The Underpass

By Susan April

The Underpass was a fearful place. A literal underpass of the Boston & Maine railroad at the foot of Middlesex Street by the Lord Overpass. You had to be brave or crazy to take that shortcut. I was both. I never understood the spaghetti of on- and off-ramps and you-can’t-go-there pedestrian signs that made up the—we called it the Lord’s—Overpass. The City of Lowell built it for some reason and it wasn’t to improve the walkability of my school on Branch Street to anything downtown. So I had to navigate The Underpass to get my nine-year-old self to the Girls Club on Worthen Street after school. I had to keep learning how to cook, bake, knit and sew in a homeplace better than home, where people knew I was alive and cared that I walked through the door. My mother didn’t. She was sleeping. Always sleeping.

The Underpass was a dank, dark, wet ground and favorite hangout of derelicts, winos, and men in patched overalls who leered at me in my parochial school uniform. I carried my books in a green canvas bag slung over my shoulder and practiced how I would swing it to save my life if one of them rushed me. No one ever did. Sometimes I’d stop at the entrance, my eyes adjusting to the dark, and wait for another person, hopefully a well-dressed adult or teenager starting into The Underpass from the opposite side. An ally—just in case. Most times, I braved the trip alone.

The mud topped my shoes and I carried an old dishcloth to wipe them with on the other side. The other side was something else. I can’t form a clear picture, but it seemed to be an obstacle of vile odors from the Old Mother Hubbard pet food place coupled with hundreds of feral cats feasting on waste on the ground thrown for spoilage. I’d walk past with my eyes closed, but couldn’t figure how to close my nose. What was that place? A railroad siding? There’s a lot I’ve forgotten about the other side of The Underpass.

For example, how did I cross Fletcher or Thorndike Streets? Weren’t they part of the Lord’s. Did I dash across with my eyes closed? I seem to remember balancing on a railroad bridge over a canal. And a strong impression of walking under—how could it be under?—the Howdy Beefburger place which jutted out over the Pawtucket Canal. There was an orange metal beam that I’d reach up to and grab, lift my body, and presto—I was on Dutton Street.

From there the route was easy: cross Dutton, walk past the Giant Store, up a short block of Broadway and onto Worthen Street. There was an actual sidewalk made of brick which I would literally run along in a state of joy to push through the tall, black doors of the Girls Club to safety and home, my knitting project patiently waiting for me in a cubby with my name on it. My name.

For a few hours, I had purple and blue yarn. And peace. Then, at six o’clock when the Club would close I’d have to return. This time, no running, only a sad exit out those black doors. A slow foot-dragging harumph past the Whistler House, then falling apart, paint flaking, a window cracked. Past the Giant Store and its smell of popcorn. Past Howdy’s. This time crossing Fletcher Street and its grey granite cobbles. The same stone that made up half the side of a building. I never understood that half-stone building, but enjoyed running my hand along the granite, which held the warmth of the sun. Somewhere nearby, perhaps on Western Avenue, there was a hobby shop with men and boys racing slot cars. I peeked in a window once. There was an odd smell—do slot cars burn rubber?

On the return, I wouldn’t take The Underpass. If it was six going on six-thirty and getting dark, maybe already dark. I’d chicken out and take the long way home, which meant walking the length of Western Ave. over to School Street. Then the long, long climb up School to Westford and Cupples Square and home where mother would be up from her “nap,” attempting to make a dinner.