If Worcester were West Egg, then indeed Bello would be Gatsby. Ever a genial man, his abundnat hospitality soon ensured that Apartment 8A would be an assylum for those seeking solace from the tribualtions of modern society and all it's ills. It came to pass that, during my time in Worcester, I would frequently-if not daily find myself assembling amongst a consortium of well-bred gentelmen to relax, enjoy fine ales and spirits, discuss topical matters, engage in recreational tests of trivial knowledge, and partake in games of chance. Yes, Apartment 8A was my sanctuary-a pancrea if you will, for all tha banalities and insalubrities of my daily exsistance.
Of course, a Milieu as spirited-and yes, bohemian as Bello's grand theatre known as 8A is sure to have it own little rogue's gallery of eccentric characters- a "who's who" of misunderstood genius, as it were- kindred souls, who thogh illuminated with a spirit of the highest effervescence, individually and collectively, were- and still are ultimately, indeed, damned. For the sake of brevity- and for the preservation of reputation, i will not mention the names of these heathen sons of Dionysus, but i assure you, gentle reader, i consider them my brethren, and hold them in the highest of esteem.
Amongst the youthful Worcester gentry, 8A was known primarily for its great and ambitious bacchanals- sordid affairs where libations flowed like the currents of the mighty Yang-Tze, capturing and taking with it the silt of our corrupt tortured souls. Let us not forget the women of 8A, whose contributin to the lechery that reigned at these perverse assemblages was indeed great, for they were truly our concubines- if only for the duration of the evening's soiree. They would resume their usual societal roles the morning after- as would I, but with the faint tast of the grape sill on my tongue and the hazy memories of another chapter of my misspent youth.
Yes, the assorted balls and galas fested the youthful dreams and ideas we hold' which we will soon lose, when we succumb to the passing of years; and the toll we pay will be significant, as we resign ourselves to an exsistance of meaningless toil, puasing only for the intermittent feelings of despair and regret. Thus, we will carry with us the memories of indulgences and pleasures past, lest we forget who we were at that moment in time when our collective energies broke like the turbulent waves of the Pacific- which, after their ultimate crest, fizzle out and roll back to the sea.
That being said, my fondest memories are not the night of the wnaton hedonism, but the quiet evenings in the company of a primarily stag crowd, smoking tobacco, leisurely indulging in a glass of sangria, and perusing through Bello's extensive catalog of periodicals, or perhaps simply enjoying "Jeopardy!"'s challanging queries- being self-congratulatory of course, towards my consistent mastery of general knowledge. These nights were not the night of legend, and not the genesis of any significant 8A folklore- those tales are Bello's to tell, as 8A is his homestead, and he reserves exclusive rights to these stories. However, these nights were the kernel of the 8A ecperience- the nights when 8a was the sole province of the Sausage Crew.
Frequently, 8A played midwife to the birthing of brillant and novel (albeit ultimately unrealized) business enterprises, the most notable of which, was the proposed marketing of Freddie "Wolfpack" Lyons as a cartoonish cultural icon with which to sell T-shirts, coffe mugs, etc. This inspired blueprint ofr success and independent wealth involved branding the aforementioned items with his likeness and one of his oft-repeated (usually accompanied by profound laughter) axioms, i.e. "Excuse me for living, but....they can't to that!", or "That's a bad bank!" (See related webpage). If you doubt the comedic appeal of his image, please refer to the Class of 1994 West Boylston High School Yearbook. Unfortunately, this get-rich-quick scheme died on the table due to lack of ambition and capitial (we were all quite indigent at the time), but is represssentative of the potentiol for excellence coming from this glorious cipher of savants that is the 8A community. I fully credit such ingeneous designs to the amalgam of radical ideas arising from the brilliant brainstorming sessions held amongst the close-knit conglomerate of the Sausage Crew.
8A, for all it's merited glory, unfortunately fell- much like the Roman Empire- one fateful day in July of 2000, seemingly- to the untrained eye taking with it the awe-inspiring aspirations of it's citizenry. However, a dream is not a tangible object, gentle reader, and will not crumble into dust like so many mere physical edifices of worth. Indeed, the spectre of 8A is alive and well in the hearts of those who called it home, and will be born again and restored to it's former lofty status in the days to come. The resurrection is almost upon us, and the members of the Sausage Crew illuminati, currently resigned to civilian status, will once again be conscripted to heed the call of the bottle and the pipe. With God as my witness, we shall truly be the vassals of Dionysus again.
-DW
(Douglas Wright currently resides back in Worcester, although oddly enough he is still the president of the Pacific Chapter of the Sausage Crew, an avid historian, and the author of "American Dream Deferred: Horatio Alger and the Percpetuation of Capitalist Mythology")
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