HEY PAUL

On the 4th of July, 1985, friends and I went to the Esplanade to watch the fireworks and listen to the Boston Pops.  After the display we split up and I went to The Rat for a late-night pop before going home.

That’s when I met Paul Koster.

Surprisingly, Paul and I were the only two people in The Rat.  He was sitting by himself at the end of the bar.  I ordered a beer, dropped money into the jukebox, selected The Ramones and The Cure, then pulled up a stool next to him.  We talked about music (he liked punk, but did not dress the part) and art; he told me he was a self-employed contractor and was working with friends on an apartment building close to The Rat.  A more unlikely couple would be hard to find, but we hit it off immediately.  When the bar closed at 2 o’clock we took a cab to his place in Brighton.  After a few weeks I moved in with him.

*****

Paul and I have a lot in common – we like the same music, we both love to cook, each of us has a whacky sense of humor, and we both fit the quintessential definition of a Type B personality.  But most importantly, there are enough differences between us to keep things interesting.  One area where Paul and I differ is that I like to leave early for appointments, but Paul likes to wait till the last minute. 

For most of the major events in our lives, Paul has been late.  It started with our wedding day in 1989.  Paul and I married in Rockport, MA, at the Ralph Waldo Emerson Inn.  It takes about an our to get there from our home in Everett.  I arrived there early to do my hair, makeup, etc.  Paul left home a bit later than he should have.  At the Inn, my mother began pacing and looking nervously at her watch while I tried to reassure her that Paul would come.  Little did we know that Murphy’s Law had caught up with him – he got a flat on Route 128.  So there was my future husband, dressed in a tuxedo, changing a flat on one of the busiest highways north of Boston on our wedding day.  When Paul finally pulled into the driveway my mother, father, and our wedding guests heaved a collective sigh of relief, but I just laughed. I knew he would get there . . . eventually.

Paula and Paul.  June 18, 1989

Two years later it happened again.

I had to spend the night before Marcy was born in the hospital because I hadn’t dilated.  We decided that there was no use in Paul staying up all night watching me sleep, so he went home.  Besides, Nancy, a friend of ours, was an OB nurse and she happened to be on duty that night.  In retrospect, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I sent Paul home while I was in labor, but somehow it made sense at the time.

The next day my doctor induced me and things went fast from then on.  Nancy dialed our home phone number so I could tell Paul to get to the hospital STAT, but there was no answer.  I left a frantic message on our answering machine and hoped that he was on his way.  Less than an hour later Marcy was delivered.

Paul showed up ten minutes later.  His hair was disheveled and he looked exhausted.  When he came into the delivery room I saw Nancy waving her finger at him while whispering “Where the hell have you been?”  He sheepishly made his way to my bed and told me that he had spent the past half hour looking for a parking meter because he didn’t want to spend the money to park at the Beth Israel Hospital garage.  In the haze of pain and exhaustion I wanted to be mad, but when Paul awkwardly picked up Marcy and cradled her in his arms, that feeling vanished.

Two days later, Paul was on time when he picked up Marcy and me to take us home from the hospital.  When we went into Marcy’s room there were a dozen roses sitting in her bassinet, and I thought to myself, how lucky we are to have him.

Late as usual.
Marcy poses and Paul photobombs.

THE RAT

Boston was a Mecca for punk music in the summer of 1985.  British punk bands played frequent gigs in town, while local bands played the clubs every night.  My favorite hangout was The Rathskeller, a.k.a. The Rat, a punk club in Kenmore Square.  The Rat lived up to its name; the street level was a dark, moody pub which housed a surprisingly excellent restaurant called the Hoodoo Barbecue.  It was also home to the best jukebox in Boston.  Downstairs was a tiny club where punk bands from all over the world played.  The Rat reeked of stale beer; a layer of grime covered the bar, tables and floor, and left you feeling sticky all over.

I was a 33-year-old, second-year student at The Art Institute of Boston (AIB) that year where I majored in photography.  My uniform of choice in those days was a black miniskirt or black leggings, holey black fishnets, Ramones t-shirts, and black leather boots.  My spiked brown hair with bleached blonde bangs was always teased, carefully coiffed, and held in place by a giant glob of hair gel and half a can of Aquanet.  My makeup consisted of heavy applications of black kohl eyeliner, dark brown and charcoal eye shadow, black mascara, and blood red or black lipstick.

The Rat wasn't just open evenings; the club was only a block away from AIB on Beacon Street, so it quickly became an all-too-convenient watering hole during the daytime.  Between classes a few of us would zip over to the bar for a draft (or two), then go back to class or the photo lab.  After classes or long sessions in the lab we'd often go back there and drink the night away as we talked about art and music.  The Rat was a cauldron -- our own mini version of a cafe on Montmarte -- where creativity simmered as we fed off each others' works and ideas.


The Rat was heaven on earth.

The Neighborhoods live at The Rat, 1979.
Video by Jan Crocker