We OSes weave through cars to port (left). We climb two sets of sandy stairs and arrive at the top to beige and salmon tiles underfoot. Ooooh it smells like pretzels today. Maybe I’ll get one later. A left turn into the cabin puts us in view of those gorgeous retro-colored seats. I’ll never get over the maroon. I feel my face soften. I love this boat. I follow a coworker through a gray door, into the shabby day room. To the right is a small locker room with one of the ferry chairs at the end of it. The loner spot. Directly ahead are a stove, sink, fridge, and table with three mismatched office chairs missing chunks of foam. Let’s be real: The day room on the Spokane sucks. I drop my bag in front of a sticker cloaked locker. I shove a neon yellow radio in my back pocket, and yell, “I’ll clear the sun deck!” as I head back to the light of the cabin’s big windows.

“Okay, gate’s up,” Harry says into the radio. The red and white traffic arm now points to the sky. 

“Gate’s up, Spokane,” replies the dock, repeating to confirm.

“Here comes traffic off the Spokane,” says Harry, and the cars roll off.

I breeze aft (to the back of the boat), breathing in the buttery galley fumes again. I shout “Hiii. How are you?” to the bored faces of the galley staff. They glance up from scrolling, on a much needed break from servicing the public. I get one reluctant “heh-lo” in return. I climb more stairs to the sun deck. The rain is on pause, and a light gray sky shines over the glassy water of Puget Sound. Homes on green hills rest in the distance. And I start to do my job. I walk around. I pick up popcorn and peanut shells dropped by humans. I pick up clam shells dropped by seagulls. I don’t see a soul, so I head down to the pickle fork, and report to the OS standing attention at the gangplank, “All clear up top, Mikey.” 

I look over the green railing; watch the cars drive off for a minute. Three other OSes converge, and we begin a confusing conversation about who will do what for the day. Is this anyone’s regular route? If so, are they assertive enough to give out tasks? Can I please have the men’s head (restroom), so I don’t have to scramble between trips to clean the women’s? Who is going to be the cabin muffin? Larry, who has been with the ferries for twenty-some years, declares himself the muffin man. The muffin has the easiest duties, and is rarely required to brave the elements. Did the captain show up? It’s Scary Terry? Fuck. I thought he was off this route. Decisions are made, and reported to the chief mate, and then we scatter. We transform into cleaning fairies, cleaning the ferries. Except for Larry, who probably hasn’t done his job in fifteen years. He heads back to the day room while staring at his phone, to begin preparing spare ribs, potatoes, and caesar salad. It’s a toss-up if you’ll be invited to share Larry’s feast, unless you’re a white dude that’s been with the ferries for at least ten years. It should bother me that this guy is so lazy. It should bother me that he’s watching the game while I’m scrubbing heads, but I find his uselessness so entertaining that I’m able to accept him. They’ll never fire him. Every OS and AB is a member of the IBU – the Inlandboatmen’s Union of the Pacific, which protects us from getting screwed over by WSF. I have to admit that’s a beautiful thing, even though it makes for a maddening amount of rules, outlined in our CBA – collective bargaining agreement.