Sunday, July 2, 2017

Fun with Ferries, Dissing Authori-tay, The Flesh Trade

This week I had to make a rare trip to the other side of the water, necessitating the use of our region’s venerable ferry system. After a maze-like journey through the traffic-choked downtown construction zone, Mr. Typist and I finally weaved our way into the car loading zone for the ferry. We were first in our lane, and, not having been on the ferry in many years, we weren’t hip to the system. Mr. Typist, following the lane lines perfectly, I might add, somehow drove out of bounds, and we ended up sitting in a no-go zone, puzzled as to what to do. Immediately, a safety-vest-clad dock worker blustered up to us from his vehicle, where I assume he had been napping, and started yelling at us. He asked where we were going, then demanded in his obnoxious, booming voice that we wait for every single other vehicle to load before we drive back into the lane to get on. “Can’t I just hop in when there’s a gap?” Mr. Typist naively inquired. “No!” shouted the dock worker. “You have to wait for every other vehicle to get on first.”

After he lumbered off in a huff, Mr. Typist and I noticed a lengthy gap in the traffic, then, in a slow-mo, Thelma and Louise-esque moment, we glanced at each other, and Mr. Typist gunned it. We made it back into the lane, and immediately the man’s shattering voice screamed, “What did I say? What did I saaaaaaay?” We were fairly certain he was actually going to chase us onto the ferry and drag us from the car. Once we were ensconced in the parking lane, we seemed to be safe, but our adrenaline was pumping.  “He’s not the police,” I scoffed, shortly followed by, “Do you think we’re going to get arrested at the dock?” We spent the rest of the ferry ride both mocking him and nervously speculating about what sort of list we’re now on that we’ve subverted the authori-tay of the Department of Transportation. We are staunch law-abiders and we’re out of our element with our new life on the lam from the dock workers of Seattle. I’m going to be pro-active and set up a Go-Fund-Me for our bail.

The Minecraft adventures continue.  I want to make it clear up front that we are not big old nerds just because Mr. Typist recently set up a private server so we can play in the same realm and steal from each other’s chests. That being said, I realized the other day that things have gone too far.  The game spawns occasional pre-made towns, where you can trade certain goods with its reticent, beak-faced villagers. If you can find a priest, he will give you emeralds in exchange for zombie flesh, which you get for killing the monsters that lurch onto your lawn at night. (What the priests do with the zombie flesh is none of my business. I don’t judge.) I had accumulated a lot of zombie flesh, but alas, my nearby village has no priests. However, Mr. Typist has priests a-plenty, because he kidnapped and imprisoned them in a tower so he could force them into the gem trade in perpetuity. It was on my list to paddle my boat over to his side of town to trade my zombie flesh, but first he needed to put a ladder in his tower so I could reach them. The other day, I asked impatiently, “Are your priests ready yet? I need to trade my flesh.” Then I realized that if the window had been open, our neighbors would likely be dialing the FBI at that moment. This is what it’s come to, folks: trading illicit flesh for shiny green rocks with priests enslaved in a tower. Is this what they call rock bottom?  

--Kristen McHenry

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