stories

the waiting room
Ascending with the lightness of a
parkour master, Cheryl was spit out
from the subway entrance and
onto the streets of the 9-to-5 world.
Dashing past tie-wearing businessmen
with heads full of finance, she ran
down Broad St. towards the water.
The smell of salt and deceased fish
that wafted through the air told her
she was getting closer.
Bolting across the streets, Cheryl wove
expertly through a gridlocked pattern
of yellow taxicabs and black Lincolns.
Glancing at her watch as she edges
nearer the maritime building lavishly
adorned in ornaments of greens
and pinks. With a ticket in hand she
flies through the waiting room. Only
a minute to go as she handed her
ticket to the attendee. Securing a
coveted spot at the back of the ferry.
The soft rocking of the boat eased
her heart rate down. The fog horns
sounded a deep, flat note as the
ferry pushes off and away from
Manhattan.
The old battered wooden seats
provided a moment’s relief to
Cheryl’s aching limbs. She was never
much of a marathon runner. But
before she could even regain her
breath, the floodgates opened and a
swarm of people was released onto
the soil at Governors Island.
Stepping foot on solid ground, the
air of spring caught her attention
and pulled her into a lush garden of
blooming flowers and tall trees. Trees
older and wiser than the surrounding
buildings. Turning for a moment
to look at the city she left behind.
Sailboats whizzed by her sightline.
Folks frolicked carelessly aboard while
a world of worker bees, chained to
desks, sat on the big island just a few
yards away.