Ferry Grifting
Hot day. “Like Vietnam out there” my ex boss used to say and he should know since he served in Vietnam, early on too years before it became fashionable for the white middle class kids to take over dean’s offices and block up traffic and smoke a lot of dope and listen to self-indulgent jam bands in the name of levitating the Pentagon and bringing peace to the world and even more years before many of those white middle class kids became cocaine-addled white collar workers steering the American economy into oblivion while listening to lite-rock radio in their German cars. So it was hot, we have established that fact. I was sitting on the ferry in standard late-week pose: book in one hand, rapidly-warming beer in the other. I felt a touch on my wrist, the gentle touch of someone who knows you or thinks they do. Instantly annoyed but trying to hide it in case the face my eyes are about to meet belongs to someone near and dear, I look up. It isn’t anyone I know. The face is attached t...