Perilous Mindfulness

“I’m late!” This from the woman who spent the duration of the Bainbridge-Seattle ferry crossing in suspended animation, complete with deep breathing. Showing off her lotus posture, using extra bench space, the soles of her socks upturned along her folded thighs. Her voice is breathy, startled, with top notes of “where-am-I-now?”. Her Lulu yoga pants and top are a contrast to the crisply-dressed commuter crowd. A Patagonia parka is nestled behind her. Me, I stored my backpack on the floor like usual, not to take up space, and I’m getting ready to gather with the other walk-on passengers near the foot ramp. The drivers have already fled the passenger decks and are down below, starting up their engines The ferry system has an unforgiving way of operating on time.

She unfolds, slips on her clogs, thunders off toward the stairs to the car deck. I take my time, tuck my bookmark into the Rick Bass collection I read in little bites as if it were rare chocolate, wedge it into the top pocket of my pack. Lying under my jacket is a cell phone: not my cell phone. The screen lights up as I touch it: the wallpaper is a swami of some sort. A pile of text message notifications appears, all just numbers. The ferry is still moving, nudging into the dock. A clot of walk-on passengers congeals near the exit. I swing my pack onto my shoulder and head the other way, hammer down the metal stairs after her.

The wind blows right across the car deck, unfurling sea-foam and grit into my lungs. Weekdays, the morning ferries are always full. Cars are lined up neatly, just enough room between them for me to jog forward, waving the phone in the air with one hand. Nuts of me, really. There’s a lost and found, after all. But sometimes I just can’t let things be. I’m almost to the front of the car deck and a deckhand’s  coming my way, frowning and waving me toward the stairwell, when I hear a resonant honk behind me: a little red MG Midget, canvas top, the woman waving out the window, her hand tangling in her loose brown hair. I turn, run back and just make it to the passenger-side door when the cars in the row to her left start forward. There isn’t time to escape, so I cram myself into the passenger seat as she starts the engine and lets out the clutch, pretty smoothly. I hand her the phone.

“Thanks! I can drop you off on Alaskan Way.”  We’re passing it before I manage to speak.

“Nice car. My sister had one. 1979?” She nods, keeps the little car revved and weaves her way with impetus and alacrity into Seattle traffic.

“Going north? I have to be in Bellingham by 9. Job interview.” She speeds up to merge into the carpool lane; the engine responds with a durable growl. The leather interior smells nice, especially now it’s raining. She wears some kind of cologne- I didn’t notice it upstairs. Somehow, it smells like the chill air. We’re only inches apart. In profile, her face has nice angles. 

I look away and realize we’re already zipping up the feeder ramp for I5 North, sweeping up into a lattice of concrete roadways above and below, not a sidewalk in sight. Oops. Usually, I walk to the bus tunnel from the ferry, take the Metro to the University. But I could get a bus from Ballard, if she can drop me off at that exit. Class isn’t till eleven.

“What kind of job?”

“Huh?”

“The interview, Bellingham.” I’ve always had this fantasy about being kidnapped by a good-looking woman, maybe a bit older, maybe a bit bored. This one fits nicely behind the wheel, is flexible, drives with  style. I try to stay in the moment.

“Oh- dance instructor. Like, ballroom and stuff?”

Quite an image. I have to look away for a second to compose myself. Now the Ballard Exit is flying by. Might as well enjoy the ride.

The windshield wipers are barely keeping up with the rain. A semi blows by in the righthand lane and sends a tsunami into the side of the little MG; the car is lifted sideways though the woman is steady. Her arms are slender, but her biceps are nicely outlined. Water dribbles down the inside of my window. Does she have a name? 

“Nancy.” She yells over the noise. “Nancy Peralta. You?”

I debate, then tell the truth. “Kevin, actually. Kevin D’ Alessandro. People call me Key.”

The car swims into the passing lane, water beginning to spatter up through the floorboards.

“OK, Key- take a look in the glovebox, there.” Her jaw is tight, muscles standing out there, too. “We’re on a bit of a mission. There’s a set of keys in there, and there’s a suitcase in the trunk, and I’ve got a delivery to make. Once I’m done, I’m not who I was, and I’m not coming back here.”

The car slows as we near Bellingham; we take an exit that leaves us at a Shell Station. Nancy steps out into the sluicing rain, leaves me to fill the tank and goes in to use the restroom. I have a premonition, so after I replace the gas cap, I put my pack on, lock the car and go into the shop to use the restroom, myself.  I stand in there for long minutes, running the blow-dryer to warm myself up. 

When I come out, Nancy’s still missing. The station is busier, though, and the little MG is clearly in the way. I hover in the background. The stylish, bright-red car sits there, valiant and inert. There’s beginning to be a line of people near the restrooms: one restroom door is still locked shut. I think about asking the clerk to unlock it, to see if she’s ok, but now I’m afraid of what they’ll find.

When the police drive up, lights flashing, they break into the ladies’: it’s empty. I stand behind the handful of gawkers, as if I don’t belong here, like them: curious to see if there is a story here. I’m going to have to ask for directions to a bus stop, but then I find myself walking back towards the car, fishing the key out of my pocket. I might be done waiting for that fantasy to play out, for the woman of my dreams to resurface in this watery Pacific Northwest. She’s late.