Main Street, Lee, Massachusetts (Credit: Massachusetts Office of Travel and Tourism)
“Hey there everyone, thanks for staying tuned to 99.7 WARP, The Warp Zone. We take you where you want to go. I’m Casey Adams, ready to finish out this lovely October Friday’s edition of Passport Radio, the show where I take you all over the map. Kate Kaplan will be up next for the drive-time edition of her lesbian rock block. And tonight at eight, you’ll find the live broadcast of the Firelock Runaways show to kick off the Halloween celebrations at Bishop College, right here. Kate Kaplan will be on next after ‘Alison’ by Slowdive.”
I hit the switcher to mute myself and play the last track I have queued. Leaning back in my chair at the desk has never felt so good. Usually, I like my long show on Friday afternoons, where a lot of people tune in while they finish out their workweek and get ready for the Friday night partying. But on days like today, when I have a show to play in the evening, I’m edgy.
The agony of waiting for the clock to roll over to read ‘4:00’ on a Friday afternoon is the very definition of the word agony. When you look up ‘agony’ in the dictionary, it says ‘the time between 3:00 and 4:00 on a Friday.’ It’s a torture worse than how Giles Corey was put to death, and unlike him, I’m the definition of candy-ass.
The clock finally gives me the sacred number, the official start to my weekend, and I fistbump Kate as she enters the booth and starts getting set up. Kate’s a junior at Bishop College, originally from Maryland. Since WARP is technically a joint community/college venture with my alma mater, plenty of Bishop students staff the radio station. I worked here while in school and was hired as an associate producer after I graduated last May. But I got to keep my Friday afternoon show.
With Bishop’s position as an arts school with one of the best music programs in the country, our quirky little town gets more attention than most would from the masses. The station offers internet streaming because talent scouts for labels in New York, Nashville, and Los Angeles listen to it to find the next hot new thing.
The party at the college that the Firelock Runaways are playing tonight is technically a student event, so the station is allowed to broadcast our performance live. And since I work here, I get to ask for a recording of the raw audio off the mixing board before it gets compressed and hits the airwaves. Ostensibly, it’s for “station records,” but I have a server in my house that allows a select group to access every show we’ve ever played which has been broadcast like this. In the circles I travel in, being on the access list is considered ‘in the club.’ Still working on a design for the commemorative jackets.
I grab my coat and my bag, throw my headphones on, access the station’s mobile app, and let ‘Alison’ block out the sounds of Grantchester on my walk home.
Outside, it’s brisk, early October weather. Up in New England, the chill is already starting to set in, but that doesn’t stop the townies from living their lives. The walk to my house is a passable fifteen minutes; a fifteen minutes I almost wish didn’t have to end. These small moments between obligations are the best part of my life.
The world outside my little introspective sphere is joyous. Reserved, but joyous. A work week is at its end, but the semester at the local Bishop College is hitting its stride, so students are out and about in full force. Truth be told, I always liked autumn here the best anyways, with students filling up the town. The students were a constant for most of the year, unlike the summer crowd who would show up to party for three months. We’re less of a party destination than, say, the Jersey Shore, but that still doesn’t stop people from trying.
Bishop College is so named for Bridget Bishop, the first person killed during the Salem Witch Trials. Being in the same region as Salem, the notion of things being weird and supernatural are associated with Grantchester as well. The town took to it and embraced the weird and counter-cultural aspects of its reputation, eventually becoming a haven for the arts, much like Northampton about a hundred and fifty miles west. It also has to do with Bishop College having a lot of ex-Berklee instructors on the faculty who were lured either by the promise of a quieter environment or not having to live in Boston, along with those who didn’t quite make the cut.
Grantchester itself sits on the coast only about forty miles outside of Boston. It’s filled with far too many grumpy old men complaining far too much about far too many things, far too many couples showing far too much affection, and far too many college kids far too drunk far too early in the day. Not much separating me from them I suppose.
Being a hometown boy, Grantchester’s idiosyncrasies are second nature to me. The proximity to Boston, coupled with convenient rail service, means an influx of emigrants from the city now able to live on the coast and work from home, but take the train into town to see the Red Sox play. The increased presence of people around the town annoys me because I am, at my core, a snob. That being said, more people tune into the radio show, and my shows have become some of the highest rated on the station. That netted me last month’s promotion to senior producer, which is a nice professional win to balance out the ongoing disaster my personal life has been for the last few years.
The key jingles in the lock of the Adams family home. I still live here with my father, who is busy at work running the bakery in town. Up the stairs, and into my room stands a stark contrast to most guys who recently graduated from college. I like to run somewhat of a tight ship, falling victim to pockets of chaos. The table next to the door holds the picture of Paige and I from Halloween four years ago. She surprised me by wearing the bikini from Return of the Jedi when I announced my desire to go to a Halloween party as Han Solo, on a night she told me she couldn’t make it, and then she did anyways. I really ought to take the photo down.The breakup was less than pleasant.
Not like Pagie wasn’t a distraction from the messiness that was the end of high school and college to me. Between Allison and mom, I wasn’t in a good state when I started classes that fall. Paige was another denizen of Grantchester I had gone to high school with who never got away after graduation. We found each other partially because we were in different cliques in high school: I stuck with Martin and Allison, while Paige was a cheerleader and on the quiz bowl team. They made it to High School Quiz Show twice while we were there. When we got to college, the familiarity of being hometown kids in a sea of new faces made us cling to each other for a while.
My laptop takes its rightful place on my desk and whirs to life. As it boots up, I take a gander out the bay window at the waves lapping at the shore. One would think that a boy who lived his life next to the ocean would have grown used to it to the point of boredom, but truth be told, I enjoy having a perpetual mystery to stare at when I don’t have anything better to think about.
I pick up the well-loved Martin acoustic sitting next to the couch. That dark red leather couch was gifted to me by my parents when they replaced it in the living room, before mom disappeared five years ago. In my room, it played host to friends playing games deep into the night on many an occasion. The TV still rests on a dresser which I built with my grandfather when I was a kid, out of the same wood as our coffee table downstairs and the desk my now-booted laptop sits on.
There’s not a message waiting. No emails, no chat messages on the two social media sites I bother to hold an account on anymore. No nothing. I begin to sigh in frustration when my phone buzzes. I pick up, uttering my first words addressed directly towards another human in close to three hours.
“Hello?”
“Dude, I’m outside, and I’m bored as hell.”
The number of great stories that have started because Martin Grace said those words to me numbers in the high hundreds if not the thousands by now. Martin and I have a history stretching back to childhood. We were once part of a power trio to rival all other power trios, even Luke, Leia, and Han didn’t come close to how awesome we’ve always been. But, since our third moved away about five years ago, he and I have been down to an army of two.
I leave Martin hanging for a brief moment. What else do I really have to do today, at least until soundcheck?
“On my way down.” With that, the call disconnects, I practically slide down the burnt oak banister, and nearly faceplant into the front door, only saving myself by some agile footwork on the first floor and opening the door smoothly to let myself gracefully drift through with perfect timing which I honed from years of attempting the same thing and faceplanting into the front door.
“Hey man, haven’t seen you all week!” Martin’s messy brown hair and tired eyes flip and light up respectively when he seems me. A good rule of thumb for bros is that if two bros are still hyped to see each other even after living in the same town and attending the same schools since childhood, they are indeed true bros. Martin’s cheerfulness never fails to lift my spirits.
“How are you out of work so early?”
“Ehh, Wilson and I swapped shifts. I took his days at the beginning of the week because his aunt fell and he had to go to Amherst for a few days to be with the family. So I got myself a three day weekend.”
“You lucky fuck. Ever think this is what your fancy college degree would amount to?” I tease. Martin got a degree in business administration. His dad hoped he would at least take over running the office at the mechanic shop, but sadly, he instilled a deep love of working with his hands into his son. Papa Grace is an insurance sales representative but was a hobbyist at fixing things. Martin decided to take it a step further and turn it into a career.
“Adams, my hobby is fixing shit. I wasn’t a fan of the whole college thing, but I did it. At least staying here means I get to live at home and keep working on engines for a living.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet steady minimum wage with no hope of getting a better position anywhere else thanks to your fancy business degree really looks attractive to women. They like a good loser headed nowhere.” My teasing elicits a slap to the back of the head from my friend.
“Dude, you suck.”
“I am freaking awesome,” I reply, “And the drum kit of yours that resides in my music room would agree.”
He concedes that point as we continue our way towards the commercial center of town. “Where did you want to go anyways?”
“You were the one that suggested we go shopping!”
“I didn’t know if you had errands to run!” He throws his hands up in disbelief.
“I want to hit Golden Road and see if my copy of ‘Feel Good Lost’ came in, but Henry told me I probably won’t see it until next week.”
“You and your pretentious hipster shit,” he scoffs and rolls his eyes while turning us towards the direction of the town’s music store anyways.
“Broken Social Scene is not pretentious hipster shit, dude. They’re pretentious hipster shit to people who don’t know what pretentious hipster shit is.”
“They qualify. Or, at least you qualify as a pretentious hipster shithead for ordering in a twenty-year-old post-rock album nobody gives a fuck about anymore.”
I gasp at his comments in fake shock and mock fainting before stumbling forward and catching myself before I take a dive onto the sidewalk. “Dude, it’s the only one I don’t have on vinyl, I just want the complete set.”
Martin ignores me to tap away on his phone. “So, I just talked to Amber, she’s finishing up her shift, and then is down to meet us at the Wolf’s Den.”
“Well shit, let’s go bother her at work, then get her drunk before the show.”
Market Street is the town’s central business thoroughfare. Imaginative name, I know. Historic red brick sidewalks see shoppers looking into storefronts which have been around since the 1600s on some blocks. Lots of local, small businesses here. Lots of families have been turning over businesses to their kids for generations now.
Golden Road is an exception to the family rule. The town’s premiere music store was opened sometime in the 2000s. The owner, Henry Sims, is a Grantchester local legend. Sharp as a tack, he spent his early twenties touring with the Grateful Dead from 91 until Jerry Garcia died in 95. Then he went to college, made some money, and came back to Grantchester. When Tower Records shut down operations, Henry opened Golden Road to take up the mantle of a respectable music store in town. He modeled the store after one which existed when he was in high school, ironically two stores down from his current location.
“Look at these two troublemakers,” Amber McLean does her best approximation of a Southie accent as we walk in. She doesn’t remotely sound like she’s from Boston, but we’ll let it slide. She grew up in Indianapolis and went to college in Chicago. Actually, she went to college outside of Chicago, at Northwestern. And she never lets us forget it.
Amber is our band’s keyboardist. She is an underachieving but wicked smart girl from Indianapolis, Indiana whose father was a lawyer. Because he was a lawyer, she got to go to Northwestern on her own merits and the difference was covered by dad’s money. She had an identity crisis and decided to move to an artsy town to reset herself. She always told us the decision was between here and Asbury Park, New Jersey. She said Grantchester won out because the gothic affectations of here were more attractive than the guido affectations of the Jersey Shore. Which suits us just fine.
“When’s your shift end?” Martin cuts right to the chase.
Amber checks her watch. “Five minutes. Since I’m done,” she looks over at Henry, who sighs and waves her out the door.
“You coming tonight?” I ask the store manager, whose scruffy greying beard hasn’t been trimmed in a few weeks. The curly hair has gone longer, and the bags under his eyes tell me he hasn’t been sleeping. The red in his eyes tells me his tolerance break is over.
“Fuck yeah. Going to be that weird older dude standing in the back, rocking out.”
I’ve always loved how supportive Henry has been. This is a man who loves music in all its forms. He makes every effort not to miss any of the shows we play locally. Along with my advisor from college, Doctor Dalton Wright. Since graduating, we’re on a first name basis. I come to him with problems I can’t talk out with my dad. I can’t talk to Henry about stuff like that, but we’ve spent more than a few hours bullshitting about music.
“Totally isn’t weird, you’re just holding court with the faculty,” I assure him.
“Shit, man, I know so much about music that I should be on that faculty.”
“Probably would make less than you do here,” I point out matter-of-factly.
“Brother, if I was aiming to be a zillionaire, I wouldn’t have-”
“Sold grilled cheeses in the parking lot of Giants Stadium, RFK, and Soldier Field. I’ve heard the 1992 tour stories before, man.”
“Just go, make sure you don’t fuck up too badly tonight,” Henry waves us out of the store with a chuckle. I assure him we won’t as we leave. The back and forth we have makes me cherish every visit. Grantchester is a collection of characters. The door chime sounds as we leave. It’s the first four guitar notes of Pink Floyd’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” Brilliant.
“So, Martin and I think we should go bother your dad at the bakery, maybe grab a bite before we head over for soundcheck,” Amber summarizes their conversation. The fire in Amber McLean’s soul is reflected in her hair, and the constellations on her face give the impression of a dreamer. The impressions aren’t usually that far off. Right now, she dreams of food.
“Do you two think about anything other than eating?” I inquire.
“That’s like the only thing she and I have in common!” Martin says.
I sigh. “C’mon, let’s go bother my dad. Lead on.”
Martin does so with a whoop.
We make our way down Market Street towards my family’s bakery. It’s been in the Adams family since my great-grandfather opened it up after World War II. It became one of the local institutions that has survived generations. It’s primarily a family outfit. I worked there part time over summers in high school, but once I got to college and got the job at the radio station, dad was okay with me skipping out. My older sister, Reilly, is more of a baker than I am. She got dad’s genes, while I ended up with mom’s. My dad’s older brother, Ellis, had no desire to take over the bakery. In spite of this, Ellis’ son, Andrew, works at the bakery.
My grandfather was an okay baker, but never took to it like his father and younger son did. His wife, however, was an excellent baker coming into it. My grandmother tells the joke like this: “Oh, you know I married Walter to get to the Adams family recipes.” Pappy was happy to let his wife run the bakery while he took care of the woodshop. When my dad was old enough to take over, he did. I don’t think he ever wanted to do anything else. Which is fine, since Ellis detests the idea of having anything to do with the bakery other than consuming its products.
