My life has been on standby since we got in the standby line for the Block Island ferry at 7:30 this morning. The first ferry of the day left at 8:30, and there were already three cars ahead of us. Two of them got on.

I’ve gotten friendly with the Interstate Navigation employee, Joe Houlihan, who is running the standby lot today. “How’s your writing going?” he asks me. So I tell him the story of my writer’s block and getting past it. And he shares with me his story of a warm and personal rejection letter from an agent who read his manuscript. For, you see, Joe is a writer, too. We are both on standby today.

There are now five cars behind us in line. Two large trucks are waiting in the same lot for the 11 o’clock ferry, but they’re not on standby. They have reservations. At about ten minutes to the hour, Joe comes by on his bicycle and sends the trucks over to the ferry as we folks in the standby line watch hungrily, hopefully, despairingly. “Sorry,” he tells us.

Nine cars are waiting in line for the 1:30 ferry, seven behind us, one in front. Another truck has also shown up. “What happens,” I ask Joe, “if a car has a reservation on the 1:30 ferry but doesn’t get there in time?” “Oh, then he’s on standby just like anyone else.” “Back of the line?” “You bet.” Then Joe tells the story.

“They used to have a policy where there was a priority standby line for people like that,” he says. “You can imagine how well that went over with all the people like you who were waiting in line since 7:30 in the morning, and now this guy comes along at 1:35, and he’s first in line. I saw it almost come to blows a couple of times. People would be yelling at me—and it wasn’t my fault. I’d tell them, ‘Hey, I agree with you. Go complain to the company.’ Well, I can tell you, that priority standby didn’t even last two weeks.”

Another truck pulls up. This is a really big one, carrying major steel beams. I tense up, but then the driver tells Joe that he’s on the 5:15 ferry. Not a problem. Well, not yet.

“What are the beams for?” I ask one of the men with the truck. “Construction,” he says. Well, duh! Hey mister, I’m on standby here; I have all the time in the world. “What kind of construction? They’re too big for a house, aren’t they?” “I can’t say,” he says. “You don’t know?” “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say.” “They’re for a restaurant,” says the other man with the truck. “Oh, really?” I’m at my peak of no-hurry friendliness. “A new restaurant? Where?” “No, it’s for moving it.” “They’re moving a restaurant? Which one? Where?” And he tells me. The things you don’t learn.

An additional truck shows up last minute. Dismay replaces optimism in the standby line. Joe pedals around on his bicycle. I have learned: he’ll come to the drivers’ side of the cars if he’s going to board some of us, to the passenger side if he’s dealing with the trucks over there. It’s the drivers’ side—fantastic! But he crosses over. Rats! He’s on his walkie-talkie; he relays truck measurements and then bikes back again. Up and down the line, hearts sink. A moment later, he returns and sends the car ahead of us to the ferry.

But they take no more.

So now we’re number 1 in line, and we’re on standby for the 3:30 ferry. Time to recharge: lunch for us, an electric plug at the restaurant for the computer batteries.