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THE BOSTON GIG
By Keith Harris

China Town - 1996
The seated pretty black woman had missed three trains and I became aware that she was listening to the songs I was busking on the platform. Suddenly she stood as another train pulled in and briskly walking past me to the carriage door she stooped and dropped something into my open guitar case.

They were two $38 tickets to the 1996 Boston Music Awards, being staged at the city's Orpheum Theatre. I waved a thank-you as the subway train pulled away and she smiled an acknowledgement back.

Getting back to my Revere apartment that night I vowed to go and see the show. When the day arrived I turned up early with my guitar to check out the theatre, thinking perhaps of busking either before or after the show.

I’d been living Stateside for some months. They'd got to know me across Boston, from my busking on the T to riding the city on my Peugeot cycle, guitar strapped to my back, amplifier on the carry-all and microphone stand strapped to the crossbar. When I chose to take them along, that is, which was whenever I thought I might be passing, say, Harvard Square or some such place.

So. There I was, living out at Revere, just a short ride from the beach. God knows how many times I rode up and down that prom. I’ve a few stories from there too, I can tell you. I think I amassed more stories in my 12 months in the US than even when I was working for a newspaper, which is saying something, believe me.

So. There I was one evening, busking away at Chinatown on the Orange line. It was a tough station to busk, but was one of my regular spots along with Government Centre, State, Downtown Crossing and a few others to boot. Each had its own atmosphere, its own mood.

I’d been playing for some time. I needed a few bucks to supplement the money I was earning at a few other jobs. Living on your own in a foreign country can be a tough cookie too. After a while I became aware of the attractive black woman close by who had skipped a couple of trains. Being evening, trains were not so regular. She stood suddenly as a train pulled in and passing me gave me a smile and dropped her gift into my open guitar case. I spotted two blue stubs of paper and paused in my song to examine them. They were the two tickets to the annual Boston Music Awards. I waved a hand and called out a thank-you as the train began pulling out. She smiled back through the window.

Two tickets, priced at $38 each to the show at the Orpheum Theatre! Wow! The show was coming up the next month, in three weeks time. I wondered if perhaps she was a press agent for the theatre. I never saw her again. Whoever you were, God loves ya.

I knew the theatre-in fact I knew the city of Boston remarkably well, having driven a limo around for a while, worked in removals and spent countless hours riding my bike and walking around the city, even in the depths of the cold winter of ’95/96.

Eventually the day arrived. I’d made up my mind to go to the show and took along my guitar, intending to either play somewhere near the theatre before the show or after, when the folk were leaving. The Orpheum is in a cul-de-sac, Hamilton Place, though narrow lanes leave at the side and to the rear. I walked past the entrance and around the side, then returned, thinking it was perhaps a bit early. The show wasn’t due to start for a while yet.

Then a guy in a black suit, white shirt and tie beckoned at me from the entrance. I approached. He was smiling. I guess with my long hair in a pony tail, leather coat and guitar, I looked different.

“You playing tonight?” he asked.

“I guess-maybe later,” I replied, just being honest and not smart.

“Come on in,” he said, ushering me in through the entrance. He seemed eager to please and gave me a quick tour, showing me the bar, then took me backstage to the wings. The stage was awash with equipment, it looked like it was going to be one hell of a good concert.

“You hungry?” my host asked and pointed to some stairs going down. “Just go on down and help yourself to food, it’s all laid on.”

I was starving and could smell the food.

Cheers, I said, and propped my guitar against some amplifiers-there was so much equipment it seemed lost-and went to the food counter.

“See you later,” said my host, leaving with a smile. I guessed he’d gone back to his post at the door.

I grabbed a plate of chicken salad and tucked in. Nobody questioned me, everybody just said hello and hi. It looked like a roadie’s convention down there. After a while I headed back to my guitar, taking some coffee and the remains of my meal on the disposable plate, munching away happily and wondering where I might leave the guitar when the show got under way.

Then a young guy approached, asking me what “was I doing here?”

“I’m here to see the show. One of your staff brought me back here to show me the stage and told me to get some food”, I told him. He wasn’t happy with that, I could see.

You’re not supposed to be here, he said. Fine, I said, I’ll head out back front. I asked if I coudld take my plate of food with me. Well, you would, wouldn't you? No he said, and then at that point the newcomer, who I will call goofball, picked up my guitar and walked off with it at a fast pace down a narrow passage.

