After a week of obsessive work attempting to have my trading bot operating before coming home, I wanted to do nothing more than close my eyes.
However, the night before my good friend and I spoke over dinner about smoking one more cigar. The next day, he asked me “if we could push things back to ten?” I knew what he meant.
My quads trembled, but I glided to the intersection of Comm Ave and BU Bridge. My fatigue was overcome with excitement. There I met Quentin, and we descended the hidden stairs onto a patch of grass adjacent to a swift highway inbound for Boston. From here, we dodged branches to climb up the embankment through the torn fence until we found ourselves on the inactive tracks.
Making sure to step firmly on each railroad tie, we walked halfway across the bridge to the usual spot, overlooking the prominent Boston skyline and geese on the Charles River.
Obeying routine, I drew the cigars from the front pocket of my backpack, careful not to let them fall into the river. I passed one to my Quentin along with the lighter, and we began to smoke.
But more importantly, we began to talk. Smoking allowed us to slow down, be present, and have a long, deep conversation. We talked on and on about politics, family life, and our reflections on the semester. We were two friends, being friends. This is how the last night of the semester was meant to be.
Until, Quentin’s eyes ballooned.
“Uh…Greg?”
I turned into the direction of his stare and saw a light that I had never seen before. It was growing.
“GET UP! MOVE!”
In shock, my first instinct was to hug the wall on the side of the bridge. But I followed Quentin, and jumped onto the rock pillar below us, cigar in hand. Trembling, I laid face down on my backpack, unaware of the magnitude of the situation. I took a deep breath. Unsure if the train was going five or fifty miles per hour. Still on the ground, looking at my friend next to me, the train passed overhead where we sat less than a minute ago. It was going slower than I envisioned, but it was still going where I was sitting.
Fading out of sight, I scanned the surrounding area, took a drag of my cigar, and my friend smirked, eyes still like balloons. I smirk, trying to contain myself until I begin to laugh hysterically. My friend cracks as well, phone in hand. He had recorded the whole event!
“OH MY GOSH DUDE!” I spit in between nervous laughing fits, “OH MY GOSH!”
Continuing to smoke, we talk to a group of girls on the bridge above. Then, we see two figures walking on the bridge from Cambridge (another sight we hadn’t seen before). Wanting to share our story, we walk over to them smoking on the pillar, and nervously cackle, “We almost got hit by a train!” They invite us down onto the pillar, and Quentin and I make ourselves comfortable off of the tracks.
We talk well into the night with these two MIT cross country runners about the act of creation, the death and legacy of Mac Miller and Lil Peep, traveling to Morocco, and wrangling geese.
Then someone behind me grunts, “hey.”
I turn around and find a man wearing nothing but sweatpants and shoes on the track above us. This is all when my butt is numb, and I’m bundled in a jacket.
The five minutes talking to him (who we later gave the moniker Shirtless) was mostly inaudible blabbering. Then, he said he was thirsty and asked if anyone had water. I gave him my embarrassingly big bottle, demanding him to waterfall as I didn’t where his mouth had been. He proceeded to drink almost a liter, spilling about twenty percent onto his bare chest. Shirtless thanked me for the drink and walked away.
The four of us continued to talk, looking at the geese sleeping on the river. The MIT students talked about the five geese they wrangled earlier. I was blown away, and glad they were using their MIT education for something exceptional. They then corrected themselves, saying wrangle is not a fitting term as the geese were like babies in their arms. They didn’t move, but felt at home after gaining trust from food.
I began to sit up and down to relieve my numb butt. I checked my watch and saw that it was approaching two. Wanting to sleep and Quentin having a final tomorrow, we decided to pack up.
But before we left, they were going to have us wrangle geese of our own. We walked to the Cambridge side of the Charles, where the geese were and began to feed them the only food we had, candy. This was in an attempt to bring them onto the bank so as to easily pick one up. We continued to throw candy at the geese, but they just wanted to sleep. The geese didn’t come onto the bank that night. We tried for a few more minutes with no such luck.
The four of us walked off the bank, laughed, hugged, and exchanged phone numbers. They headed back to MIT while Quentin and I walked back to BU across the bridge. Making sure to step firmly on each tie, I laughed at the tragedy it would have been to stay in my room that night.
I fell asleep in awe, attempting to prove that this wasn’t a dream.
P.S. Walking back, I saw Shirtless again near my dorm (still without a shirt).