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Ferry Tale
Arthur Allan Rhodes sat in his car these days, as the skyline of Seattle faded into the fog and mist. He’d long since abandoned the wooden benches provided, along with the faceless commuters accompanying them. The vapid stares of strangers struggling to avoid eye contact sucked every bit of compassion out of him. His twice-a-day ferry sojourn served no purpose but to remind him, yet again, that he was boring.
Paunchy, balding and nearly blind without his glasses, Arthur watched the monotonous splash of the Sound against the hull; an endless, mindless progression of wavelets screamed for attention before once again assuming their place in the blue-black void of aqueous eternity.
Was he really so different? Day after day, he simulated his own wave-dance; butting against the hull of corporate America, only to assume his own oblivion among the nameless minions. Nowadays, he seldom thought of them as peers- nor did they of him, he supposed.
When did the wind abandon his sails and leave him in the doldrums? Why had it taken him this long to realize that he was so ordinary? Certainly, he’d once held promise until— until when? Once he’d thought of himself as a long-ball threat, a home-run hitter; a clutch performer who wanted to be at the plate in the bottom of the ninth, when the fans were cheering and the odds were against him. Now, mixed metaphor aside, the odds were still against him, but the only oddball was him.
I’m forty-seven and I’ve never had an affair… Well, there was that clerk-steno on the fifteenth floor, but it doesn’t count unless you actually talk to her, does it? Unlike Jimmy Carter, Arthur didn’t consider lusting in one’s heart to be much more than a venial sin, at worst. Besides, she probably wasn’t interested, anyway… she probably leaned over, showing her magnificent cleavage to half of middle management.
How many of these people are actually going home? Certainly not that woman standing at the rail… she’s making wishes. Judging from her stylish attire and make-up, she’s off to meet her Tacoma paramour— do you suppose she’s a lesbian? You go, girl…
Somewhere in the background, a radio voice extolled the virtues of the newest miracle pill, Still-Erect, and of course, it’s all organic. It seems a bit of a quandary that I can’t get it anywhere else but at 1-800-ROC-HARD. Imagine how much money the drugstores could make, if only they had the foresight to franchise this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe I’ll look into that…
Yea… of course I will. Just like I looked into MicroSoft when it opened at four bucks a share back in 1987. I’ll look into it the same way I look into the mirror after I get out of the shower every morning… without bothering to wipe the steam off.
Has Laura ever strayed? Arthur thought not. Laura Marie Schoolman Rhodes, his wife of nearly a quarter-century, was made of better stuff than that. Wasn’t she? A lot of women probably go to school board meetings, Tupperware parties, health spa workouts and/or work late almost every night. Don’t they? The kids are grown, so why shouldn’t she keep her mind occupied? She’s entitled to a little diversion and space. So why does she insist on separate beds?
The blast of a horn signaled the approach to the pier. Soon, Arthur Allan Rhodes would direct his Explorer onto East 11th Street, en route to I-5 and the suburbs. With a simple tap of the accelerator, he could drive off the ferry… but he would never jump off the boat.
Bob Church © 3/30/01
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