During the warmer months of the year—even on some of those sunsoaked, fall days in New England—whenever I take the garbage or recycling out, I hear the laughter and revelry of the patio crowd from just a few yards over. There’s the smell of whatever the food trucks are cooking, the flop of a bean bag on a cornhole board. I can even see the Prudential Center peeking over the shoulder of the newly built Encore Boston Harbor Casino.
On tough days, I quietly scorn the gathering of the merry taproom-goers. They don’t know how good they have it, do they? It’s a goddamn Wednesday—doesn’t anyone work? After a 10-hour fight with an eight-head canning line and depalletizer, my arms have a visible sheen from splattered beer. I hate the feeling of being sticky, and I’m sticky, alright.
On better days, an assortment of co-workers and I join the jovial bunch, unwinding over a “shifty”—the two free beers we’re allocated at the end of each day’s work. I tend not to pay too much attention to my level of stickiness on those days.
But lately, when I bring the recycling out in the evening, I can see that the Encore is adorned with a heart shape, formed from a group of precisely lit hotel rooms. I hear the music over the outdoor sound system, but there are no food trucks, no happily buzzed people on the patio, no sounds of revelry. Our shifties still exist—they now come in can form—but the production team doesn’t stick around much anymore. Chatting through homemade face-coverings or N-95 masks isn’t as cordial.
I go through the bargaining stage of grief on my way back inside. I’ll give extra-large Connect Four a chance. I won’t snicker smugly as “Jenga!” is called out for the umpteenth time. Children can run amok, and hell—you can even put fruit puree in my IPA. I’ll accept it all. I just want things to go back to normal.
Words + Photoby Tyler Plourd