Opinion: A White, Powdery Substance in Copley Square

“I’m not giving you the twelve dollars. Are you going to [expletive] me? I think you’re going to [expletive] me. I thought you liked girls?”

“I do like girls. And, guys, too. But not in that way. C’mon.”

The above conversation took place not more than three feet from me.

Money exchanged hands. Minutes later, the recipient of the dollar bills was kneeling against a park bench, nose inches away from a crushed up white substance.

Welcome to , Boston on a recent Monday afternoon. 

Copley Square – Boston’s skid row?

Over the past several years I’ve seen similar, suspicious behavior take place as I walk through the park, but it’s always just been guys drinking out of brown paper bags. Today, it’s different. I sit down on a bench to watch.

The group that congregates in the Square include three guys who keep slurring their words while they say on the edge of a landscaped garden, a white guy with a white beard who keeps looking up whenever there’s a police siren, and a black guy with a laptop computer. (Does Copley Square have free wi-fi?) There was only one woman in the bunch.

The ringleader seemed to be a 50-year old white man with white hair, sort of a Whitey Bulger lookalike. He reminds me of bassist Chris Squire from the prog-rock band ‘Yes’, so I’ll call him “Squire”. He is the man who gave the $12 to his friend. Squire carries a cloth briefcase with a computer in it … and an oddly shaped cigarette with no filter that he ends up giving away.

The recipient of the $12, who I’ll call “Shakey,” talks to a girlfriend, then takes his money and walks across the Copley mall, returning minutes later. He licks his pinkie finger with his tongue, dabs a white pill he holds in his hands, then takes a taste. He encourages the two other guys sitting with him to do the same. Then, he squatted down in front of the bench and, apparently crushed, sniffed the powder off the bench.

This took place in plain view of residents, visitors, and tourists.

Attention all units

At 4:51 p.m., I called ‘911’. The Massachusetts state police receptionist transferred me to the Boston police department. The woman who answered asked me what I was reporting. “There’s a drug deal going on in front of me.”

“Where are you located,” she asked.

“Corners of Dartmouth and Boylston streets, in the Back Bay; in Copley Square.”

“How can you tell it’s a drug deal?”

“Because he took a white substance, crushed it up, and then snorted it.”

“Okay, we’ll send someone over.”

A couple of the guys opened pre-packaged meals, sandwiches, which may have been purchased from the pharmacy or convenience store across the street, although I don’t see any receipts floating around.

I see most of these guys all the time in Copley Square, on Boylston Street, in the CVS and 7-Eleven, at Starbucks, in the Boston Public Library. You can recognize them from the dazed looks on their overly sunburned faces and the way they move and react.

My focus is back on Shakey, the powder-dabber, who has experienced some sort of drastic mood change. When I first saw him, he was highly agitated as he asked Squire for money. Then, he was excited – giddy, even, as he ran across the mall. In the moments after he made the sniffing movement, he was euphoric. Then he just lay down on a park bench, his arm covering his eyes, so motionless you’d think he was dead.

Where's Waldo

Twenty minutes after my arrival, the three guys sat, arms crossed, doing nothing. “What are you waiting for,” asked Squire.

“They’re waiting for Waldo; he’s late,” says a friend.

“Call Waldo, call him.”

I can’t figure out what Waldo’s role is in this whole affair. When I saw him earlier before he took off, he was wearing a green jersey with writing on it. It kind of looked like a shirt you’d wear if you worked for a landscaping company. (A week later, I saw Waldo again, in 7-Eleven; he’s got the same vacant look on his face and same simple smile but again dressed what appear to be work clothes. I’m stumped.)

Around 5 p.m., the crowd started to disburse. (Is the work day over, already?) Slowly they moved away on their own. Shakey and his girlfriend passed the Fairmont Copley Plaza hotel while the white-bearded guy walked up the street toward the Copley Square Green Line station.

The three guys on the curb finished drinking out of their brown paper bags. When I left, one of the white guys was playing housekeeper, collecting the trash and placing it into a trash container. One of the bottles I saw says “VODKA” on it.

It was 5:21 p.m. I've waited an hour and a half. No police response, although I'm not sure what I really expected them to do. I've got to get home, so I depart.

As I left, I walk past Waldo near the Hancock tower, eagerly heading toward Copley Square along with a guy with an odd smile on his face and clothes in a plastic bag.

I guess the fine summer weather was making him happy?