It is early on a Monday morning in July, in a small town in the northwesternmost corner of the United States of America. The scientist has risen early. In July in this small town, early by the sun is early by the clock. By 5 AM, there is light to see by. By 6 AM, full daylight is ready to pounce on any who incautiously peep out from under sheets and blankets, from behind curtains. The scientist has accepted this, has resolved to use the time granted however he may.
On this morning, there are promises to keep. He showers, and then dresses warmly, in jeans, flannel shirt, and wool socks. Warmly, because the warm drought of summer typical of this small town has, on this day, given way to a summer rain, and it will be unseasonably cool and damp. He logs onto his computer, sends some messages, mostly warning people that his duties on this day will place him out of reach of technology, then gets his lady out of bed. His lady finds it easy to ignore the pouncing morning light. It is on a shrinking list of things that she finds to be easy. He feeds her breakfast, and gets her ready for the pilgrimage.
The small town in the northwestern corner of the United States of America is on an island in the middle of the Salish Sea. The island has most of the things that make for life, even a comfortable life, but it does not have them all, and it is a rite of belonging for the citizens of the town to travel to the mainland and buy things that, it is confidently asserted, can be had in greater abundance and lower per-item cost if gotten off-island. The scientist is not convinced that the numbers support the confident assertion, but there remain the things that could not be had on the island, and one may as well make the trip for those and take advantage of the opportunity to at least break even on the rest. He did insist that their elderly car be serviced beforehand, lest a breakdown put to rest all notions that there were economic justifications for the pilgrimage.
By mid-morning, the scientist, his lady, and the elderly car are in the line for the ferry, the main mode of transportation for the island’s pilgrims. There was much talk in the town about the ferries. There were fewer ferry runs than there had been, and what runs there were had become subject to delays and cancellations. Much was said, in gossip, about how the state government, or the unions, or somebody, was deliberately making trouble, but as near as the scientist could make out, the matter was simple and fundamental. The state agency running the ferries did not have the cash either to make new boats to replace balky old ones, or hire sailors to replace those who retired or were dismissed. As to how and why this had come to pass, the scientist could only trot out the admonition never to look for malice when the situation is adequately explained by stupidity.
Today, there are no cancellations, and the schedule is almost on time. The scientist and his lady are placed near the head of the line, so that they may be boarded next to one of the boat’s elevators. So that the scientist’s lady could get into the boat’s passenger cabin without having to climb stairs, no longer on the list of things that she finds to be easy. The head of the line is alongside a small garden. Its plants have tiny white flowers. The scientist is unable to identify them.
By the time the scientist and his lady get to the passenger cabin, all the benches with tables under the windows have been taken. They find seats in the middle of a row of chairs, only to discover that a group of twentysomethings had been planning to occupy the whole row – and that the seats themselves were uncomfortable. They find others, and the boat departs for its hour-long journey to the main mass of the North American continent. The scientist, in moments of silence, scans the other passengers. A couple across from him catches his attention. The woman, another twentysomething, is scowling at her tablet, working on who knew what, while her male companion is sprawled on the bench, either asleep or attempting it. After a few minutes, she puts her tablet away and wanders off. The scientist does not notice what becomes of her.
Eventually, the ferry docks, and the scientist and his lady join the hundred or so cars that stream, a river of steel and rubber, onto the mainland shore. The trip to the destination, the local outlet of a national chain store, is almost uneventful; there is a twenty-minute episode of stop-and-go traffic, because a traffic signal has gone dark. The elderly car performs without trouble or complaint.
At the store, the scientist and his lady attend to business, she in a motorized cart, he pushing a non-motorized version. They get the things they could not get on the island, and the things that the conventional wisdom said they should get in this store and not on the island. They then trundle their things to the elderly car, and decide to return to the store for lunch. The lady insists that the car be locked. In their small town, locking the car was not required, and not done. The elderly car has no experience with locking. No matter, she says, this is the mainland, and on the mainland, their things aren’t safe. The scientist complies. What could go wrong?
They eat lunch, and exit the store. The checker at the door sees that they have nothing to check. “Will you take the motorized cart out to your car?” They will. “Will you bring it back?” I will, the scientist answers. They get to their elderly car, and the scientist unlocks the car with the metal key, the fob being worn and untrustworthy.
The elderly car doesn’t recognize them.
WEEOWEEEOWEEEOWEEEOWEEEEO!!!!
Automobiles get Alzheimer’s. Who knew?
It takes several minutes for the correct button on the worn and untrustworthy fob to be found, and pushed just so, so that the alarm can be silenced and the car returned to its customary role as faithful servant. Maybe. The scientist takes the opportunity of returning the motorized cart to the store to soothe his jangled nerves.
As he is parking the cart next to the store entrance, he hears a question. “Are you done with that cart?” The scientist looks up to see an elderly, frail gentleman who has, nevertheless, taken a standard cart and, cane and all, is about to attempt to navigate the store on foot – a 911 call waiting to happen. He is visibly overjoyed to be able to exchange his cart for the motorized one, and the scientist is overjoyed to be able to provide.
The trip back to the ferry terminal is uneventful; the traffic signal that wasn’t working on the trip to the store has been fixed. The ferry agents send the elderly car to the head of the line, so that it may be loaded onto the ferry next to one of the elevators. It is the first car to board the boat. The scientist refuses to lock it. No harm befalls. They ascend to the passenger cabin, find bench seats, discover that they are lumpy and miserably uncomfortable. They find others.
The boat’s departure is delayed. It is announced that the delay is due to marine traffic and to the presence of a humpbacked whale near the vessel, on the port side. The announcement causes dozens of passengers to crowd the forward section of the boat, seeking the whale. None is visible, and, gradually, the passengers, disappointed, return to their seats. About ten minutes after the announcement, the scientist spots the whale’s blow. The whale is headed west, leaving the ferry dock’s narrow channel. He points out the blow. Nobody is there to see.
The boat departs into a thickening fog. Its passengers disappear into their personal fogs, becoming inconspicuous, anonymous. For the most part. Two young males, ages between eight and ten, refuse to vanish. They chase each other around the boat. They wrestle. They attempt to snatch cell phones out of the pants pockets of their elders (they fail). They goad each other into squeezing under and behind the vending machines, looking for quarters. They successfully, even easily, do the squeezing, but find no coins. One of them darts into the hallway leading to the staircases. The hallway is adjacent to the entrance to the women’s toilets, and the scientist’s lady thinks he has mistaken the one for the other. “Boys!”, she sniffs. The scientist mentions how frequently gulls sit on buoys.
Ten hours after leaving their home in their small, island-borne town in the northwesternmost corner of the United States of America, the scientist and his lady return to it. Three hours of light remain to their day. They unpack the things they had bought, then rest and consult their computers for messages, which they answer. As the light fails, they wash up and head for their bed.
“Did I thank you for today?” the scientist’s lady asks.
“Yes”, the scientist answers.
Near the end of the third act of Thornton Wilder’s play “Our Town”, Emily Gibbs, a young mother who died prematurely, asks for, and is granted, the chance to revisit her life. She does so, finds the experience to be too painful, and begs to be returned to the afterlife. She asks the Stage Manager, Wilder’s deus ex machina:
“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it – every, every minute?”
The Stage Manager replies,
“No.”
Then, after a pause, continues:
“The saints and poets, maybe – they do some.”
So enjoyable read. I am glad to made it to the end of the day without tragedy— whew. I was on pins and needles. And yea for old cars.
Such beautiful writing. Made me cry a bit.