Beacon Hill in Boston, Massachusetts was not always a place of high priced abodes and yuppie couples who had made good. In the 60s, there were basement apartments rented out to anyone who could pay, regardless of their professions. Such was the place I’ll call 2a Anderson Street.
The back alley crawling into 2a was a toilet for indigents, or even for drug customers who occasionally came and went. The clientele was not the best, as was the product. Old rubbish swept through, riding the eddies brought by the New England fall. Leaves were sparse in the densely packed Hill. The rubbish would simply have to do.
It was a bitter time of war. The nightly news consisted of body counts and gruesome photos of mangled bodies. A time when a teenager’s coming of age might consist of a swift death, or a whirlwind romance resulting in youngsters getting married…
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