The Ultimate Ferry Ride

By Luck Meek

Dear Gods and Goddesses of Transportation:

As most of you know, I have been the sole operator of the River Styx Ferryboat System for so many millennia even I have lost count. Though ferrying the dead to their post-mortem fates is one hell of a high-stress job, I, your loyal stoic Charon, have never complained. Not to you, my honorable and all-powerful employers, and certainly not to my passengers who are often, and quite understandably, even more stressed out than I am. After all, I have a list of their destinations, but they don’t know where they’re going till I drop them off. The suspense is so dreadful that some of them die, yet again, on my boat. As I pointed out in an "FYI" memo a few centuries back (please check my personnel file for exact date), fatalities such as these may be redundant but they spread panic faster than plague. Since the behavior of panicky passengers—all that flailing, repenting and carrying on—can lead to a nautical accident, I, your innovative self-starter Charon, took it upon myself to find ways to ease my passengers’ angst. Nothing fancy, mind you—no five course meals or Las Vegas floor shows—just little diversions such as snacks (olives, some feta), mandatory sing-alongs (in ancient Greek, which keeps them busy), Bacchus Juice of course, and, most recently (again, check my file for exact dates of improvements), Xanax.

Not to overtoot my own horn, dear Superiors, but these efforts have paid off enormously. By the time my boat reaches the Gates of Hell, the damned think they’re going to DisneyWorld. And from what some of them tell me, they’re not far wrong. Which leads me to the real point of this memo: my passenger load has grown so huge and so varied and so, well, relaxed, that some of them actually DO talk to me. They also talk to each other, and what I’ve overheard has been quite the revelation. If I may be perfectly blunt here, it has gradually come to my attention that I, your ancient dependable Charon, am no longer the sole practioner of my profession. I am, of course, still its soul practitioner, but all this means, evidently, is that I work the most unsavory route on or under the planet. Not that I’m whining. I’m not. I was happy to work every possible shift without hope of vacation, sick leave, benefits, raises, or, come to think of it, salary. I was honored to give up my personal life to become your squalid pet workaholic. But that was before I knew that other ferries existed. Other ferries crossing bodies of water devoid of six-headed serpents. Ferries which carry live passengers. Ferries depicted in paintings and postcards by artists other than Mr. H. Bosch.

Once Pandora opened that box, so to speak, I began to ponder my "working conditions," a term I’d never heard of before. Every day I came up with more baffling questions. For instance, did I really have to keep using my original two-oared skiff? Could I get you guys to spring for a uniform? A spiffy cap? A yellow slicker for inclement weather? A flashlight maybe? A comely assistant? Don’t bother checking my file for these requests, I was too cowardly to put them in writing. In any case, the more hours I spent eavesdropping on my drunk, chatty passengers, the more I realized that such improvements, though festive, would not really add to my job satisfaction. It wasn’t the frills, it was the place! (Who knew there were other places? Surely not your ignorant Charon!) But as I gradually became less ignorant, particularly in the geographical sense, I realized just what I needed: a change of location. Yes, that’s right, gods and goddesses, your once complacent but now vaguely hip Charon is requesting no less than a job transfer.

I know, I know—it’s never been done. And it certainly won’t be a lateral transfer; my route is unique and demands special nautical and, most especially, great "people" skills. That is why I’ve already begun scanning the damned for possible candidates to take over my job for the rest of eternity. You needn’t worry your own divine heads about it. There’s no need to advertise, certainly, and I’ll take care of the interviews and on-site training myself. I have no doubt that I’ll find a worthy successor—perhaps a whole fleet of them. Meanwhile, I’d like you to consider my bid for a transfer to San Francisco. The damned and undamned alike assure me it’s one of the least hellish places to live, partly because of the wide choice in restaurants. And before you hurl a thunderbolt through my hubris-filled head, let me say that I, your awakened but still humble Charon, don’t expect to be captain right off. I’ll be Errand Boy Charon, Clean-the Engine-With-A-Q-Tip Charon, Sea Gull Clean-up Guy Charon, whatever you want, as long as you want, and I’ll never complain again.

After centuries of flawless service, I put myself in your compassionate hands.

Sincerely,

Charon

Ferry Operator,