John Ficarra was the editor of Mad magazine from 1985 to 2018.
“I work for free. You pay me to commute.”
It was a phrase I repeated to my boss countless times over the years, and with good reason.
Though I live within the bounds of New York City in “the forgotten borough” of Staten Island, my daily commute into Manhattan — a bus ride, a trip on the Staten Island Ferry, the subway to Midtown — took an hour and 40 minutes each way. And that was with perfect connections.
There were never perfect connections.
I could count on at least one traffic accident, mechanical breakdown, medical emergency, subway station flooding or “ongoing police investigation” to muck up the beginning or ending of my day. It was demoralizing and exhausting.
I once did the math. Allowing for vacation and holidays, my daily commuting totaled at least 732 hours per year, a staggering 35,136 hours over my 48-year career. Looking back on it, I’m still amazed I survived my misguided (some might say crazy) lifestyle choice.
But there came to be one bright spot in my commute — the 25-minute ride on the Staten Island Ferry.
In 1993, I began riding the boat (which is what Staten Islanders call the ferry) with my good friend and co-worker Amy. Like most seasoned riders, we made the same ferry every morning — ours was at 8:30 — and sat in the same seats. Sitting opposite us would always be the same two fellow commuters, who eventually became known as “Larry Sneakers” and “Dr. Bruce.” One day the four of us got to talking, and we never stopped.
Occasionally loud and always laughing, we attracted the attention of others around us. Some were obviously annoyed and changed their seats; others were curious and soon joined in the fun.
Over time, our little group of seafarers swelled to about 25, though it was rare that all of us were on board at the same time.
Among our crew was Steve, a lawyer who missed his calling to be a comedy writer but who, nevertheless, did a nice job on my will and condo closing. Also Crazy Peter, a marketing exec who once spent a week in Florida directing a squirrel named Russell in a razor blade commercial for Walmart; Lenny, an environmentalist who kept bees in his backyard until he found out the hard way that he was highly allergic to their sting; Gerard, a sound engineer who ended most of our ferry rides with a stroll through Battery Park sampling what was then a controlled substance, and Jane, an HR administrator with a heart of gold.
We called ourselves the Ferry Posse.
We rode together for 25 years, trading jokes, local gossip, recipes, movie recommendations, and the names of reliable contractors and handymen. We celebrated the arrival of children and grandchildren and consoled each other over the loss of loved ones, including one of our own — Anthony, a magazine editor and longtime posse member who retired and bought a country home in Italy, only to die unexpectedly not long after.
We shared three confirmed hookups, one improbable marriage, two coronary procedures, one cancer diagnosis and two divorces, including the dissolution of the aforementioned improbable marriage.
A group of us watched in horror from the ferry’s deck as black smoke billowed out of the north tower of the World Trade Center the morning of 9/11.
When I retired in December 2018, the posse gathered on the 8:30 boat to say goodbye. Champagne was poured as the two NYPD officers on board looked the other way. Favorite anecdotes were retold, and Crazy Peter tried to present me with a retirement gift of a mounted deer head he had foolishly purchased a few weeks earlier on a whim and was now trying to unload. (I declined his generous offer.)
All too quickly we passed the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and the sight of the Manhattan skyline came into view.
It was our silly tradition that every day one posse member was selected to rise as the boat approached the dock and lead the group off the ferry — our “designated sherpa.” That day, I was the designated sherpa for one last time.
I’m still in touch with many of the posse members, thanks to a group texting thread. Some have moved away; others I still occasionally see in a Staten Island supermarket or park. But whenever any of us ride the ferry, regardless of the time or day, we always sit in the old posse section. If we’re lucky, we run into a fellow member, and rekindle a bit of what made our daily commuting slog a pretty great experience.
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