They always tell you that making a good first impression means everything, but if there is one thing I have learned since moving to Boston, it’s that first impressions often mean nothing.  I’ll be the first to admit that I have made many wrong assumptions about the majority of people I have met.   But of all the people I’ve misjudged through the years, Louie is the one who really taught me this lesson.

The first time I saw Louie was on a cold night down the street from where I live.  I was walking home for an extensive percussive practicing session so my mind was still on the drums.  As I was moseying down Massachusetts Avenue, I began to hear something that captured my attention.  It was a loud yelling, almost like a manmade siren bellowing, “Move!”  Upon hearing the sound I looked up to notice a flashing light coming straight towards me down the dark street.  I scuttled to the edge of the sidewalk.  Even though I didn’t know what was coming towards me, it sounded potentially harmful.  I found myself next to another young fellow who had gotten out of the way.  Taking out his camera phone he said, giddy with excitement, “Here he comes again!” as the mystery roared closer.  I almost didn’t believe my eyes when I was finally able to make out a silhouette of what was coming towards me:  a man on a tricycle.

I don’t mean the kind of toy you find children riding for fun in the cul-de-sac around your everyday suburban neighborhood.  This man’s modern machine was three large, mountain bike-sized wheels connected to a sleek metal chasse with high beach-cruiser style handle bars and seat.  Equipped with a basket sandwiched betwixt the two back wheels, which was bordered with two long-stemmed, vibrantly colored flags. This tricycle may have been impressive and high-tech, but the man piloting it was a different story.  I’ve never seen the man standing and not sitting on his tricycle, so I can’t really tell you about his physical stature.  At that first sighting, I would have said that I had seen a homeless man who had stolen one of the bike trolleys and was screaming down the street making an escape.  First impressions can be so wrong.

Days and weeks went past, and every night I would either see this man on the tricycle, hear him wailing from my dorm room, or hear my room mate speak of seeing him in another part of town.  There was no question that this man rode his tricycle every day without fail and that he rode it for a long, long time.  My roommate and I became more curious about him and his history, so we decided to do some research. We logged on the Internet hoping to find something, but were stumped trying to figure out a way to categorize him.  Eventually we mindlessly typed in “Crazy Homeless Tricycle Guy, Boston.”  To our surprise our search gave us exactly what we wanted, a documentary about him.  The deeper we went into the documentary, the more our perceptions changed  about this man whose name turned was Louie Evans.

Louie has been biking for longer than many can remember, and judging by his gray stubby beard, wrinkled sunken face, and ever-squinting eyes he has seen more days than most.  If you ever talked to him, first you would perceive that his mind functions differently than others.  However, Louie is not so much disturbed as he is handicapped.  He walks with a great limp as if one side of his body weighs twice as much as the other, and he wears a leg brace just to keep himself stable.  He is missing many teeth, and he has a certain speech impediment which makes his talking and his siren noise very incoherent, but “He realizes this,” according to the owner of a local bicycle shop, “He has the ability to make good conversation, and he will repeat himself slowly and as clearly as he possibly can in order for you to understand what he means.”

Another interesting thing about Louie is that he always goes to a locally owned and operated bicycle shop, Back Bay Bicycles.  There are plenty of others in the area, but he is an unquestionably loyal customer.  The people who run that bicycle shop know and love Louie. The owner’s dog recognizes him by his walk, and it follows him wagging its tail, as if there is something about Louie’s spirit that draws positive energy from the animal.

The most important thing I have learned about Louie is that he rides his bike just to ride his bike.  He does it because it is what he loves to do.  He is not making a commute, or delivering anything.  He just rides for the joy of riding.  He rides whenever he has the chance, day and night, rain or shine.  When he is riding he rarely stops, unless it is to go to the bike shop, or wherever Louie calls home.  He must put in at least thirty miles a day with his schedule.

If you think about it, this is by far the purest form of what people say when they talk about “finding your bliss.”  Louie has found his, and it comes in the form of three wheels and handlebars.  He has little more than the clothes on his back, a place to sleep, and his tricycle, but that is all he wants.  It really shows you that money cannot buy happiness.  You see so many people who have all the possessions they could ever need and are still always wanting more.  You see people who abuse their power.  Then you see Louie, a man with the simplest existence, who has found his bliss and wants nothing more.  It is truly inspiring.