I don’t think I could describe the bakery in any terms other than warmth. It’s not super chic, but rather stately, with black and white tiled floors and wood paneling on the bottom half of the walls. My grandfather was a woodworker by trade, and when his dad went to renovate the bakery, my pappy crafted the wood paneling, the display cases, and the tables for customers. Many years later, it stands almost as it was. My dad repainted the upper halves of the walls about ten years ago to a pleasant cream color, because the old wallpaper was getting dated. Otherwise, it has stayed as timeless as it was when my Pappy and Gramma redecorated it.
“Amber, no flirting with my dad,” I warn her before we step inside.
“Man, you just love to ruin my fun,” she crosses her arms and pouts. I roll my eyes and push the door open with the pleasant little bell chime. The smell of a fresh batch of snickerdoodles immediately makes my mouth water a little. Dad’s snickerdoodles are the absolute best. The remarkable part of this scene? Dad dancing around behind the counter, singing along to “Your Body Is A Wonderland” by John Mayer.
It’s truly a sight to behold.
I honestly can’t tell if Amber is joking when she talks about my dad, but I understand why. Seldom have I met someone funnier, more laid back, or caring. Plus, he’s in incredible shape. He’d be a heartbreaker with the salt and pepper hair and chiseled jawline if he wasn’t always covered in flour or had dough stuck in the stubble he forgot to shave off in the morning. Incredibly good at being a baker, but he’d forget his head if it weren’t attached to his shoulders. If you caught him on the rare occasions when he dressed up, you’d think he was some sort of professor. He studied history in college, where he met my mom, but he always wanted to take over the bakery.
“Hey Mister A!” Amber greets, batting her eyelashes ever so slightly, and then shooting me a snarky grin. I think today, she’s doing it deliberately to screw with me. I flip her off in response.
“Hey gang!” Dad greets us with a chuckle.
“Why are you listening to John Mayer?” Martin asks.
“Martin, is there anything wrong with enjoying the best guitarist of our time?” dad shoots back. Martin is like a second son to my dad. The two of them talk sports, which suits me just fine because I don’t know shit about them.
“There is when the song’s lyrics contain the phrase ‘bubblegum tongue’ in the chorus,” Martin snarks back. This is part of the traditional greeting ritual between Martin Grace and Graham Adams. Whichever one establishes dominance in the form of snark controls the flow of conversation. If Martin takes the upper hand, he usually manages to twist dad’s arm into giving him some sort of treat. And dad gives in because Martin is his son from another set of parents, thusly better to spoil.
“Mister Adams, would it be possible to get some cookies to go? Need a little snack before the show,” Amber requests sweetly, diverting the conversation from John Mayer.
“Now Amber, I told you, call me Graham. And of course you’ll have cookies, I’m finishing the batch of snickerdoodles specifically for you.” Dad isn’t playing back into Amber’s ambiguously serious flirtation, but he always likes to be welcoming to my friends, and the band all met him as adults. He turns to me. “Make sure Cory and Kim get some. Don’t let him,” he points to Martin, “wolf them all down. They’re for the green room.” Dad always tries to bake us something for every show. Occasionally it’s just some garlic bread, but it’s always something. He calls it his tradition to support his little artists. I always roll my eyes and grin anyways.
“Señor Adams, I highly resent these remarks,” Martin opts for a dignified tone of disapproval. “They bear little to no resemblance to my behavior or my ways of doing things.”
“Martin, you ate three quarters of a pumpkin pie last Thanksgiving,” dad deadpans.
“That is completely irrelevant.” Martin keeps his cool, but in his eyes, I can tell he knows he lost this one. And he’s getting a treat anyways. So, everybody gets to win a little bit.
“Hey, where is Reilly anyways?” I ask, “I thought she was supposed to be here all day today.”
“Justin texted her that he got a table at Beckett’s for tonight. He said it was a big deal but was light on the details. I told her to take off early to get all dolled up.”
Justin Stafford is one of Bishop’s odd stories. He went to Bishop for marketing and ended up working remotely for a software company on the sales team. It’s almost weird to know someone who graduated from our arts school in the business world. I like Justin, though. He’s a nice guy, very smart, a little awkward. He’s been Reilly’s boyfriend for just over five years now.
“And Andrew?”
“Not scheduled today.”
“So you’re the only crew member left on the boat?”
“Aye aye.”
“That sucks, man.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Actually, dad, I think I just did.” I crack a cheeky grin.
“Take your damn cookies, do your damn soundcheck, and break a damn leg.”
Dad’s sense of humor never fails to lift my spirits. He makes a rough day into a good one and a good day into a great one. I promise him I will, and with cookies in hand, we set off for Bishop College with its old halls, stained glass windows, and gothic aura.
It’s fun being that dude who just can’t seem to leave his university years behind.
Ark of the Lost Angels 
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