This is Harold Madison Jr, known in my circles as the Mayor of Kenmore Square. When our lives centered around Kenmore, and the 57 Limited was my ride home, he was a landmark. Usually outside the Rathskellar, but even after the Rat and Narcissus and Charlie's Cheeseburger King were things only Emersonians of a certain age could talk about, the Mayor stayed.
He had 2 heralds with him, like Shakespearean clowns, who called themselves the Mixed Nuts. They played imaginary music on cardboard guitars. I don't know if they were really in the Mayor's crew, or if there is a territorial understanding among those who live on the streets.
When I moved to Boston 20 years ago, "the homeless" were the "global warming" of their day. And Boston had some colorful characters. After decades of instutionalizing everyone that didn't fit in, Massachusetts had decriminalized mental illness, and deinstitutionalized those not considered dangerous.
Kenmore Square was a haunt for the garden variety drunk, addicted, and marginalized. Runaways went to Harvard Square, schizophrenics hovered around the Common, and veterans Downtown Crossing or Berkeley St. An old friend (we'll call her Alex Pfenning for the informed) once said, about a guy who rode a tricycle (full-size) down Mass Ave shouting at the top of his lungs that he probably just had a raging ear infection and a dose of vitamins might clear him right up. She was always the most compassionate person I ever met.
So the Mayor hit a bump on a scooter and didn't survive the fall. Thirty Boston winters, 30 thousand baseball games, the gentrification of the block, and a near knife-fight that I myself was an arm's length from didn't take him down.
So it just goes to show you. I don't know what, exactly, except that you can't tell who'll make the news and who won't.
Thanks to W, the last Bostonian I know, who sent me the story.