Up on the Roof

From the eighth floor of the Colonnade Hotel, the South End of Boston lay beneath us like an urban southwest of brick and brownstone canyons, interrupted only by a few church spires. On these high plains, small patios had been laid out, defined by wrought iron or wooden fences. A table or a chair was here or there, yet no one braved the February cold to catch a ray or two. But there were 2 workmen on a nearby roof putting up a new fence. They worked methodically, studying the layout of chimney and skylight. Below them the city-noise of shoppers and taxis passed not quite unheard, but certainly unheeded. Definitely unseen. Theirs was not an urban outdoors susceptible to the occasional gridlock amongst constant movement. They were alone in the solitude of the city's last frontier beneath the big sky of Boston. Fencing in the slated prairie. Shane! Come back, Shane! We turned and took the elevator down to the bar, and downed several Grand Golds straight-up with 1800 and salt.