The Other Passenger
You don’t like taking the last ferry home to the island. But you whooped it up in Seattle at the Blue Moon Tavern, so you don’t have much choice. If you fail to catch the boat, you’ll need to take a drunken nap on the dock, car windows rolled up against the rain. The final ferry leaves at 2:00 AM, and the next doesn’t run until 5:10. You’ve missed that damn boat before. Longest three hours you ever spent in one place.
You reach the ferry with seconds to spare. The surly dock worker grimaces as he waves you onto the deck. You park your Volkswagen and press the emergency brake.
No point in staying in the car when you can stroll upstairs for some air. You climb the metal steps to the passenger floor. The room is spacious, illuminated by harsh, overhead fluorescent lights that make your eyes water.
A sea of empty seats beckons to you. Most of the island’s inhabitants are home in bed. Maybe you can snooze a bit before the boat reaches the Vashon dock. It’s only a twenty-minute ride, but you could use the rest.
You remove your shoes and arrange your legs on the forest-green cushions. As you ease your body into a reclining position, a man appears out of nowhere. He’s about ten years older than you, with thick brown hair and a paunchy gut. There’s something peculiar about him, but you can’t put your finger on it.
The man spots you and makes a beeline in your direction. He smiles, revealing a row of luminous teeth. Without asking permission, he settles into the seat across from yours. “You look tired.” His voice is oddly soothing. “Would you like a foot massage?”
Too tipsy to protest, you close your eyes and feel the evening’s beer undulate through your brain. The stranger takes your right foot in his hands. His fingers are deft and practiced, moving across the sole as if he had been there before. You can feel his strong thumbs digging into your instep, but the pressure feels good.
Before you can stop yourself, you emit a sigh. The man glides his hands downward. He pulls gently on each of your toes, allowing his fingers to travel into the spaces between them. A gentle, pulsating rhythm washes over your body. It seems to match the rocking of the ferry.
You remember reading that a body’s nerves end in the feet. Each pressure point corresponds to a part of the anatomy. At the time, you thought it sad that feet endure so much impact, yet receive so little tenderness.
The man lifts your left foot from its place on the cushion. He presses his hands against your skin, effortlessly melting your tight muscles. You weren’t aware of how tired your feet were, or how much they hurt. Like a magician, the stranger knows exactly how to get to the heart of your pain.
With a sudden jolt, the ferry collides with the Vashon dock. Its impact seems even stronger than usual. The boat has reached its destination, and you only have a couple of minutes to return to your car.
Despite its familiarity, the impact startles you. Your eyes flutter open. The man is leering as if you were a plate of food, and he hasn’t eaten for days. Like he could devour your body in one gulp and come back for seconds.
How could you have been so foolish? You grab your shoes and leap to your feet. The boat hits the dock again. You place a hand on your seat to steady yourself. Your companion’s expression becomes mournful, like he’s about to cry. For the first time, you notice his strange eyes. His irises have little dark streaks in them, like the shards of a broken plate.
The stranger lurches forward, and you scuttle in reverse, like a crab. Despite your fear, you feel like you should be polite. It’s your practiced but ineffectual defense for dealing with predatory men. “Thanks for the foot massage.” You know how weak and moronic you sound, but you plow ahead. “I need to head back to my car now. Sorry.”
“Please let me come with you. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I’m far from home.” The man shuffles towards you, arms outstretched. “I promise not to bother you.”
You can hear the familiar sound of dock workers tying the boat to the terminal’s wooden beams. In a minute or so, they’ll begin their ritual of ushering cars from the deck. Without another word, you wheel around, dart across the floor, and head for the stairs. Your bare feet slap against the metal. One step, two. The descent seems interminable.
Your vehicle waits at the bottom. You jump inside, lock the doors, and gaze nervously around the deck. No sign of the man. Sighing with relief, you jam your key into the ignition. Your engine roars to life, and you roll towards the safe expanse of the island. A thicket of pine trees looms overhead. Vashon has never looked more beautiful.
You’re still haunted by the man’s eyes, however. And his voice. You turn on the radio to drown out the cadence. In fifteen minutes, you will climb into bed. You’ll try your hardest to erase the experience, but a tiny smudge will remain.
* * *
Eight years later, you’re unhappily married, living in a dilapidated farmhouse at the edge of Port Orchard. You met your husband at the Blue Moon. Unofficial star of the tavern’s softball team, he could outdrink anyone in the establishment. Now he rides the Bremerton ferry to a grueling, low-paying job in Seattle.
