And here I am in the Boston Public Library, and the guy at the table next to where I am sitting is telling another guy standing next to him, in enormous and chuckling detail, about an endless sequence of people whom he has punched ("So hard! I was punching him so fast, so hard!") in the back. In between punches in the back, he also stopped someone in a car and punched the hood and the windshield, and "you know what I did in the end? I pulled up his windshield wiper and snapped it off!"
Somewhere in there, the driver got out and ran, and "I had this 70 pound backpack and I was still running faster than him!" Predictably, given what we've heard already, he caught up with the driver and "I punched him so hard in the middle of his back that he fell over groaning!"
The dude has the planet's most boring monotone for a voice, and looking at him you'd imagine he could barely use a punch on a sheet of A4-sized paper, let alone punch other guys, he's that puny-looking. But about 25 people around us have been treated to his interminable chuckling punching accounts over the last 20 minutes.
Must be a place to let out latent hostility, the BPL. An hour ago, an older woman wearing a security-like uniform wandered through and stopped beside the same table, spoke to the young man witting opposite to our punch-happy champion. By way of reply, he says: "I love you to death, but it's no secret that I can't stand you, so get out of here and leave me alone, OK?"
She wanders off.
And I'm just sittin' here watching the wheels go round and round. Not really, I'm poring over Frommer's Guide to the Carolinas and Georgia, taking notes on ferries and B&Bs in North Carolina. Hell, why go there? Right about now, sitting in this Library holds promise of being the best way to spend the next several weeks.