617th heaven

by Dan Tobin

My hometown of Walpole barely qualifies as Greater Boston. Forty-five minutes away and hopelessly suburban, it more accurately falls under the heading of Moderately Great Boston. But as a young tyke, it was the perfect place for all my needs. We were 10 minutes from Foxboro Stadium and 30 from good restaurants -- plus, the town pool was clean, Supreme Pizza was the perfect hangout on half-days, and I had a decent job at the Walpole Mall (later the Mall at Walpole, then back to the Walpole Mall). If I needed more adolescent stimulation, Boston was just a $4 commuter-rail trip away. Telling out-of-staters I lived "in Boston" was true enough.

Until we lost our 617.

I was in grade school when Walpole was infected by the 508 area code, and it utterly devastated my family. Mom wept, Dad started working late more often, I got into fights at school, my dog developed an eating disorder. It was punishing to know that every town around us remained 617 -- Sharon, Westwood, even Norwood -- but we had to change. Walpole had been singled out as more suburban than our neighbors, and I saw it as Michael Dukakis's way of telling me that my hometown was not a city, not part of the city, not Greater Boston, not even Moderately Great Boston, but somewhere along the lines of In-Your-Dreams-You-Suck Boston. And what hurt most was that it was all true. I didn't live in Boston and I sucked like a Hoover. We shouldn't have had that 617 to begin with.

I reclaimed the prized area code a few years later by going to Tufts. I relished my Somerville address, the short walk to Cambridge, and the reasonable T ride to Kenmore. But when I graduated and moved into the Allston-Brighton area, I realized the true meaning of 617. Suddenly, I was living in the City, as close to Boston proper as the underpaid ever get. And for the first time in my life, I realized that I actually deserved the area code.

When Walpole was still part of that exclusive club, it wasn't exclusive at all -- every town in Eastern Mass was 617. But more phones, faxes, and cellular doohickeys ensured more area codes, which ensured more specification of the areas they cover, which ensured more shattered families when they discovered they were no longer urban outfitted. Today's 617 is almost a badge of the Greatest Boston, and it will only become more symbolic in the future, as every town that's inaccessible by T is assigned new digits. For now, I suppose we can share with towns like Everett and Winthrop. For now.

The narrowing of 617 actually helps define Boston as a city, as a separate entity at the heart of the Bay State -- the true urban hub. Walpole has a public library, but you don't see the world if you sit on its steps, and you won't see a deranged man on a tricycle drive by, whooping and hollering like a human siren. There are no wacky homeless people pretending to busk on guitars they cut out of cardboard boxes. There are students, but most still carry lunch boxes, and few have pierced noses. Bars or clubs in the suburbs may be great, but the hipness cachet is questionable. The Wu-Tang Clan rarely boast about kickin' it live in Needham. Boston is the City, and the area code serves as its membership card.

I currently live on the Brookline/Allston border, and the difference between the two is truly striking. Although 617, Brookline is a citified suburb, with about as many residential (dull) parts as happening stretches (like most of Beacon Street). In Brookline, my neighbors yell at me if I play basketball after 8 p.m.; in Allston, my neighbors just yell. Harvard Street never shuts up, and I've waltzed down Comm Ave at 3 a.m. without any worries: even though I've walked by myself, I've never been alone on the street. At all hours, BU and BC kids zigzag down the sidewalks, which has inspired an entire culture of bars, greasy pizza joints, and neighborhood drug dealers.

That's what the city is all about, almost -- business imitating life. Urbanization just means more commerce and more people to squeeze a buck out of. Not that everything has to be a Starbucks, even if several hundred exist on Newbury Street alone. But interesting stores, restaurants, and services cater to those who live nearby. Jam-packed neighborhoods, perpetual commotion, halfway decent public transportation, crazy street characters, random run-ins with local celebrities, really good bagels -- this is what makes Boston great, and what makes it a true city. And you can sum it all up in three digits that no longer apply to the outer circle of suburbs.

As 617 becomes more and more citified, those who lose their privileges may start to feel slighted. The new 781 people have had time to accept the change, but I'm sure they were initially as crushed as I was when Walpole was sentenced to 508. Still, 781 is more like first-runner-up in the Miss America Pageant -- if Quincy can't fulfill its duties in 617, maybe Arlington will get a crack at the big time. But regardless of hurt feelings, the winnowing process is necessary to define the city. If that means devastating a few families who thought they'd avoided the sub in suburban, so be it. I've got two phone numbers, and they're both 617.

There's never been a city kid truer and bluer than Dan Tobin, who can be reached at dtobin@phx.com.