Just Another Commute
Psst.
I’m not trying to get your attention. That’s just the sound of that Beck’s tall boy purchased at a Staten Island Ferry snack bar makes when you open it, which happens to be where we start today’s chronicle.
I was standing outside at the back of the bottom deck of the Staten Island ferry. One of the newest boats in fact, so I was standing on the edge of the large empty space intended for the eventual return of vehicle transport. Right now that large space is fenced off and the only things resembling vehicles in the middle of the bottom deck are a few bicycles scattered at either end outside the fences. The space does make for a pretty cool wind tunnel with the boat is moving across the harbor and on a humid, disgusting, urine-scented New York City day like yesterday it is a fine place to stand and drink a cold beer.
Not surprisingly, few other riders were taking advantage of this. The bottom deck is the unspoken “locals only” area of the ferry especially on the newest boats which feature four decks, two above and one below the main deck where all pedestrians must board (for “our own safety” naturally which is the excuse offered most often in this town for any inconveniences that the average working schmuck must endure for reasons of cost, profit, or plain irrationality). The two above the main level are magnets for tourists and people with children and it is advisable for a person seeking quiet to never venture up there during peak tourist seasons which in NYC is most of the time. As an added insurance policy I always head to the Brooklyn side of the boat on the off chance that some artsy-fartsy tourist type with a DSLR decides he or she wants to take water-level shots of the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island. I don’t need some yahoo from Dubuque or Tokyo or Berlin or London or wherever noisily oohing and aahing next to me while I’m trying to unwind from another day at whatever the hell it is they pay me for.
So I was standing outside, Brooklyn-side, nursing that tall boy and watching Governors Island recede into the distance, the East River crossings partially visible in the haze that is clinging to the water like an annoying relative at a family reunion. The yammer of tourists tumbles from the back deck above me as they snap pictures of the humidity-swathed Manhattan skyline. Sounds like some Southerners and some Germans up there, I thought. I wondered if they were in the same group led by the same umbrella or light-saber carrying urban sherpa, then I remembered that I didn’t care as long as they didn’t get in my way.
I look to my left and see a short guy in office-wear talking to a taller woman made even taller by five inch heels. She’s not a super-looker or anything though she is wearing a white dress made form-fitting by the wind blasting through the “maybe-we’ll-have-cars-on-the-ferry-again” tunnel and is obviously a bit cold if you catch my drift. I take a pull on my beer and catch the guy desperately trying not to stare at the woman’s breasts while he talks to her, a task that seems to be exceptionally difficult for him since due to the shoe-enhanced height differential the woman’s breasts and eyes are equidistant from the guy’s eye level. If you don’t know what a man trying not to stare at a woman’s rack looks like I can’t even begin to describe it to you other that to say it’s like that classic definition of pornography: I know it when I see it. Anyway, I catch him doing it and I start laughing and he shoots me a quick, hate-filled look but to his credit he never stops his banter with the woman.
I turn my attention to the gulls following the ferry . I have no idea why the gulls do this. The ferry isn’t a fishing boat so there’s no fish to attract their attention and there really isn’t enough garbage tossed overboard by passengers to feed any significant amount. Maybe that’s why they don’t quite follow us all the way in to the dock. Or maybe they found another boat. I’ll never know because one moment I was watching them bob in the air maybe ten feet behind us, then I looked to my right to see how traffic was doing on the V-N bridge (slow but moving) and when I looked back they had gone. I looked to my left and Short Guy and Heels Girl where heading indoors to get off the boat. A deckhand followed carrying a small broom.
I stood outside for a few moments more. I was alone. No gulls, no tourists yammering above me, nobody trying to talk their way into someone else’s pants. Water hissed from the rear of the ferry as it made its final docking maneuvers. I watched the bubbles foam and disappear. I took another slug on the Beck’s. The solitary silence filled me with a transcendent, life-affirming feeling.
Then the boat spoke.
“Your attention please. Your attention please. All passengers must leave the ferry at this time. If you wish to return to Manhattan, go into the terminal and wait for the next ferry. All passengers must leave the ferry at this time.”
I wonder if the voice on that recording was human or machine. As many times as I’ve heard the damn thing, I can’t figure it out. I drained the last of the beer from the can as the positive feeling likewise drained out of me. Then I threw the can into a metal barrel and headed for the train.
