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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