Anger Management

Where are the angry Bostonians when you need them?

Photo: David Fox

 
 
 
By Gabe Durán

ou know that guy on the T who talks with no volume control about how he thinks his cold cuts went bad, but he’s going to keep eating them anyway? Either to strangers or to friends who are pretending not to know him? Maybe he’s wearing a leather jacket that was in fashion 10 years ago. Maybe white socks with dress shoes. Even though the train is crowded, he’s taking up two seats so he can spread his legs out extra wide. If you ask him to move over, he’ll point to his iPod and say he can’t hear you. Ask what he’s listening to, and he’ll say, “this great new Jay-Z song about New York. Have you heard about it? I’m pretty up on new music.”

Look for the hot girl trying to read a book—that’s where he’ll go next. He’ll give her what he thinks are coy glances.

“What?!” she’ll finally ask.

“Do you like books?” he’ll reply.

He won’t wait for an answer.

“Because I’m a writer myself. I have a humor column on MySecretBoston.com.”

When he scrambles off the train, muttering something about missing his stop, there is a collective sigh of relief.

If you haven’t figured out this guy is me, then keep reading. You are the target audience for this blog:

“Where are some great secret spots around Boston to get mugged?”

“I’m looking for a romantic spot in Southie where you might get shot in a drive-by.”

These are questions no one ever asks you, unless you take a three-day job as a casting recruiter for a popular MTV show looking for rebellious teenagers. While the producer of the show, Sherry, didn’t come right out and ask me these things, there was an implicit assumption that, as a graduate of a Boston college, I knew where shit went down. And that I was disposable.

I had responded to the ad happily admitting I had no experience with this sort of thing, but had “great people skills” and was generally regarded as “pretty hip.” This was a phone interview, so I was listing these credentials while playing Dragon Age: Origins on Xbox in my sweatpants and devouring a vat of chili.

I got the job anyway. And my job, as Sherry explained it, was to scour Boston for surly looking teenagers and ask them if they wanted to be on TV for no money. Before agreeing to hire me, she grilled me about whether I knew where such teenagers could be found.

“Sure,” I lied. “Skate parks, under-18 clubs, Sonic.”

In fact, to my knowledge, none of these places exist in Boston. But having persuaded Sherry that I knew, personally, at least a dozen unruly minors, I proceeded to Google Dog the Bounty Hunter. Then Facebooked the three people I knew with siblings in high school. That took up most of my day.

My friends thought my new job was hilarious. The previous summer I’d worked as a camp counselor, and since then my primary income came from making highlight videos for female high-school soccer players, so I already suffered through a healthy daily allotment of pedophile jokes.

My friend Laura agreed to accompany me on my first day of child-hunting. She did this out of boredom and a desire to see me assaulted. I dressed in a hip MTV way to win the trust and respect of my pubescent targets. I put on an Element T-shirt, a hoodie, and jeans with a funky design on the butt, and tilted my Red Sox cap slightly to the side in the classic “BU-frat-boy” position.

“Do I look like an asshole or what?” I asked Laura.

“Definitely.”

“Awesome.”

I spent the day wandering aimlessly up and down Boylston Street, encountering surprisingly few angry teens. I went into what I hoped was some kind of underground skateboarding ring only to find it was a high-end bike store. “Where do angsty high-schoolers hang out?” I asked the tattooed guy behind the counter. He shrugged unhelpfully.

“I work for MTV,” I told him. I flashed the little flyers they’d sent me. They were my only credentials. When this failed to impress him, I huffed in an important and disgusted manner. Then I decided to call it a day and go play Xbox. A more determined person might have explored less touristy neighborhoods than Copley Square and Boston Common.

“You could try Dorchester,” suggested Chris, from the safety of his house.

“I’d rather not get stabbed for $100 a day,” I told him. I had a good feeling about Faneuil Hall.

After two days of searching Boston’s safest neighborhoods, I found only a handful of angry moppets, all of them much too polite to be any good. I chased down two black kids on Newbury Street. They turned out to be 12 and well mannered, but I put their names down anyway. They biked away quickly.

The next day was my last to find disgruntled teens, and I was giving up hope. Chris, Laura, and some other friends were going to the Pru, which I convinced myself was an excellent place to look. I liked the idea of getting paid to do something I would have done anyway. That’s when when I spotted them. Six wonderful sideways-hat-wearing, pants-too-low, 16-year-old boys. Perfect. I made Laura come with me, and approached them the way I imagined a normal, cool, non-pedophile talks to teenagers.

“’Sup, homies? You guys want to be on TV?” With considerable embarrassment, I explained the premise of the show. I used plenty of trendy slang words like “bro” and “playa,” and tried not to mention Dragon Age: Origins.

“Why did you pick us?” asked one of the young punks. “Do we look angry to you?”

I answered his question with a question.

“Is that a brass knuckle-shaped necklace you’re wearing?” (It was.)

As they passed around the sign-up sheet, I celebrated. My job was to get 15 names, and after this I would have 12, which I decided was exactly enough to still get paid.

“What are you doing talking to those young boys?I” This was from a middle-aged, overweight woman.

“I work for MTV,” I told her, and turned back to my prospects.

“Bullshit. Let me see some credentials.”

I handed her the wallet-sized flyers.

“You could have made these yourself.” The troublemakers now looked uncertain. The one with the pen was hesitating.

I thought about showing her my old college ID. Everyone knew perverts did not get into Boston College.

“But . . . I work for MTV,” I pleaded.

Laura slowly backed away from me.

“Don’t give him your information!” the woman who I had nicknamed Ugly Bitchy Lady shouted at my teenagers. Brass Knuckles put down the pen, more afraid of her, I think, than of me. Her children looked on unconcerned. She seemed the type of person who routinely shouts at strangers. And at movie screens. I’d found my angry person, but she was 30 years too old.

“I thought you handled that well,” said Laura.

“Blow me.”

I called Sherry, begging for her to send me some kind of official documentation. She assured me this had never, ever happened, and that I must just look especially like a sexual predator.

The next night, drunk to the point of incoherence, I tried to recruit a street gang. The only thing that saved me from a beating was that I was speaking gibberish at them. So ended my career as a casting recruiter.

Now if someone asks me, “Where is a great spot in Boston to get the shit beat out of you?” I could reply:

“Why, anywhere at all is fine, as long as you are trying to convince a group of juvenile delinquents to be on a TV show.”

It’s a city of opportunity out there.