06 November 2026
2037
R. Linda:
I was sitting at me desk this morning, reminiscing to meself about days gone by. I had just got into work and was feeling a little foggy. Aye, I be having trouble with the time change still.
I looked up as Ms Jaio popped her head in to say, "Good morning." She was holding a news article that had a photo of Rob Gronkowski posing at a polling place with a woman and her child.
Just that image brought me back to January 2016, the morning after the Patriots lost the AFC Championship on a botched 2-point conversion, but others blamed it on the Gronk. That morning, I was assigned an interview that, for some reason, popped into me head today. Probably because the Gronk was in New Hampshire at the polling places urging people already there to vote. I thought that was moronic since that's why they were there, but then maybe Gronk had too many hits to the head.
Anyway, I remember that morning in 2016, me head had felt like a construction site in Southie. Being a Northern Ireland transplant who had somehow bluffed me way into a staff writer gig at a Boston newspaper, I had been hiding behind a monitor, nursing a lukewarm Dunks.
Me editor, Cruella, a terrifying woman whose accent sounded like a chainsaw cutting through a tin can, smacked a folder onto me desk.
"O’Sully! You’re up. Carlton’s out with the flu, so you’re covering the South Boston Senior Centre’s annual charity drive. Go interview their lifetime achievement honoree. Name’s Murph."
I blinked. "Murph? Is there a last name?"
"Just Murph," Cruella barked. "He’s a local legend. Don't screw it up."
An hour later, I was sitting in a drafty community room across from a man who looked like a weathered piece of granite wearing a flat cap. Murph’s knuckles were the size of walnuts, and he looked at me voice recorder like it was a British spy device.
"Alright, Murph," I began, pulling out me notepad and turning on me best charm. "Let’s start with the basics. Where exactly in Boston did you grow up?"
Murph stared at me. A minute passed. I checked whether the man was still breathing.
"The town," Murph finally croaked.
"Right, yes, Boston," I said. "But which neighbourhood? Southie? Charlestown?"
"The town," Murph repeated, harder this time.
I frowned. I wondered if me thick Northern Irish accent was perhaps off-putting to him.
Now, I hadn't the foggiest notion what the man was on about. "Yes, but which town, Murph? Boston has many areas. It’s a city, you see."
Murph leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Are you thick, kid? The Town. C-Town. The square. Friggin' monuments."
"Ah!" I smiled, relieved. "The monument! So you’re from near the Wellington Monument in Phoenix Park?"
Murph’s jaw dropped. He looked around the room like he was searching for a hidden camera. "Phoenix Park? The hell are you talkin' about? Bunker Hill, you absolute bagel."
I nodded furiously, sweating through me sweater. "Bunker Hill! Got it. Moving on. The paper wants to know about your career. Me editor tells me you were heavily involved in the local... shipping and logistics industry in the 70s and 80s?"
Murph went dead silent. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He slowly reached into his heavy wool coat. Me life flashed before me eyes. I thought of me Mam in Newry. I thought of me unpaid parking tickets.
Murph pulled out a pack of Winstons, lit one right under a 'No Smoking' sign, and took a long drag.
"Logistics," Murph whispered, the smoke curling around his cap. "That’s what they’re callin' it now? Who told you that? Was it Fitzie? Because Fitzie’s a rat. If Jimmy sent you—"
"No one sent me!" I squeaked, me voice cracking. "It’s for the Senior Centre! For the charity!"
"Right. Charity," Murph said, a dark smirk forming on his face. "We did a lot of 'charity' back then. Unloading crates off the docks at 3 AM. No paperwork. Very charitable to the neighbourhood, if you catch my drift. The feds called it 'grand larceny,' but hey, potato, pot-ah-to."
Me pen was trembling. I was pretty sure I was currently interviewing a retired mob enforcer, and me editor had sent me in with a notebook and a smile.
Desperate to change the subject to something safe, I blurted out the first thing I saw on me cheat sheet. "So! I see you’re a massive fan of football! Let's talk about the big game last night. Devastating loss for the Pats. What did you think of the sportsmanship?"
Murph blinked. The tension vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury.
"Sportsmanship?!" Murph roared, slamming his fist on the table so hard that me Dunks spilt over. "The friggin' passah had one job! One job! My grandmuthah coulda throwed that ball better, and she’s been dead since the Carter administration! They get paid millions of dollahs to throw a pigskin, and they choke like a bunch of frauds!"
"But the Gronk…"
Murph stood up, kicking his chair back, and spent the next twenty minutes pacing the room, launching into a profanity-laced tirade about the coaching staff, the offensive line, and Brady being battered by Denver's defence. He used words I didn't even know existed in the English language, most of them ending in "-ah."
I had sat frozen, frantically writing down words like scumbags, bums, and dink just to look busy.
Finally, Murph stopped, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and looked down at me. "Anyway. That’s my piece. You put that in the papah."
"I... I will, Murph. Word for word," I lied, knowing Cruella would fire me into the sun if I printed a single syllable of it.
"Good kehd," Murph said, slapping me on the back so hard me lungs rattled. "You’ah alright. For a guy who talks like a leprechaun."
I walked out into the freezing Boston air, threw me notepad into a trash bin on Tremont, and walked straight to the nearest pub. I ordered a Guinness, took a sip, and resolved to tell Cruella that Murph had moved to Florida.
Gabe
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