The Ferryman

The sixty-seven hour weeks would pay off, at least that’s what I told myself. Every morning, it was off to the ferry into the city for 12+ hours a day. The media lies when they say the people on Wall Street have it easy. Sure, the fat cats at the top make their million dollar bonuses and stock options, but the little guys at the bottom are the ones putting in the real days of work. They promise that you’ll reach their level one day if you put in the time and effort. You are a temporarily displaced future millionaire.

Friday, I worked fourteen hours after working twelve the day before. The last ferry back to Hoboken left at 9pm and I was determined to not spend another night sleeping at a hotel. My brains were fried but functioning on autopilot was well enough to get onto the ferry.

I took a seat by a window and closed my eyes thanking the gods that tomorrow I’d only be working until five in the afternoon. I felt myself giving away into the clutches of sleep and willed myself to open my eyes. That’s when I noticed the other passengers. No one spoke or moved. There were no books in hand, any phones or tablets, nothing. Everyone was lifeless. The only sound was the rattling of coins.

“The fare, please”, a hooded old man asked. I presented him my monthly-ticket.

“Wrong boat, young one, but soon enough”, he said. He placed his hand on my shoulder and I blacked out.

I woke up back on the shore. I quit my job the next day.

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