Louie has become more to me than just “that guy on the tricycle.”  He is a symbol of continuity in Boston. I’ll be having a rough time some days, but I know that Louie is still out there doing his thing.  That’s why it always feels good to see Louie.  Sometimes I’ll go for a week without seeing him, but then he’ll just pop around the corner down the street hollering away, and it makes me smile.  It’s as if seeing Louie lets us all know that everything is going to be all right.  He was here long before me and hopefully he will be here long after I leave.  I believe everyone could use a little more Louie in their lives.

Greg Vogt currently studies at Berklee.

It was a gloomy, quiet morning in Harvard Square, and as I waited for Felix’s Shoe Repair to open, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.  I looked around, searching for a pair of eyes that might meet mine, but found nothing. I laughed at myself as I sat down on a hard stone bench and thought, “You’ve got to stop doing this.” I had hoped that by my second semester I’d be less afraid of the city.

Five minutes later Felix’s opened, and the man I believed to be Felix handed me my favorite pair of boots, good as new. I thanked him, left the store, and headed for the T station. I bought a coffee while I waited for the T to arrive, and again, I felt eyes on me. I didn’t look around this time.

The T pulled into the station, and everyone piled into the cars.  It was crowded, but there was an empty seat next to me.  Just as the car doors were about to close, a man’s voice yelled from outside,” Coming through! Hold your horses! Halt!” I shut my eyes and thought, “Please, please, please don’t sit next to me.” But, when I opened my eyes, there he was.

I studied the silver-haired passenger out of the corner of my eye. The man was in his mid-fifties, I guessed. He was pretty dirty, but didn’t smell too bad. Ripped khakis, jean jacket, and a red bandana tied sloppily around his neck. His salt and pepper beard came down to the middle of his chest, and his dark glasses made it impossible to tell where he was looking. Turns out, he was looking at me.

“Ah, there you are.” He said this as if we were old friends. “I saw you bopping around all morning!” I looked at him, half with fear, and half with the satisfaction of knowing I had been right about being watched.

“I was just picking up a pair of boots,” I told him.

“Boots?” he asked, “And for what occasion will you wear these boots?”

“Well, for going out, or for performing, I guess.”

“Going out OR performing!  Well, I NEVER heard of a pair of boots appropriate for both going out and performing. What kind of performing do you do anyway?”

I hesitated, but decided no harm could come from answering. “I’m a singer,” I told him.  “I’m a student at Berklee.”

He beamed.  “Well of course you are! How wonderful! I’m a musician myself. I Just finished a 30 hour gig on a bench in Harvard Square!”

Out of nowhere, the man produced what looked like a makeshift guitar case. It was really just a lot of newspaper held together by strings around a beat up guitar, and as he pulled the “case” apart, he threw the strings and paper on top of me. People began to stare, and by the time the guitar was freed, I was covered from head to toe in dirty newspaper. I couldn’t help but laugh, and in doing so I seemed to put the other passengers at ease.

“Now,” he said, “a private performance for my friend.”

Song number one was about some sort of bank robbery. The lyrics were very involved, and as the chorus came around the second time, he asked me to sing with him. “Come on now!” he yelled. “You know this one!”

“You’re doing great!” I told him.

The other passengers were clearly getting uncomfortable, but he sang the last verse and chorus with even more gusto than before, and ended the song abruptly. “Damn, you didn’t know that one. I don’t blame you though; it’s one of my newer songs. I’ll sing a classic from my earlier days. I know you know this one!”

As this enthusiastic man began to sing me a song he had written about clouds, I looked at the faces of the passengers around us. I saw expressions of disapproval, and even disgust. Some people were quietly mocking him, others were moving away, afraid of him. I had never heard the song he was playing in my life, and from the way he played it, I guessed he hadn’t either. When he shouted again for me to sing the chorus with him, I sang.  We finished the song, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “Thank you, my dear. I haven’t had that much fun in a long, long time.” He rewrapped his guitar, silently shook my hand, and got off at the next stop.

I don’t know what happened that day, and it could have been nothing at all, but I’m glad that man sat next to me on the T. I’m even glad he sang to me, because maybe I was exactly what he needed. Sometimes you just need someone to sing with.

Kelsey Worley is a second semester student from Thousand Oaks, California. She is a voice principal, and hopes to major in songwriting.

THE TRAIN FROM CONNECTICUT:

This train chugs along relentlessly – burning, yearning, returning – completely unaware of the sleepy state of its inhabitants. But today I feel akin to my locomotive as it thunders along the well-beaten path of a familiar route – constantly striving for the destination but not knowing which way is home.

THE OFFICE:

Twitchy toes and dancing fingers. The hum of 60-volt bulbs creates an underlying drone, a tension nuanced by the ever-changing context; layers of harmonic frequencies contributed by the passing voices, footsteps, and printers. The rhythmic content of computer keyboards provides the backbeat to this corporate composition. We wait for the resolve.

