At the Ferry



The shrill of newsboys, the bass of older venders, the call of taxis,
trolleys that proceed all day in ordered sequence, the wide swing of
traffic on the Embarcadero, a tang of salt in the air, the atmosphere of
flowers for sale, hoarse call of ferries in the bay like politicians who
have spoken too much in the, open air and lost their voices, the
beautifully ordered hurry and bustle and expectancy of people on their
way somewhere, and over it all the mentor of the police.

"Help pass the time pleasantly," so does the electric piano coax away
our nickels. To those who know music it is a horrible sound, but to the
rest of us its tunes are rather gay. On the wall a defunct comedy
flashes. Hypnotized, but never amused, we gaze at it as we wait for the
great doors to swing back. A woman is thrown from an auto by her
husband, and in her fall displays a pair of husky, ruffled underwear.
Time was when that would have raised a howl of joy, but no longer. She
hardly touches the ground when we find ourselves gazing at an orchard of
California figs, zip, the woman picks herself up, gazes comically at the
audience for a laugh and receiving none, hops with phenomenal agility up
astride of the hood of the auto, piff, a yard of Santa Rosa hens, ping,
the husband throws his wife up to the roof of a skyscraper, the
commuters gaze solemnly, biff, a scene from Santa Clara, clang, the
gates are opened.

On the Sausalito side, a jammed together happy vacation crowd,
grotesquely varied and elaborately gotten-up hikers, bags and suitcases
to fall all over everywhere, professorish looking men off, "taking a