there is a small, third story, two bedroom apartment - with three girls sharing one room, a tiny but functional kitchen, and a linoleum covered "dining room" which has been simply converted into a dance room by the strategic placement of a stereo.
there is an old, crass man named Sunny. he has a snowblower and helps us dig our cars out of our side-street parking.
there are sleeping trees- which stand white with blossoms in the spring, and white with snow right now- and all year long they stand sparkling and whispering with small white "christmas" lights strewn their branches.
there is a circus mural painted on the side of the old-time Cabot Street theater- which only ever plays one film at a time, and is currently hosting a number by Cher.
there is the bicycle repair shop.
the consignment shop.
the organic cafe.
the other organic wrap cafe.
there is the italian-styled, over priced, red chaired coffee shop.
there is Montserrat school of Art- ever quaking with the works of right-brained Beverly residents, with their lip rings and paintbrushes.
and there is Atomic. "The Friendliest Place in Town." Atomic Cafe; where the baristas know my name and invite Heidi and i to such events as welcome-to-your-new-apartment dinners, music nights complete with upright bass and accordian, concerts in Cambridge featuring the band which all the Atomic-guys play in, and Record Night- which marvelously featured a narrated vinyl of heart murmurs. yes, heart murmurs (and that was the one we listened to ALL the way through). Where an old couple starts talking to you just because they overhear the mention of Maine in your conversation, and they end the icy evening by giving you a business card and offering you a job. Where latte/foam art is still practiced. Where local art, Stan Rogers or The Decemberists, and the smell of on-site roasted coffee beans surrounds you.
we are the in crowd. come one. come all.
