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"  I&amp;#039;m sitting in a strange kitchen right now, in a posh two-bedroom condo in Charlestown, Mass., with sprawling views of the Boston skyline and the upper deck of I-93. My head is pounding. I&amp;#039;ve already maxed out on the recommended daily intake of Advil, hung over from a long night of upending pint after pint of Guinness at the Warren Tavern down the road\u2014a legendary pub located in the former home of Revolutionary War hero Dr. Joseph Warren, where my dad has been bartending for the better part of 20 years.  My memory is a bit strained on the details, but I think it went something like this: As news broke of a MIT police officer being gunned down, followed by a hot-pursuit car chase between the two suspects in Monday&amp;#039;s bombing, I was bellied up to the Tavern&amp;#039;s rustic, centuries-old bar. I remember saying something like &amp;quot;blarphgmchp&amp;quot; out loud, which in my head sounded like &amp;quot;Good lord friends, this week has really been a doozie, what?&amp;quot; And that&amp;#039;s when I got a text by a girl I know who lives up a cruelly steep hill from the bar. At 2 a.m. To come over.  Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, the little guy driving my core motor skills gave me just enough digital dexterity to reply with a &amp;quot;sure&amp;quot;. Shit&amp;#039;s hitting the fan, I thought. May as well.  I woke up this morning with the standard one-night-stand accoutrements (booze sweats, eyes and brain feeling like they&amp;#039;ve just come out of the microwave, an embarrassing case of gastrointestinal unrest). I put my bare feet down on the floor while trying to find my cell phone and my dignity (both proved elusive), and in doing so I stepped on a giant shard of a broken wine glass. It apparently fell to its end and shattered into a galaxy of twinkling shrapnel from atop the nightstand, which itself had nearly been toppled somehow. Then I hopped over to the TV and turned on CNN.  And it was then when I realized I had a problem. The whole city was locked down. Taxis were suspended. Public transit shuttered. Cops were going house to house. Armored vehicles were roaming the streets. No one could go out. You weren&amp;#039;t even supposed to open the door unless it was for a cop. With a deadline to hit and a cell phone running on 8% battery, it quickly became clear that my plan to quietly slip out and return home to fulfill my work obligations would be a near impossible feat. I was trapped. And what was meant to be a discreet exit was now an agonizingly gratuitous small-scale walk of shame across the apartment from the bedroom to the bathroom. I paused in the living room to offer up an uncomfortable morning salutation to the roommate, who sat on the couch wearing a robe and a distinct &amp;quot;who the hell is this guy?&amp;quot; look on her face. Yup.  At that point, I really had no option but to just pull up my socks (literally and figuratively) and deal with the moment. One of the great joys (or at least essential requirements) of the boozy one-night-stand is the ability to throw on whatever clothes of yours found strewn across an alien bedroom, and saunter out the door on your own volition. Without it, you face the very real and comically awkward situation of hanging around, reeking of stout and sex, until the city resumes its regularly scheduled programming.  And so the long day began. First, work. I filed the story. Next, some half-awake hanky-panky. While rolling around we almost fell off the side again, knocking into the nightstand, which tipped over again. &amp;quot;Well shit,&amp;quot; I said, &amp;quot;that must&amp;#039;ve been how that happened last night.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll have to take your word for it,&amp;quot; she said. Then time elapsed and cabin fever began to take hold. We slipped out the door, contravening the governor&amp;#039;s orders, and hustled down the deserted Boston streets, hoping not to get shot by a SWAT team, to go to Dunkin Donuts (if Dunkies closes, the terrorists win) and get some smokes. Provisions secured, we hiked back up the hill to her place, whereupon she reminded me that last night I had apparently forgotten where her apartment was and attempted to locate her by literally yelling her name in the street. A full block from where she lives, as it turns out. So here I am. Still in her apartment, the lockdown still in effect, the suspect yet to be apprehended, public transit still shut down. And I&amp;#039;m sitting at her kitchen table writing this on her computer. Her roommate is on one side, slightly baffled, and she&amp;#039;s standing behind me, reading this over my shoulder and absolutely laughing her ass off.  ESQUIRE&amp;#039;S BEST STORIES OUT OF BOSTON Charles P. Pierce: The Night They Caught Suspect #2 A Bostonian Explains the City&amp;#039;s Fierce Love for Dunkin&amp;#039; Donuts Esquire&amp;#039;s Boston Playlist by Local Legend Bill Janovitz Charles P. Pierce&amp;#039;s Week in Boston, Plus More "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/news/a22258/lust-during-wartime/>