The cab ride from Harvard Square to Moody St. in Waltham was a white-knuckle affair. We’d found one idling outside of Charlie’s and quickly made the decision to continue our crawl in a different neighborhood, Moody St., one of Jim’s favorite stomping grounds. Jim and I climbed in back while Kumar was relegated to the front, grumbling as he got in. Things weren’t right from the start.
“Anyone smoke? ‘Cuz you can if you want,” the long haired cabbie croaked. He had the look of an old, washed out coke user, much older than he should have been, slouched in his seat, as if there were a hump in his back. He rubbed at his nose and sniffed. “Really, I don’t mind if you do.” None of us responded at first, Jim staring out his window as the madman driver blew through his second red light.
“Uhh, none of us are smokers,” Kumar stammered, holding on to the oh-shit handle above him as we careened around a corner too sharply.
“We’re all smokers in one way or another,” the driver said. Yet again, none of us knew what to say to this, not even Jim had a comeback. We hurtled around the streets of Cambridge, plunging in to Watertown, the driver fiddling constantly with the radio until he stopped on some Pink Floyd.
“So, what time does your shift end,” Kumar asked out of the blue. The driver turned to him, paused, and said, “I think you better put your seatbelt on.” Kumar stared at him for a second before doing as he was told. Once clicked in, the driver continued, “Usually when people ask me questions like that, you know, small talk, shit they could care less about, they’re uncomfortable, so I thought you’d feel better with your seatbelt on.” I watched all of this with amazement, and saw a huge grin erupt on Jim’s face. Kumar was motionless. Thankfully, we had reached our destination, Watch City.
An Indian greeted us as we entered, part of a fall display that had been set up in the entryway. It was one of those wooden Indian statues, this one holding information about the brewpub.
“That’s fucking racialist, isn’t it, Kumar,” Jim asked, a glint in his eye. Kumar didn’t even stop; he just kept walking past the hostess station, where I noticed they sold an assortment of 22 oz. bombers, and went straight to the bar.
“I don’t think he’s in the mood for any of that,” I said and noted the brewing equipment visible behind glass to our left.
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it,” Jim cackled. And with that we joined Kumar at the bar.
The place had a square footprint, with a rectangular bar in the middle, about eighteen fixed, swivel stools on the long sides, and a kind of cold slate top to the bar. There were four televisions hoisted up above the bar. Taking in the rest of the joint, booths ran the length of the right wall, while scattered tables and high stools and matching tables were dropped down everywhere else. The high ceiling, painted black, gave it a cavernous feel as there was little adornment throughout, a few pictures, but that was about it. Overall, the atmosphere gave off the vibe of a mausoleum, but because it was so crowded on a Saturday night, it did have a life to it.
“So, what are we having,” I asked looking up at the tap list written on individual, hanging chalk signs in the middle of the bar. Tonight they had Pie Eyed Punkin Ale, Wit’s End, Uber Oktolager, Blackdogg Stout, and the regulars. Not too shabby.
“I’m having an Uber, what about you, Kumar,” Jim asked.
“Can you believe that fucking cab dick,” Kumar asked incredulously. “I don’t need an armchair psychologist, and a fucking crank-head at that, giving me shit like that,” Kumar said. “Fuck.”
Jim was about to say something when he spied somebody he knew on the other side of the bar and sped off in that direction. I grabbed a menu off of the bar after ordering a Pie Eyed, Kumar an Uber, and noted the fairly pedestrian pub menu of sandwiches, wraps, salads, a pasta dish, and the typical appetizers. One unusual item I’d had in the past were the nachos which were served more like chips and dip, with the cheese, salsa, guacamole, you name it, all layered together in the middle of a shallow bowl with the chips on the side.
Kumar got up and said he was going to the bathroom, leaving me by myself; Jim had disappeared completely. Thoughts of previous visits here drifted through my head; I had not been here in some time. Jim materialized in front of me like a magician, with Kumar practically walking up his heels.
“You won’t believe what I just caught him doing,” Jim exclaimed. “I come out of the bathroom, and what do I find, but Kumar playing with fucking choo-choo trains!”
“For christ’s sake, I had those wooden trains when I was kid and I was just checking them out,” Kumar was almost yelling.
“What’s wrong with you, man, that area’s for moms and dads to leave their cranky kids at while they go swill,” Jim was referring to a small play area just outside of the bathrooms which had, among other things, a Brio set.
“I told you,” Kumar started but Jim put his hand up to stop him, palm up, face down. Kumar stopped, a look of incredulity spread ing across his face. Jim looked at him.
“I think you better put your seatbelt on, my friend,” Jim said.