THE BUS RIDE:

He’s a slight man; well put-together with exceptionally white Nike sneakers. His protruding fanny pack gives the illusion of a tummy. His hands are delicate, firmly grasping a small book bound in old FedEx packaging with little notes scribbled indiscriminately over the cover. This right-handed artist whittles away the stuffy bus hours sketching the freshness of impressionistic flowers.

THE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE FOUNTAIN:

I watch him as he runs: a skippy canter with immense determination though the small circle he’s running in leads him nowhere, without a beginning or an end. A drenched t-shirt hangs well past his knees over a pair of new swimming trunks that are now clinging in all the wrong places. Little hands methodically reach up to wipe the fountain from his eyes and you know he is seeing the perfect summer day.

HAYMARKET:

It is a photographer’s dream: a heap of angles and planes; thousands of tiny vantage points; the edges distinguishing and yet connecting. Every color of the spectrum is present. The dull browns and grays augmenting the orange, yellows, and reds. And to think this is just a pile of junk.

YOGA CLASS:

I am hyperaware. I constantly calculate my life as a function: past, present and future in terms of the most probable outcomes to the least common denominators. But as I hang suspended from an unnatural perspective – my head hanging between my shoulders, butt up in the air, a human triangle – I slowly start to let go, rooting myself to the moment, even if it starts as just hanging on for dear life.

THE BOOK:

Nestled in a blanket of black and white print, I lose myself in fragile intangible images. They threaten to disperse with the slightest sigh but in the privacy of my Monday afternoon they gather and multiply filling the corners of this apartment with colorful memories I pretend are my own.

PHO BASIL:

As we near the dining room, he pops his head out from the other side of the doorway, a grinning jack-o-lantern face, mismatched teeth and googly-eyes. “Oh! HellOO!” he exclaims in broken English. “Just two?! OH YES!” And he energetically marches us to dinner, wielding the menus.

SUMMER RAIN:

There is nothing like a muggy summer evening in Boston. Eager voices giggle up to my fifth story window while small protests cling to the last rays of sunlight, belonging to those children hoping to push off bed time for just one more hour. Even the air tingles with the expectation of rain.

GOOD NIGHT:

And we make our nest amidst the city’s lullaby of night dwellers and the relentless grumble of traffic. It’s a provocative dissonance; the interplay of cackling inebriation answered by the treble whine of car horns gives way to an accentuated contrapuntal composition while the slow glissando of an approaching siren provides a consistent harmonic bed. The soundtrack for my subconscious.

An Epilogue…

WRITING “FIFTY-WORDS A DAY” WITH MOMMA:

I look at the differences between her words and mine. They look the same; roughly the same size, shape, ratio of black to white, the same 30 characters repeated in purposeful sequences. Yet as I read them, I find that hers are mostly about others while mine are in reference to myself: the difference between woman who knows who she is and a woman who is still figuring it out.

On any given day Kathryn (Katie) Bilinski can be found bustling around Boston, coffee cup in hand, documenting the fascinating hubbub around her. Currently majoring in Electronic Production and Design, Katie also interweaves her urban observations into her bass-playing, writing, and photography as well as her BIRN broadcast, Correspondence.

                                                                                                                   The Pike by Alexander Suarez

by Scott Nanos

It’s three fifteen in the afternoon when I arrive at the photographer’s studio. The entire apartment is one large room. All four walls consist only of brick and black cavities where brick once existed. A lonesome, feeble wood column reluctantly holds up the entire ceiling. It moans in agony as I pace the room, threatening a collapse. The door latch clicks shut with an irreversible finality. I’m trapped.

I peel off my shirt at a glacial pace. My breathing reduces to quick, shallow wheezes. I belatedly realize why most nude models change into robes first. My fingers, shaking like dogs in the rain, move to my shoes. I blink, and both of my useless hands are ensnared in a tangled labyrinth of shoelace. I forcefully shake them free, curse under my breath, and kick my shoes off. They collide hard against the wall. The column groans in pain. My socks, a pair of black cotton pythons, asphyxiate my mousy ankles. They are a relief to uproot.

I’m now face to face with the agonizing affair of taking off my pants. The caterpillars chewing at my stomach have mutated into full-blown butterflies. Cacophonous, imaginary laughter floods my ears. Conceptually (in the realm of art), the human body, regardless of shape or size, is beautiful. But ideals can’t be woven into a safety net. And I’m about to take the plunge.

 My jeans take a nosedive. They crash-land into the floor with a deafening echo. I’m only one garment away from complete nakedness. The photographer disembowels the camera and bluntly forces in a new roll of film. He’s feeding the beast. It viciously gnaws on its meal with predatory playfulness. I hold my breath and shut my eyes. I pull down my briefs. There’s nothing left between my heart and the lens but skin. I am completely nude. I am completely vulnerable.

I open my eyes. The muscles in my face tighten and contort, twisting uncontrollably into… a smile? I’m smiling! I feel weightless. I bounce about the room, pausing in one area, then another. I comfortably lean against a windowsill. The camera shutter flutters with excitement. I humorously sit on a silver and red ten-speed Motobecane. I lounge on a blank velvet loveseat and smoke cigarettes.

A new roll of film is switched in, and the room transforms into a prop warehouse. I happen upon a pair of neon orange rimmed sunglasses. They’re so gaudy I have to put them on. A bottle of pink lemonade rests on the kitchen counter. I pour myself a glass and sip it in front of an opaque Kamakura furniture screen. The lemonade tastes like a sunset in Palawan.

Time flies and before I have a chance to catch my breath, the session is over. I begin to put my clothes back on, but I don’t hurry the process. I feel no immediacy to re-enter clothed society.

I say goodbye to the photographer and leave the studio. As I’m walking down the stairwell I come to an enlightening conclusion. Was I vulnerable because I was completely uncovered? Or was I impregnable because I had nothing to hide? The answer is easy. I was nude, not exposed.

Scott Nanos currently studies in the Music Therapy department at Berklee.

by John D. Lippincott

It hides among shadows beneath her bed

With shoestring wrapped around to keep it closed.

I quickly read my name in streaks of blue

Across a page of cluttered memories.

My conscience, strong and able, chose to let

This bold intrusion slide with doubtful eyes.

The me who lives inside this private book,

Would never snoop, or even drink a beer.  

John D. Lippincott currently studies at Berklee and is a student editor of FUSION.

Taking a moment to breathe in the freshly acrid aroma of cleaning solution, which is overpowered only

 by dozens of double grande half-calf soy mocha lattes, I step into Boston’s infamous two-dollar amusement park.  Having brought with me no second-hand newspaper, no iPod, and not a single copy of whatever most people are reading in Freshman English this semester, I feel a bit out-of-place.   I find a slightly sticky seat amongst the suits, the studious, and the overwhelmingly sleepy commuters to endure a jerky journey through the city in the belly of this steel beast.

Riding on a train this early in the morning somehow conjures memories of grey-haired sages-asking for tickets and shouting “aboard” with all of their half-enthused fury.  Perhaps I am even sitting in a relatively spacious compartment enjoying the countryside and getting to know my next-seat neighbor on his bi-weekly commute to Tuscaloosa.  This train, however, holds no such romance.  Synthetic sunshine pounds into my eye sockets, making the meticulously framed advertisements difficult to read.  Is it guaranteed Swahili or Swedish?

A not-quite-old but certainly not young woman sits near, reading her water bottle and listening through her earphones to what sounds only of snare drum.  Caught staring, I avert my gaze sheepishly to my feet-hoping to blend in with the mass of paper-rattling people trying earnestly not to interact.  Despite a few coughs here and there, the silence is essentially palpable.

With the discomfort of a  destitute man sitting next to me wielding a stench so thick and brackish and a recent stop along the line picking up several groups of chatty people, I decide to move to the rear car, hoping to be entertained vicariously with a bit of dialogue.  Struggling like a salmon fighting its way upstream, I excuse myself past a mass of bleary-eyed commuters, stopping only when I reach a hand-rail-accessible piece of rubber floor.  Listening as if my life (or sociology grade) depended on it, I widen my stance and attempt to appear occupied with my thoughts.

With the drone of the computerized baritone man letting us know where the T is stopping next, and the horrible piercing screech of train wheels crying out for some WD-40, hanging on to every word of a conversation is a difficult task.  Amidst the shrapnel of conversation, however, some generalities can be formed; most notably of which is that the conversation is boring.  

In a city where population is primarily students, there is no shortage of whining.  Many complaints of fatigue, and several gripes about the weather rain upon me.  There is at least one girl who is quite upset with her ex-boyfriend.  Looking around the car, I notice quite a number of  “quiet” passengers seemingly hanging on every word of conversation around me.  Are these curious folks also investigating urban sociology?  Doubtful.  Are they too craving an interaction to help them cope with another day of arduous monotony?   Possibly.  But I have the distinct feeling that these transit patrons are actually annoyed that their silence is being invaded.

