Yesterday, I posted some smart ass shit minutes after the bombs went off. I learned later of the 8 year old boy from Dorchester murdered and took it down.
Shit sucks.
Life, and civil liberties will change in Boston.
Weird as fuck seeing five military dudes holding machine guns standing outside my work building.
This shit has been happening around the world…children have been massacred…men with machine guns watch civilians going to work every day.
But when it’s in America….in your own backyard. Shit pisses you off. The kid that was killed lived 5 minutes from where my son lives. He hugged his dad and returned to his mother. Horrible.
Chris Faraone was blocks away from the explosions, and wrote the current cover story on DigBoston.com. Peep it:
By: Chris Faraone
BOSTON APRIL 15, 2013. AROUND 3PM.
I’m bumping a medley of classic Biggie and some underground funk, strolling down Newbury Street with an obnoxious bop in my step and a noggin full of hip-hop. It’s almost 3 p.m., and I’m headed to a pair of Patriot’s Day parties—one in a friend’s office that’s right above the Boston Marathon finish line, and another in a nearby restaurant on Boylston Street across from the Public Library. I’m a broke local reporter, but there are fringe benefits to being in the media around here, the sexiest of which involve smorgasbords on occasions like Marathon Monday.
Those who know the annual routine suggest that anyone who hopes to get a barstool arrives downtown before noon. I’m hours late to the festivities though, and just hoping to squeeze past the insanity to where complimentary foodstuffs could be found. I strategically exit the Red Line train at Park Street—even though friends told me to roll the Green to the Arlington stop, closer to where the runners bring it home and spread their arms wide as volunteers wrap them in foil. I know a better way to walk to Copley Square—through Boston Common—and so I take a detour.
The so-called elite runners and many others have already finished, and lots of them are strolling through the Public Garden. I’m thinking about how they’re less out of breath from hoofing 26-plus miles than I am from walking swiftly for a few minutes. I can’t believe how easy this scrum is to navigate. Despite the commotion, I’m making good time. And then a teenage girl walks by, bawling, with an older woman guarding her closely. She’s not the only one sobbing.
My music is interrupted by an incoming call beeping away. It’s my roommate in Jamaica Plain.
“What the fuck is going on? Are you down there?”
My earbuds are unplugged. What’s my roommate taking about? Why are people crying? Did I hear a boom? Two booms? A bang?
If something is out of whack, then why are the folks over there having a good time? Maybe they’re looking for a bar. I am too. Why the hell is my phone all jammed up? Fuck! Maybe if I can get to where my friends are, they’ll have some clue about what’s unfolding. Or perhaps a horn that I can use. Screw you T-Mobile!
Is something serious going on? It can’t be. Why won’t the cops let me off of Newbury Street, and to where the free beverages are? I’m starving. One more block and I’m home free—this could be a world record for bypassing marathon foot traffic. So close that I can taste the IPA.
I’m firing off tweets because I don’t know what else to do. I could use a drink, but I’m not about to fetch one. Maybe later, but for now the guy standing next to me in a black and gold marathon jacket says that he smelled gun powder. GUN POWDER! He was right there, as were the high school girls who are screaming at a young photographer:
“They bombed our friend - and you’re doing WHAT? Erase it!”
I’m shaking. Someone says the marathon is cancelled. Police begin to clear the area. One cop explains why we have to leave: ‘There are secondary devices that have been found!’
Boston being Boston, I run into more than half-a-dozen friends and fellow reporters within minutes of shit smacking the fan. There’s a former intern of mine who is live-streaming. Then comes another media friend, followed by a national blogger, and a Herald cat. All reporters on the scene—just a block from the explosions—are pooling info. It’s clear that this is some sort of terrorist attack, and we all start asking questions, checking for the bad guys around corners. Emergency responders are on ladders in the alley behind Boylston Street, helping people evacuate restaurants through second-story windows.
I’m the only one among my friends with juice left in their smart phone. An alphabet soup of authorities—ATF, FBI, you name it—is forcing everybody back to Commonwealth Ave. anyway, so we retreat into a tapas joint named Lola for some beer and electricity.
There’s already a small posse at the bar, so my crew grabs a table in the rear and plugs in. Governor Deval Patrick is on television; he’s just blocks away at some hotel, but strict police barriers made it seemingly impossible to get there. That’s fine. The story is right here. And why is that woman still wearing a chicken hat? Take that shit off.
One asshole is particularly hammered; “It’s gonna be like 9/11 all over again,” she belches, her North Shore brogue oozing stupidity. “They’re gonna tell us to just sit in our apartments and not do shit about it.” I ignore her for a few minutes, and instead pay attention to a large man in a tight, bright yellow track jacket who I’m certain is an undercover cop. He’s offering to help people return to their hotels. That’s when a radio producer from New Zealand rings my cell phone and asks for an interview. I oblige:
“I guess that I can talk to you. But to be honest, I don’t really know what the hell happened.”
To read Chris’ entire story, click here.
