BUS STOP:

[Sunday, March 29 2:45 p.m.]

The stairs exiting the Park St. T-Station lead up to a "Fried Dough" stand, where the large-bellied man selling the dough is doing exceptionally good business. The beautiful afternoon has brought dozens of people to Boston Common, but the springtime weather and the typical Sunday crowds aren't enough to account for the long dough lines. Some customers are holding blue and white Greek flags, and one elderly man says it's Greek Independence Day.

"Don't you look at the flags? Nobody looks at the flags. Everybody's wonderin' what's going on and nobody looks at the flags."

Thousands of Bostonians, not all of them Greek, stand on the sidewalks of Tremont St. Elderly people chat in groups of two or three; parents buy balloons for their children and scold them for running into the street. A couple of delis across from the park have signs in the windows declaring that they are closed for the holiday; maybe their Greek owners are in line, waiting for fried dough.

Across Tremont, a man in an old-fashioned driving cap opens the back of his yellow Plymouth Voyager, takes out two large, dusty speakers, and blasts some martial music into a group of innocent bystanders. Once the crowd has time to react, a space clears around his car. Near the minivan, on a lightpost, a flyer says "parade at 2 p.m.," but it's already almost 3 p.m.

Finally, the Police motorcycles turn on their sirens and roll around the corner of Boylston onto Tremont. They are followed by a marching band of 20 bagpipers, a mounted detachment of the Boston Police, and a small contingent of Greek-American veterans. Several floats from Greek Orthodox churches, clubs and schools drift past while their costumed riders wave and smile. A military jet flies low overhead, and a single propeller plane pulls an enormous Greek flag through the air.

At around 4:45 p.m., the last blue and white float drives out of sight, and the loyal crowd disperses. The park remains incredibly busy, though, and a youth attracts a number of parade-goers by drumming on a plastic can. Eventually, he hands the sticks off to a buddy sitting on a bench just behind their makeshift stage. Four young men take turns playing the cans, until a cop on horseback approaches. The policeman makes a signal with his hand that looks like he's cutting his throat. The drummers are suddenly silent, focusing their attention on the cop's approach.

"Hey, fellas, I'm going to have to ask you to keep it down now, because we're getting complaints," the policeman says. "We always get complaints."

The four guys look at each other and grumble. Their audience turns and walks into the park or across the nearby intersection.

"I mean, the music sounds great, but you need to leave," the cop apologizes, adding, "You guys really sound good."

After his horse jumps a low, black chain fence, the policeman joins up with his partner on the grass, and the pair trots into the park. Having hoped to make some money, one drummer throws his empty tip bucket onto the pavement, glaring in the direction of the departing horses.

Shadows are now climbing up the tall buildings facing the Common, and an unusually long white limousine cruises south on Tremont in front of them. A tuxedoed man rolls down the back window, pushes his head and shoulders out, and hollers in a drunken slur, "Arizona number-one, baby!"

A less wealthy drunk sits down on a bench by the fountain. He yells "Hey!" at each female passerby and then looks away quickly, pretending not to have said anything. He and a guy on the bench with him, a sober 30-year-old with a thick cast on his arm, are both getting quite a kick out of this routine.

"Good one," says the man with the cast. "She looked real mixed up."

Without looking back, the woman shakes her head.

A man wearing a dirty black and white striped shirt and jeans takes the seat next to me and immediately asks if I'm religious.

"Cause I'm religious," he says. "I just want to know, because you know I can drink and still be religious. If I want to stop drinking, it's because I want to, not because I'm disobeying God. I'm not defying the Lord."

A black gentleman in neat gray slacks and a white work shirt sits down on the other side of the man in the striped shirt. Meanwhile, the first man introduces himself as David.

"David, how are you," the nicely dressed man says. David looks around and smiles at him.

"How are you Hamad," says David, pulling a tattered red Bible out of the small duffel bag between his legs.

"You want to drink, okay," Hamad says, picking up where David's reasoning had left off. "All I can do is pray for you. Also, I can give you a little advice. Listen to my words, and listen to what the Savior says. Read Matthew 19:16."

David opens to the passage and begins reading. The passage lists all the things one must do to attain eternal life, and says that poor men have an easier time getting into heaven than rich men. David reads, "Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not smoke, do not steal..."

Hamad cuts him off. "It does not say 'do not smoke.' Read the Lord's words, not your words." After reading a few more verses, David says, "I have spent hours reading the Bible. I don't see how any of this or anything in the Bible relates to drinking."

"You love money and drinking more than God," says Hamad.

"Well, when I was getting drunk every day, I was having a great time," David replies. "I think Jesus wants that. If that ain't what he wants, then I'm bummin'. Shoot me now, Lord."

"You are not a true believer," Hamad says, frowning. "You are a half-believer. And only true believers enter God's kingdom."

"I think it's their own business if people want to smoke and drink," says David, defensively. "But I guess the Bible also says God's people are the achievement of God, and I'm no achievement. I'm pathetic. I went into this church the other day, and somebody told me I couldn't be a Christian just because I didn't shower." David looks at the ground.

"Foxes have holes, birds have nests, but people have no natural place to sleep," David complains.

"Yes, but Jesus had no place to sleep," says Hamad.

"Oh, I'd love to see Jesus camping out in the street. No, I bet he slept in nice places sometimes. But the Bible does say he suffered a lot."

"Suffered more than you know. He slept in the street every night like you sleep in the street."

"Well, even I sleep in shelters a lot of the time."

A portly man wearing no shirt interrupts the dialogue as he nears. Behind the bench, he picks through a trashcan with his wooden cane. He swats at the trash using the cane, knocking pieces along the ground with his one-handed golf swing.

Hamad excuses himself, tells David he'll see him later and heads toward the street. David stands, waves goodbye, and strolls over to a pair of young men in dark slacks and ties who identify themselves as Jehovah's Witnesses. David seems happy to have found the two evangelists. After a lengthy conversation, the duo tells David that he's always welcome at their church whether he's bathed or not. "In fact," they say, "there's a church just across the river in Harvard Square."