Your husband unloads pallets of frozen seafood from incoming ships, then lugs them to lines of parked semis. He hates every minute of it. The two of you have a bright, happy three-year-old son. You both focus on him to ignore your dissatisfaction with each other.
Your mother decides to drive from Arizona for a visit, even though she can’t stand rain. She sits at your kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and guzzling endless cups of coffee. Normally, this would annoy you, but you’re glad for the company. Like many women of her generation, she subsists on caffeine and nicotine. The toxic combo acts as a sort of weight-loss plan. Your poor mother has long been terrified of getting fat and ugly.
You’ve put on quite a few pounds since your pregnancy, but you don’t give a damn. There’s nothing you love more than eating. Your mother has volunteered to babysit so you can meet your husband in Seattle for dinner. For the first time in months, the two of you will enjoy a restaurant meal together. Perhaps you’ll even find something to talk about.
Your mother perches at the edge of her chair, cigarette held aloft like a torch. She lifts her other forearm and squints at the sunspots. “Hard to believe that men used to come on to me all the time,” she laments. “When did I become such an old woman?”
You feel quite elderly yourself, even though you’re only thirty-three. “Men don’t come on to me anymore, either. It’s a relief.” You take a huge gulp from your coffee cup. “A few years back, a man tried to pick me up on the Vashon ferry. He offered me a foot massage, and I was too drunk to protest. After rubbing away for ten minutes, he wanted me to take him home. I got the hell out of there before he had the chance to do anything else. It’s embarrassing to admit I was ever so idiotic.”
Your mother stubs out her cigarette on the edge of a plate. “How did you manage to escape?”
“I just ran back to my car. The guy claimed he didn’t have a home. It was the last ferry of the night, too. I wonder what happened to him.”
Your mother shrugs. “Men like that always figure something out. You’d better leave now so you don’t miss the boat.” She lights another cigarette and smiles. “The kid will be fine with me. He’s no problem at all. Have fun.”
You reach the ferry with plenty of time to spare. It’s mid-afternoon, and the boat is half-empty. After parking the car, you climb the steps to the passenger deck. You look forward to curling up in a seat and staring at the waves. Hopefully, no one will try to initiate a conversation. You intend to relish your solitude.
After the boat leaves the dock, you turn away from the window. A man looms above you, grinning. He looks uncomfortably familiar. You raise your eyes for a closer look. Sure enough, it’s the lunatic who gave you a foot massage eight years ago. The same person you told your mother about. How could that be possible?
Somehow, your conversation acted as a psychic tow rope, pulling this maniac in your direction. You gape at his face, speechless. It’s flush with triumph, like he’s finally captured you after a long period of searching.
The man’s pudgy body looks exactly as you remember. He lowers his bulk into the seat across from yours. “I still want you.” His voice sounds low and hypnotic, like he’s trying to convince you to lie down on the cushion beside him. “I’m sure you must know that.”
The other passengers are engrossed in their books and newspapers, oblivious to the man’s presence. Unlike the Vashon boat, the Bremerton ferry takes an hour to reach its destination. You can’t imagine sitting still that long, listening to this man’s drivel. After all, you’re not a young, stupid woman anymore. And you’re not drunk. Getting older does have advantages, even though it sucks to fall apart.
“I guess you found a home after all.” You rise to your feet and turn your back on the man. “You’ll excuse me now. I’m going to sit somewhere else.”
Without another word, you stride across the floor towards the snack bar. The chairs are close together, making unwanted conversation impossible. You won’t have a window seat, but that’s a small price to pay for escape.
You order a cup of coffee and find a seat beside a tiny Formica table. The ferry system serves cheap, brackish java, but you don’t mind. You take a sip and glance around furtively. No sign of the man. He has vanished into the ocean of bodies. You won’t see him again.
The boat blasts its horn. You shift in your uncomfortable chair, trying to find a spot that doesn’t hurt. In an hour, your husband will meet you on the Seattle dock. The two of you will stroll to one of the overpriced seafood restaurants along the shoreline. You’ll check your wallet to make sure you can pay for the tab. At least you’ll have an interesting story to tell your husband. That must count for something.
Leah Mueller’s work appears in Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" will appear in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press' Best Small Fictions anthology.