The Revere Beach welcoming committee is a bug-eyed chihuahua, slamming its head against the roof a car and yipping with almost rabid intensity. An old man sits nearby, hunched in statuesque stillness, watching the sea. Eventually Cujo’s bite-sized spasms become impossible to ignore, and the man, turning down his handheld radio, retrieves “Betsy” from the car. He cracks a grin at us.
“Yaaaaaaaaaaak! You want to keep her?” (I do!)
I come to Revere Beach to lose myself in the sensation of a bygone era. America’s first public beach remains as gritty as ever: jacked-up seagulls haggle over a used condom, families lap at beer and ice cream cones, a hint of menace jags over the parkway. The air feels electric: green with suspense, as if a storm was coming. Though the rains never come, the silent, shifting communication between men’s eyes—as if they’re waiting for a sign to spring into action—sets the tone. As I try to make out with my boyfriend, a dude on a bike hocks a loogie with remarkable aim just inches from my ankle.
It may not be glamorous, but it’s real, and in an age where corporatization and gentrification have flattened some of our best spots, it’s the places like Revere Beach, unrelenting in their character, that inspire me as an artist the most.
Madeline G. Bugeau-Heartt