I’m not trying to get your attention. That’s just the sound of that Beck’s tall boy purchased at a Staten Island Ferry snack bar makes when you open it, which happens to be where we start today’s chronicle.
I was standing outside at the back of the bottom deck of the Staten Island ferry. One of the newest boats in fact, so I was standing on the edge of the large empty space intended for the eventual return of vehicle transport. Right now that large space is fenced off and the only things resembling vehicles in the middle of the bottom deck are a few bicycles scattered at either end outside the fences. The space does make for a pretty cool wind tunnel with the boat is moving across the harbor and on a humid, disgusting, urine-scented New York City day like yesterday it is a fine place to stand and drink a cold beer.
Not surprisingly, few other riders were taking advantage of this. The bottom deck is the unspoken “locals only” area of the ferry especially on the newest boats which feature four decks, two above and one below the main deck where all pedestrians must board (for “our own safety” naturally which is the excuse offered most often in this town for any inconveniences that the average working schmuck must endure for reasons of cost, profit, or plain irrationality). The two above the main level are magnets for tourists and people with children and it is advisable for a person seeking quiet to never venture up there during peak tourist seasons which in NYC is most of the time. As an added insurance policy I always head to the Brooklyn side of the boat on the off chance that some artsy-fartsy tourist type with a DSLR decides he or she wants to take water-level shots of the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island. I don’t need some yahoo from Dubuque or Tokyo or Berlin or London or wherever noisily oohing and aahing next to me while I’m trying to unwind from another day at whatever the hell it is they pay me for.
So I was standing outside, Brooklyn-side, nursing that tall boy and watching Governors Island recede into the distance, the East River crossings partially visible in the haze that is clinging to the water like an annoying relative at a family reunion. The yammer of tourists tumbles from the back deck above me as they snap pictures of the humidity-swathed Manhattan skyline. Sounds like some Southerners and some Germans up there, I thought. I wondered if they were in the same group led by the same umbrella or light-saber carrying urban sherpa, then I remembered that I didn’t care as long as they didn’t get in my way.
I look to my left and see a short guy in office-wear talking to a taller woman made even taller by five inch heels. She’s not a super-looker or anything though she is wearing a white dress made form-fitting by the wind blasting through the “maybe-we’ll-have-cars-on-the-ferry-again” tunnel and is obviously a bit cold if you catch my drift. I take a pull on my beer and catch the guy desperately trying not to stare at the woman’s breasts while he talks to her, a task that seems to be exceptionally difficult for him since due to the shoe-enhanced height differential the woman’s breasts and eyes are equidistant from the guy’s eye level. If you don’t know what a man trying not to stare at a woman’s rack looks like I can’t even begin to describe it to you other that to say it’s like that classic definition of pornography: I know it when I see it. Anyway, I catch him doing it and I start laughing and he shoots me a quick, hate-filled look but to his credit he never stops his banter with the woman.
I turn my attention to the gulls following the ferry . I have no idea why the gulls do this. The ferry isn’t a fishing boat so there’s no fish to attract their attention and there really isn’t enough garbage tossed overboard by passengers to feed any significant amount. Maybe that’s why they don’t quite follow us all the way in to the dock. Or maybe they found another boat. I’ll never know because one moment I was watching them bob in the air maybe ten feet behind us, then I looked to my right to see how traffic was doing on the V-N bridge (slow but moving) and when I looked back they had gone. I looked to my left and Short Guy and Heels Girl where heading indoors to get off the boat. A deckhand followed carrying a small broom.
I stood outside for a few moments more. I was alone. No gulls, no tourists yammering above me, nobody trying to talk their way into someone else’s pants. Water hissed from the rear of the ferry as it made its final docking maneuvers. I watched the bubbles foam and disappear. I took another slug on the Beck’s. The solitary silence filled me with a transcendent, life-affirming feeling.
Then the boat spoke.
“Your attention please. Your attention please. All passengers must leave the ferry at this time. If you wish to return to Manhattan, go into the terminal and wait for the next ferry. All passengers must leave the ferry at this time.”
I wonder if the voice on that recording was human or machine. As many times as I’ve heard the damn thing, I can’t figure it out. I drained the last of the beer from the can as the positive feeling likewise drained out of me. Then I threw the can into a metal barrel and headed for the train.
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