“Hey, hang on, that’s my guitar,” I called after him. He ignored me. I set off after him, calling to him to hang on. He continued to ignore me and as he approached a side fire exit I had the certain feeling that he was going to eject the guitar and me through it. I caught up with him and put a friendly but firm hand on his shoulder. Nobody walks off with my guitar. Then all hell broke loose.

I don’t know where they came from, but the next thing I knew was being roughly grabbed by several pairs of hands and being hauled off my feet. I began struggling-this wasn’t my idea of friendship, hospitality and fun. There were six of them, one held each limb and one had me by the collar and they were not being friendly. I was dragged complaining through the theatre, into the main auditorium in front of the stage and then dragged up the long central aisle as people were filtering into the theatre and taking up their seats for the show.

I yelled at them that I was under assault and shouted to anyone who could hear to call the cops. I was unable to struggle free. Nobody seemed to pay the least mind to what was happening to me. I was dragged through the theatre and thrown roughly into the street some yards outside the main front entrance. Whoever was carrying my guitar put it down beside me, then they were gone. I gathered myself to my senses and notice a pair of dark trousered legs close by. A cop. I got up and dusted myself off and checked my guitar, all was OK. I approached the cop.

“Excuse me, you saw that officer, you’re my witness. I was just assaulted by those guys and thrown from the theatre for no good reason.” He observed me and asked what I was doing in the theatre. I noticed one of the goons who had manhandled me was now watching from the theatre entrance.

I told the cop I was there to see the show and he asked if I had tickets. I drew them from my wallet and he observed the still valid press identification badge I carried with me with its expiry date of June 1997. I handed the tickets to the cop and he began examining them.

The goon in the doorway had walked up to the cop and hearing some of the conversation took the tickets from the officer’s hand, ripped them up and gave them to me, saying “now they’re no good, are they?”, before returning to the theatre door. The cop did nothing.

I reiterated that he was my witness to events and asked for his identification. His reply was to tell me that I’d have to leave. When I tried to discuss the matter, the cop-he looked like a young rookie to me-simply repeated that I would have to leave.

I said OK, where should I leave to, and he said that I must leave the jurisdiction of the theatre. I asked where that was and he stated “the end of the street”.

That’s funny, said I, I can see some businesses that have nothing to do with the theatre just here in the street. I told him that I wasn’t arguing, and started to walk slowly down the street, asking him again for his identification and explaining that I was not happy with what had occurred.

I tried again. “Could I please have your identification officer?” I asked, but instead the cop grabbed hold of me and thrust me against a wall, putting handcuffs on me with my hands behind my back. He called on his radio. In less than no time at all a prowl car zipped into the street, I was bundled in and taken to the city jail, where I was fingerprinted, asked a bunch of pretty meaningless questions and allowed a telephone call. The person I called didn’t answer and I left a message on his answer phone.

Yeah, the cop said, you can go if your friend comes and stands bail. He never did. I spent the night in the cells and the next day was hauled before the judge at Boston central court, after being given a public defender, a helpful young woman. I was granted bail in my own recognizance with the judge’s admonition that I “stay away from the theatre while on bail”.

Don’t worry, your honour, I don’t wish to go back to a place that treats people like they treated me, I said. He laughed, banged his gavel and set a date for the return hearing the following month.

I’d accidentally overstayed my visa and had tried unsuccessfully to renew it. The cops at the station never asked me any questions concerning that aspect. When I again met up with the young public defender I put my cards fully on the table and told her that I was mad at the treatment I’d received and wished to pursue action against the theatre staff responsible. She said we could look at that later, but for now she had to work on getting me out of the jam I had landed in. I felt it was a jam I had been put in.

On the day of the hearing, the public defender told me that the prosecution had indicated a willingness to drop the case. I thought that wise of them, they had no case anyway and I would have fought. She advised me to accept their offer, to avoid complications, as she put it. I agreed, and told the judge so.

“Case dismissed. The defendant will pay $150 court costs,” I disbelievingly heard the judge state. Court costs? After the case was dismissed, meaning no charges, no guilt?

“Do you wish for time to pay, ”asked the judge. I told him I’d need at least a year, and he ordered me to pay in three months. I never paid a cent out of sheer principle. I met the pulic defender over coffee after the hearing and discussed options, including my status as a visitor. I was unable to pursue the matter further due to the fact that I had to leave the US for other reasons just a few months later.

Oh well. Some things are like that.

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