps. “That’d be illegal. I’m talking about the place across the street where the noise is coming from.”

“It’s across the street from City Hall?” Carl asks, and the Hack, eyes-wide, eye-brows high, nodded slowly like he was talking to a child. “And no one notices?”

“No one’s asked,” the Hack said slowly. “They keep it low key. If no one looks for anything, no one finds anything, right? Quick question for you; Are you going to get out of my cab at any point this evening?”

After paying the Hack, Carl does just that, but turns back as the Hack was pulling away.

“Is there a password?” Carl asks in a loud whisper.

“Open the door,” Hack says in a louder whisper before driving away.

Carl nods to no one, then crosses the street and knocks on the door across the street from City Hall, not sure if the Hack was joking or not.

A short little bald man with a wrinkled face, wearing a white shirt with a red armband, opens the door. Behind the door is a bustling party, the bar three deep, and a three-piece band blaring away in the far corner, barely loud enough to get over the chatter.

“You comin’ in or not?” the little man with the red armband barks out of the side of his mouth.

Carl does come in and makes it four deep at the bar where he waits for a further ten minutes until he finally works his way up to the front where he finds a seat, orders a beer and takes in the happening scene.

There was another knock at the door. The little old man opened it and a tall gent in his forties, wearing a navy-blue silk suit, a gray fedora and a beige overcoat. As the tall gent hands over the overcoat and his hat to the little man with the red arm band, everyone in the bar, including the band, yells at once.

“JOOOOOOOOOOHN!”

“Mr. Commissioner,” a young blond woman wearing a white apron and holding a cigarette tray, says to John meekly.

“Evenin’ everybody,” John says as he saunters down to the bar, and looks up towards the tall, smiling man standing behind the bar, with a twisted handlebar mustache, wearing a white apron and washing a glass.

“What can I get ye, Johnny me boy?” the bartender says.

“Double me up,” the Commission says, while the bartender pours a large glass with a thick button filled with brown liquid which quickly disappears down the Commissioners gullet.

Just as the bartender grabs the Commission’s empty glass, Carl is ready for seconds. As the bartender is filling Carl’s glass, he starts to make conversation.

“New in town?” the Bartender asks.

“Just in from Baltimore for the night,” Carl says, then continues after a pause and a glance around. “I’m sorry for asking. But you look very familiar.”

“I used to play a little ball with the Braves back in the day,” the Bartender says with a broad smile. “Actually back then they were the Beaneaters. You might have heard of me. I went by Dan “Home Run” Howard.

“It’s coming to me,” Carl says with an intrigued smile. “What position did you play?”

“Pitcher,” Don answers, adding softly. “I would give up the occasional long ball.”

“Twenty-two in one year,” the old man with the red arm band yelled down to laughter. “It was a National League record for a decade. Jack Doyle of the Orioles hit one of those that just landed last week.”

With a tightened face and a twisted mouth, Dan glares at the man with the red arm bank, then back to Carl.

“The talking prune by the door is Coach Pat McMahon,” Dan says, loudly, with a smug grin. “He has two claims to fame. He has managed a team to last place in six different leagues – and that doesn’t include three separate teams in the Texas league.”

“What was the second thing?” Carl asks.

“Oh, Ty Cobb punched him out twice in one inning,” Dan finishes his thought. Just before the Coach had a chance to retort, there was another knock at the door.

A tall handsome man with broad shoulders, a Roman nose and a perfectly tailored suit, glides through the door.  As he hands his coat and hat to the Coach in one swift motion, the bar collectively yells.

“Jiiiiiiiiiiim!”

“Mr. Mayor,” the cigarette lady quickly chimes in as the crowd parts, clearing a path to the bar and a grinning Home Run Howard.

“Jimmy, my boy, how are they hanging?” Dan asks.

“They’re hanging exactly as they’re told,” the Mayor says grinning widely, right before he puts a crisp bill on the bar.  “I can’t stay, but set the bar up for me…”

The Mayor then stands and lifts his head.

“Enjoy your free drinks and make sure everyone votes correctly next week like good Americans.”

The crowd yells “HUZZAH” as Jim grabs his coat and hat and hot foots it back across the street.

“It looks like you are making a killing,” Carl asks Dan, who modestly nods.

“We do okay,” Dan says. “I have found if you provide a good service you will find a loyal following. Plus this is one of our busier days. The City Council is in session. That always draws a crowd.”

The two men are interrupted by another knock. The Coach opens the door. A uniformed officer is stands in the door.

“LOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!”

“Officer Carson,” the cigarette lady adds quickly.

“No, no, I am here on official business,” the Officer walks through a path through the bar. “Dan, are there any pickpockets in here?”

Dan shakes his head, and then reaches under the bar and pulls a bloated white envelope from under the bar. He puts it on top of the bar. The officer grabs the envelope.

“But I will keep an eye out,” Dan says.

“Please do,” the Officer says, putting the envelope in his side pocket, and walking out onto School Street.

Dan then turns back to Carl.

“You’re a businessman,” Dan says with a knowing wink. “You know. In any business, it’s the same. It’s about building relationships…”

They are interrupted by another knock. Coach opens the door and nine men, all wearing tailored suits, all hand their coats and hats to the Coach as the bar screams as one.

“CIIIITY COOOOOUNCILORS!”

The men sheepishly nod, gather into a huddle so they look like one single mass of silk, then quickly move within that mass to the side room off the main serving area. 

“What can I get you boys?” Dan yells after the legislative mass, and one hand rose with the first two fingers raised.

As Dan pulls out two pitchers, he turns back to Carl.

“Looks like the public hearing is in recess,” Dan said, filling the first of two pitchers. “Business, politics, it’s all the same. It’s all about building relationships.”