Page 13 - It Ends with Us
P. 13

He   no ds.  “Lucky  bastard  works  from  ho me.   Does n’t  ev en   ha ve          to

                cha ng e  out of hi s pajamas and  makes  sev en  fig ures  a yea r.”
                    Lu cky bas tard,  inde ed.
                    “Wha t kind  of res idenc y? Are  you a doctor?”
                    He  no ds.  “Neuro surgeo n.   Les s  tha n  a  yea r  lef t  of  my  res idenc y  and
                then  it’s offic ial.”
                    Stylish,   wel l  spoken,   an d  smart.  And  smokes  pot.  If  thi s  were   an  SAT

                ques tion,    I   would   ask   whi ch   one   didn’t   bel ong .   “Sho uld   doctors   be
                smoking  weed ?”
                    He   smirks.    “Probably     no t.   But   if   we   didn’t   ind ulge   on   occasion,
                there   would  be  a  lot  more      of  us  taking   the   lea p  over   thes e  led ges ,  I
                can  promise  you  tha t.”  He’s  facing   for ward  again  with  hi s  chi n  res ting
                on   hi s   arms.   His   ey es    are   closed    no w,   like   he’s   enj oying    the   wind
                agains t hi s face.  He  does n’t look as int imidating  like  thi s.

                    “You want  to kno w somet hi ng  tha t onl y the  locals kno w?”
                    “Of course, ” he  says, bring ing  hi s attent ion  back to me.
                    I   point    to   the   ea st.   “See   tha t   building ?   The   one   with   the   green
                roof?”
                    He  no ds.
                    “There’ s  a  building   behi nd   it  on  Mel cher.  There’ s  a  ho use  on  top

                of   the   building .   Like   a   leg it   ho use,    built   right    on   the   rooftop.   You
                can’t  see   it  from  the   street ,  and   the   building   is  so  tall  tha t  no t  many
                peo ple  ev en  kno w about it.”
                    He  looks impres sed . “Rea lly?”
                    I  no d.  “I  saw  it  when   I  was  sea rchi ng   Google  Earth,   so  I  looked   it
                up.   Apparent ly     a   permi t   was   grant ed    for   the   cons truction   in   1982.
                How cool would tha t be?  To live  in  a ho use  on  top of a building ?”

                    “You’d get  the  who le  roof to yoursel f,” he  says.
                    I   hadn’t   tho ught    of   tha t.   If   I   owned    it   I   could   plant    gardens    up
                there.  I’d ha ve  an  outlet .
                    “Who  lives  there?”  he  asks.
                    “No one  rea lly kno ws. It’s one  of the  grea t mysteri es  of Boston. ”
                    He  laughs  and  then  looks at me  inq uisitivel y. “Wha t’s ano ther  grea t

                myster y of Boston?”
                    “Your    na me. ”   As   soon    as   I   say   it,   I   slap   my   ha nd    agains t   my
                forehea d.    It   sound ed    so   much    like   a   chees y   pickup   line;    the   onl y
                thi ng  I can  do is laugh  at myself.
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