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These days, Arthur Allan Rhodes sat in his car as the Seattle skyline faded into the fog and mist. He'd long since abandoned the wooden benches provided-- and their faceless commuters. The vapid stares of strangers struggling to avoid eye contact sucked every bit of compassion out of him. His twice-a-day ferry sojourn reminded him, yet again, I'm boring. Paunchy, balding and nearly blind without his glasses, Arthur watched the monotonous splash of the Sound against the hull, as endless progressions of wavelets screamed for attention in their brief brilliance before once again assuming a place in the eternal blue-black aqueous void. I'm forty-seven and never had an affair… unless I count that clerk-steno on the fifteenth floor, but I didn't actually talk to her. Unlike Jimmy Carter, Arthur didn't consider lusting in one's heart more than a venial sin, at worst. Who am I trying to kid… she probably shows that magnificent cleavage to half of middle management. How many of these people are going home? Certainly not the young woman standing at the rail… she's making wishes. Judging from her lack of pretense and far-away gaze, she's off to meet her Tacoma paramour. Lesbian, maybe? Whatever... you go, girl… Somewhere in the background, a radio voice extolled the virtues of the newest miracle, Still-Erect (and of course, it's all organic). Why can't I buy it anywhere but 1-800-ROC-HARD? Working man's Viagra... imagine the income drugstores could make, if only they had the foresight to franchise this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe I'll look into that… Sure I will... just like I looked into MicroSoft opening at four bucks a share. 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 a quarter-century, was made of better stuff than that. Wasn't she? Many women attend school board meetings, Tupperware parties, tennis lessons and/or work late almost every night. Don't they? She's entitled to a little diversion. So why does she insist on separate beds? Day after day, he simulated his own wave-dance; butting against the hull of corporate America, only to assume his own oblivion among nameless minions. Nowadays, he seldom thought of them as peers- and vice versa, I suppose. Certainly, he'd once held promise, until- until when? When had the wind abandoned his sails and left him in the doldrums? Once he'd regarded himself as a home run hitter who lived to be at the plate in the bottom of the ninth with the odds stacked against him. 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 would drive off the ferry… but he would never jump off the boat. Bob Church © 7/2004 Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla, and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations at notquiteright/ For more from Bob visit his other stories: then & before; his columns: now, then, before; and his poetry: then and before. |
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