The Hungry Ghost

Nick boarded the ferry in Sausalito, double-tall-non-fat-heavy-foam latte in hand, and claimed his customary seat – outside, upper deck on the right-hand side. He took a sip, coating the inside of his mouth with warm milky foam, smiled and exhaled a puff of silver steam before he set down his cup to adjust his scarf and button up his bulky wool jacket. While most people were warm below deck, Nick’s daily tradition required him to endure the elements, be it the cold San Francisco summer or listening in on the chattering teeth and vacant conversation from the occasional Midwestern Tourist shivering in shorts. This was the required sacrifice necessary to fulfill Nick’s daily need for a glimpse of the magnificent Golden Gate. On that July morning the upper half of the frozen towers were cut off by a dense layer of blue fog, its architectural brilliance hidden from view, visible only from heaven; an immaculate golden-orange vision Nick could see in the eye of his mind. In the distance a foghorn called, its soulless electronic voice informing him that today he would see nothing. Nick envied the heavens on that morning.

Continue reading ‘The View’