Granted, the A.M. train ride holds a different vibe than the ruckus on Friday at midnight, but an absence of a single “good morning” instills an impersonal flavor in a city full of great gossip.  There is yet another day of war, an historical election, and probably even a few good concerts coming up in all of our futures.  And yet, the overly general ‘chit-chat’ I overhear in a place where people are wedged upon each other and forced to spend the better part of an hour together is underwhelming.

Hearing the baritone voice recording letting me know my stop is rapidly approaching, I shuffle toward the doors.  The amusement park ride is over and a new batch of oddly familiar faces wait for their turn to ride.  And with a quick spin near the open doors to face those who have suffered with me, I offer wishes of a good day.  To which I receive the blank stare of many, a sneer of some, and the return wishes of none.

Aroma by Allison Healy

by Attilio Foresta-Martin

Every institution with a very strong identity is based on a precise and defined ideology and on an even more precise system of rules. If you want to see with your own eyes the distorted reality of an institution with a narrow ideology you have to devote at least two hours of your time at Starbucks.

When you enter the average Starbucks coffee shop you are at the same time in a public library and in the engine room of a boat. Young people dressed in black and green clothes are the operators responsible for several kinds of tools and machineries. In front of them the customers are sitting around their tables while they read, talk and hold cups made of cardboard. A homeless person sits alone in a corner surrounded by plastic bags and holding not one, but several cardboard cups. The difference between the real customer and the homeless one who is just taking advantage of the chair and the heat is that the first one pays and gets to choose his drink and the last one has access only to second-hand cups from the garbage can (but he can take as many as he wants).

At Starbucks everyone is welcome, the international Starbucks policy compels that the treatment must be the same for everybody and it is very much like the one you receive in a hospital; individual extreme care, but with discretion. Thanks to this rule from the first moment you approach one of the hyperactive people in green and black clothes you are asked to report about your health status, your mood and if you have any desire, dissatisfaction or complaints. Then according to your temper you can either buy a CD, or help Starbucks to make a donation to African children by buying water. After all this, when you’re still trying to understand why Starbucks needs your money to make donations, you finally have to choose your beverage.

The only difference between an ancient pagan ritual and the Starbucks order procedure is that at Starbucks the human sacrifice has been abolished. Beside this, you need a high level of knowledge on how the ceremony takes place.  There are specific codes to identify yourself as a member, and when it is your turn to speak you have to pronounce a correct formula, otherwise you don’t get a drink. The menu that covers an entire wall with inscriptions is not as helpful as you think since to show that you are an associate you have to be able to combine those inscriptions. Something like a “venti pumpkin spice white mocha chocolate frappuccino” demonstrates not only a great and respectable knowledge of the scriptures but also a certain level of seniority.

If you think that an easy way to avoid this complex liturgy and still drink something is by ordering a simple beverage you are mistaken. Even when you ask for a tea you don’t get just flavored hot water; you have to know how much flavored hot water you want, and then you have to choose between hundreds of different flavors presented to you in form of a deck of cards.

How can you defend yourself from such a well organized attempt of proselytism? Is it possible to have something to drink without being part of their sect? No, it is not. The Starbucks organization wants your complete loyalty and to have breakfast like everyone else you have to passively prostrate yourself to all of their rituals.

But if you don’t want to give your obedience you can choose to fight them, and the best way to do it is by taking advantage of the narrowness of their ideology. In fact nobody is surprised when someone orders a “dark chocolate peppermint mocha frappuccino” but what happens if someone orders some milk? Not a spiced, multicolored, soap-looking iced beverage but just milk; a glass of plain, regular milk.

At the word “milk”, a shadow of terror creeps into the eye of the Starbucks employee; he immediately understands that you are not one of them, but since you asked for something, he is forced by the policy to give at least a logical answer. But he can’t; he looks for help from the other employees. They all get together for a brief consultation.  What is milk?  Where do we keep it? Is it the yellow powder that we use to make the Java Chip Frappuccino? Or is it the purple fluid we call Mocha Syrup? Who is this customer? Is he trying to use the toilet without making an order? And while two barristas are still trying to understand what this customer truly wants, the third does what all Starbucks ministers are trained to do in case of an emergency. He offers you a free Frappuccino!

Empire 2 by Alessio Romano

As night drops down his tarnished, black curtain,

And worn-out faces wear the brake light’s glow,

We sit captured in a terrible halt.

Like a heavy rock in a shallow pond,

All hopes tonight quickly sink to despair.

Blistered hands clench a fist around the wheel.

We can only wait to disassemble.