Commercial longline fishing is a miserable way to make a living. You live in a state of constant, grinding exhaustion. The boat smells permanently of rotting bait, and frozen brine. You work twenty-hour shifts, pulling miles of heavy monofilament line out of the freezing water, unhooking the catch, rebaiting the hooks, and stacking them back in the holds. It breaks your back and ruins your hands. I was the new guy. The crew consisted of just three of us: the captain, an older, heavily scarred deckhand who had been fishing for thirty years, and me. We were working a very deep, isolated stretch of the ocean. We had been out for ten days, and our luck was terrible. The holds were mostly empty, and we had caught a few small swordfish and some low-grade tuna, but nowhere near enough to cover the cost of the fuel and the bait, let alone make a profit. The tension on the boat was thick. The captain was pacing the deck, chain-smoking, glaring at the dark water. The older deckhand worked in gr...
I drove the same bus route for nine years. Route 12. Forty-one stops. One hour and eight minutes end to end if the lights cooperate, which they don't. You see the same people every day on a bus route. They don't know you notice but you notice everything. The woman who does her makeup between stops 4 and 9. The teenager who falls asleep and always wakes up exactly one stop before his. The man in the yellow tie who gets on at stop 17 and gets off at stop 23 and always looks like he's already late. And then there was the old man at stop 31. Every morning at 6:47. Never a minute early, never a minute late. Small guy, big coat regardless of the weather, always carrying a paper bag from the bakery two blocks away. He'd get on, pay cash — always exact change, always ready — and ride to stop 38. Seven stops. Maybe twelve minutes. He'd get off and walk toward the park. Every single day for six years I watched him do this. We had an understanding. I'd open the doors an...