The Hungry Ghost

Nick boarded the ferry in Sausalito, double-tall-non-fat-heavy-foam latte in hand, and claimed his customary seat - outside, upper deck on the right-hand side. He took a sip, coating the inside of his mouth with warm milky foam, smiled and exhaled a puff of silver steam before he set down his cup to adjust his scarf and button up his bulky wool jacket. While most people were warm below deck, Nick’s daily tradition required him to endure the elements, be it the cold San Francisco summer or listening in on the chattering teeth and vacant conversation from the occasional Midwestern Tourist shivering in shorts. This was the required sacrifice necessary to fulfill Nick’s daily need for a glimpse of the magnificent Golden Gate. On that July morning the upper half of the frozen towers were cut off by a dense layer of blue fog, its architectural brilliance hidden from view, visible only from heaven; an immaculate golden-orange vision Nick could see in the eye of his mind. In the distance a foghorn called, its soulless electronic voice informing him that today he would see nothing. Nick envied the heavens on that morning.

Nick took another sip of from his latte, savored its hot bitterness and sighed. Despite his disappointment, he was happy and grateful for the opportunity to commute to work by ferry and as he thought of the thousands of people trapped in their cars, fighting through the fog and rushing to find a parking space, he smiled. Nick wiped his cold nose and held tight to the railing as the ferry churned below the Golden Gate and made its customary turn to the south before it shifted into high speed and raced blindly through the pearlescent air toward the Embarcadero.

Out of habit or madness, Nick rushed to the back deck for one last attempt at the view, noticing for the first time that week, he was not alone. A young man, his skin the color of glacial ice and dressed completely black, braced the wind and sat in silence, nursing a steaming beverage and staring into the nothingness. A sweet steamy aroma of chocolate drifted like a hearty welcome toward Nick, blended with the salty, kelp laden air, and morphed into a sour and invasive perfume. He wondered with anger how long the stranger had been there; he never saw him; all along he thought the view was his own. The stranger caught Nick looking, smiled a flash of white and waved. Nick smiled back and gestured that he was cold, fake shivering, rubbing his hands over his arms and turned away; a feeble excuse for avoiding an imaginary conversation. For a brief moment he paused at the railing and looked into the fog and cursed under his breath, upset over having his space invaded, and upset at himself for being unable to accept the pleasant company of a stranger. He thought of Paul, remembering his smile and how he enjoyed riding the ferry into The City. In remembering this, a sharp, icy pain shot though Nick’s heart and settled in his stomach. Wiping his eyes, he reminded himself that he had made a promise to get better - to try harder; to allow people in. He turned to leave, and before heading down into the warmth of the passenger compartment below deck he stopped and turned back, thinking to say hello, but it was too late – the stranger and his army of hot chocolate and brilliant smiles were gone.

Below deck the air was thick and hot. Condensation hung in the air, collected on the windows and dripped from the low ceiling. Every seat was claimed and each occupant was protected by earphone, newspaper, book and cell phone bubbles; Nick felt invisible. Agitated, he walked the aisles in search of a place to stand. Just before he was about to give up and return above deck, Nick heard a loud, popping sound. The ferry shuddered and rocked, knocking him to the floor. Nick collected himself, stood up and noticed a rapid change in temperature followed by a heavy compression of the air; his vision blurred like the onset of a migraine, and a painful rainbow-colored aura squeezed his head. Then he heard the sound again, amplified and accompanied by a flash of white and screams. A flare of yellow. Water. A flood of green. Wind. A searing blast from Hell, burning the air, decimating bodies, shattering and incinerating the hull of the ferry; battering Nick – a fist to his stomach, a force so fierce he thought it must surely be the hand of God; payment for the sin of envy. Floating. Sinking below the salty waves. Witnessing, for the first time a hidden treasure in the murky distance, a view he never pondered nor thought to envy, cut off by a dense, silt laden screen of green and brown. The view – mossy cement, rusted steel and bolts; the magnificent base of the bridge outlined in black, shimmering in the icy current, lit up like a dream by a fleeting shard of brilliant white light; a miraculous silver-gray vision, and he, the only witness and the envy of nobody. For a moment he thought he saw the stranger; a flash of white smiles; skin of ice. For a moment… Then he was gone.

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Copyright© 2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved