Columns

Photo Credit: Denis Tangney Jr.

BY EZRA DYER

About five years ago, I was in Southie enjoying a beer at Murphy’s Law when a local woman began chatting with a friend of mine. The Southie denizen asked, in a friendly way, “Where are you from?” My friend replied that she lived just up the street. “That’s not what I mean,” said Southie Woman, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “That’s where you live, but where are you from?”

I enjoy a good catfight as much as anyone, but I took that as our cue to get out of there. Not because the place felt dangerous (though, depending on the time of night, it sometimes does) but because I have no patience with people who assume proprietary airs about entire neighborhoods. Oh, so you grew up on East Fifth and I grew up in Maine? Then excuse me for patronizing this bar that you don’t own. Heaven forbid you go out at night in a huge city and encounter someone you don’t know from grade school.

When I lived in Southie—which wasn’t that long ago—the place was a fair bit more hardscrabble than it is now. I once saw a toothless, incoherently drunk local communicate his feelings toward outsiders by dropping his pants and mooning me. It wasn’t unusual to witness a guy puking on the sidewalk at 2 pm on a Tuesday. One Halloween, I decided to put a bowl of candy at the front door, trusting that trick-or-treaters would hew to the honor system and take one piece at a time. Five minutes later, it was all gone. Including the bowl. Southie has a way of reminding you that civilization is a tenuous thing, with anarchy constantly lurking at the fringes.

This isn’t to say Southie is a bad place. I loved it, but its famous, charming grit is rooted in a foundation of genuine seediness. Where the Institute of Contemporary Art now stands, I once witnessed a performance piece I call, “Strippers stripping in a bus parked in an abandoned lot.”

Now the area is teeming with restaurants, nary a stripper in sight. Across Broadway, the M Street Beach was rebuilt with tons of new sand, becoming a destination for people other than New Year’s Day masochists. Restaurants bloom along Broadway. Where once the most exotic foodstuffs in Southie were found on the dusty shelves of Stop & Shop, you can now go to American Provisions and buy things with the word “artisanal” in the name.

Sometime within the past few years, Southie turned a corner. And I’m disgruntled about that, because it happened right after I left. Hey Southie, I would’ve liked some Indian food and Chimay on tap and maybe access to a dock that’s not controlled by an insular townie yacht club. New Southie has all that stuff, and I missed it.

I get a time-lapse view of Southie development because I still go to Shag for haircuts. I used to live down the street and became friends with Sandy, the owner. When I walk into the salon, a loft space in an old warehouse, most of the people who work there probably assume that my presence is part of some kind of amnesty program for uncool guys who are afraid of tattoos. I would wager that I’m the only person who goes to Shag for a boy’s regular.

However, should I decide to get more adventurous, I can consult my friend Krishan, who just opened a hair-extension store on the west side of town. In keeping with modern-Southie, hipster-yuppie aesthetics, his business is housed in an old boxing gym and looks like a high-end vodka lounge. He’s got some extra space, which I’ve recommended he convert to an underground speakeasy with open-mike nights and dedicated parking for fixed-gear bicycles.

No neighborhood is static, and places are always creeping toward either gentrification or decline. Right now, Southie is in that sweet spot between upscale appeal and hardscrabble authenticity. I’m jealous of the people who live there—by bravely parking my BMW on the street, I helped pave the way for yuppie heathens. And now Southie is like the new South End, only cooler.

Well, not quite. The other day I turned on the TV to see that the morning news was all about Southie. “Police broke up brawls at Carson Beach over the weekend,” said the anchor. “A thousand teenagers gathered to watch rival gangs fight.”

I’d assumed that these days Southie would be more likely to host a flashmob than an actual mob, but there it is—on one side of town, there’s a Legal Seafoods with a retractable roof. On the other, we have gangs fighting on the beach. Or, as I like to call it, “a little something for everyone.” Southie, don’t ever change.