From San Francisco
They sit at the upper level of the ferry. There is neither roof nor walls on the level, allowing the wind to blow across the deck, through rows of plastic waterproof seats that face each other. Through the hair of Oliver and Serena. It’s a strong wind that forces itself into the lives of those sitting on the upper deck. It digs itself into bodies, chilling limbs unclothed. It gets through teeth and enamel, giving the mouth an icy bitter sensation, so that any smiles on the deck quickly fade. Mouths close, stretched between grimaces and smirks, forcing lips together. For a moment all of it works together, the cold wind, the gray sky, layered in wet fog—that Oliver imagines has soaked every inch of grass in the city, wet grass that works its way into socks, into earth—the pursed lips of commuters leaving from work, tourists, children in tow, looking to explore. The icy current of air running with the ferry, seems almost to propel it. The wind carries a loneliness—the air of the city is imbedded with this loneliness—that drives those through which it blows into the arms of almost strangers. There’s a latent desperateness, a longing, an inconsolable recklessness about the wind, the city, they way in which its inhabitants live their lives. Oliver can feel it against his skin. In all the loneliness of the city there is something safe and comforting and satisfying.
Oliver says, “Oh, I will never let you go.”
On the upper deck of the ferry, in that air of loneliness, the people around Oliver and Serena embrace. Travelers, who moments before seemed like strangers, outsiders, begin to hold each other in tight squeezes, kissing necks, quietly whispering into ears, “Oh, I will never let you go.”
Oliver and Serena also embrace, their hands and arms wrapping around each other tight, and like everyone on the upper deck of the ferry they whisper again, “Oh, I will never let you go” and they whisper it again.
On the ferry, the entire upper deck, locked in desperate embraces, chants in unison, all together, “Oh, I will never let you go.” The sound moves in waves across the water, carried by the wind towards the expansive ocean, where it is heard by almost no one, save for perhaps the crew of a fishing outfit, men of the water, hearing this mantra, only faintly. Perhaps they ignore it, continue on with their daily maneuvers and tasks. But perhaps they hear it once and it catches their interest, and they listen more closely. And then they hear it again, more clearly, now, since they’ve dropped the ropes and tools in their hands and stopped their tasks. “Oh, I will never let you go.” As it crosses their path they feel an unusual sense of comfort from the words. And then the two boats move in opposite directions and the chant fades from the fishermen. They are left in the middle of the ocean to pick up their work again, to continue fishing, with only the vaguest feeling that they were part of a fleeting moment of life that has quickly disappeared, with only the vaguest feeling that in listening to the chants vanish across the ocean they have taken on some of the loneliness of the ferry.
When the ferry docks and the wind subsides, the embraces recede. The passengers, moments before held together close, move apart. The space between them devastating, the gap larger, the distance, the division, reinforced by those minutes of proximity and intimacy. They seem more desperate for it, more afraid of it. It takes Oliver almost all his awareness, perfect deliberateness, to not pull away from Serena, to allow their hands to lock together as they make the jump from the city.
The Senate Syndrome 