Sore Feet

My feet hurt.

My feet hurt and I was dizzy with hunger, not having eaten since breakfast that morning. I tried to cheer myself up with a bad Southern drawl, saying aloud to myself, "Ma dawgs is barkin'!" It didn't work. I walked down the street, same way I walk every night because I don't own a car - or even a bike, and tried to distract myself from my own dismal thoughts.

I watched with some lazy interest as people sped by in their shiny SUVs and expensive cars, turning into oncoming traffic even though it was too small a break. I pondered the trend that demanded vehicles that were too big for single people, which guzzled gas and took up too much room on the planet; anything to take my mind off my feet, my hunger, and the fog surrounding me.

Fog creeped me out, especially at night. I guess the correct term for someone like me is 'homichlophobe'... it didn't matter to me what a fear of fog was called; I just knew I had it. Since I was a kid, in fact -- sometimes it was so bad that I had to lock all the doors and windows, and even put towels on the floor so that the fog couldn't get in under the doors.

Thinking about the fog while having to walk in it wasn't distracting me at all. I wished I could listen to the iPod in my purse, at least that would provide something to think of -- but I couldn't, because the wires of the earphones had been spliced four times, and the right ear bud had been crushed, and so cut off. When I listened to the music through just the one ear bud, I always felt slightly unbalanced. Plus, the sound quality left a lot to be desired.

The blare of a car horn snapped me back to an awareness of my surroundings, and I saw another driver speeding her way to hell, with a car full of children along with her. Some people should be prevented from procreating, and some people should be prevented from driving. She should have been stopped from doing both. Oh, well.

I saw a group of young teenagers materialize out of the fog ahead of me. I moved to one side of the walk, adjusting my grip on my pitifully light grocery sack. I'd stopped into the grocery store on my way home, and picked up a package of franks, and four packages of Lipton's Spaghetti, because it had been on sale -- two for ninety nine cents, what a deal, what a bargain. What a shitty dinner.

The kids passed and one even nodded politely. That was nice. I kept trying to list the nice things I thought of, to pass the time and cheer myself up. It was a nice night. Though not really, what with the fog. It wasn't cold, which for November is always nice. But it was wet because of the fog, and I was getting a little chilled since I was only wearing my one good blazer.

It was three years old, but it was a Nygard, and looked decent even though it was too big on me now, and the inner lining was all torn under the arms. But I took care of it so that it still looked alright to wear to work, though I couldn't do anything about the size of it.

Three years, I thought in wonder. Where had it gone so fast? The blazer had fit me well when I'd bought it, but I'd lost a lot of weight since then. In the first of those three years I'd been so busy living life that the pounds had just melted away without my notice. The second year, I'd lost even more because of work-related stress. This last year, though, I'd lost weight through sheer heartbreak.

It's funny, the human body. If you're trying to gain weight, you can't. If you're trying to lose weight, you can't. When you're not paying attention, your body takes over and does whatever it thinks is best.

Anyway, it wasn't a terribly long walk home, which was nice. There was a pretty tiring hill, though, and the sidewalks were uneven in places, and my ankles would turn at least two or three times a week. It was nice that that hadn't happened tonight ... Yet.

I'd just passed the onramp to the freeway when I realized there was someone coming up behind me on a bicycle. I moved to the side again, to let them pass, but I heard the bike slow as he came abreast of me. As he stopped, I looked over and saw it was a twenty-something boy, wearing the awful uniform of the young: ball cap with a flat bill, hoodie and jeans that had to be three sizes too big at the very least, and expensive sneakers.

Not that they're called sneakers anymore, I thought vaguely. Now they're 'skateboard shoes' or 'basketball shoes' or some such. He was slightly unkempt for all the expense of his attire; his face carried at least a couple of day's worth of stubble.

My eyes met his in the fog. He pulled his bike slightly in front of me, and I pulled to a stop. There was silence for just a moment, no traffic or crickets to break the bubble of isolation I suddenly found myself in.

"Hey." He had a deep voice. He wasn't smiling, but I didn't feel menaced, either.

"Excuse me." I replied carefully.

"I'll excuse you after you hand over your purse, lady."

Well, damn. My blazer must look better than I thought, but it just proved that guys don't look at shoes, because that would have been a dead giveaway as to the state of my finances.

"Look," I began negotiating, hoping that if I talked fast enough, I'd distract him long enough for someone to happen by and notice my distress. "I don't have much money in my purse -- less than forty dollars, and there are no credit cards. My bank account is down to less than two dollars, so my debit card isn't going to help you. What I do have though, is pictures of my children."

I paused only long enough to take a deep breath. "I will happily give you all the money in my wallet, even though it's the last of my money for the next two weeks -- I'm newly divorced you see, and he 'can't' pay support, so I'm trying to stay afloat on my own. But if you need the money more than me, I will gladly give it to you; just please let me keep my purse!"

He gave a soft snort, and I just kept talking. "Look, all I want to do is get home so I can cook dinner for my kids -- see?" I showed him the franks and pasta in the grocery sack. "It's a pathetic dinner, and I feel like such a failure, but it's better than some of the dinners we've had lately. Do you know what it's like to know your kids are still hungry, and even though you've made do with a slice of toast for your own dinner, there's still nothing extra to give them? To have to buy the cheapest foods with no extras, and then have to listen to your kids rave about the dinners they had on their visit to their father's? Even though you know he's a loser living with his little girlfriend's mom, in her basement, and that there are six adults all working in that house that the mother owns outright... even though you know all that with your head, do you understand how it would hurt in your heart and soul to not be able to provide the same? To feel the frustration of going from a career that paid you nearly fifty grand a year to working for shit hourly wages because the hours allow you the most time with your children -- because of course you can't afford a sitter, and you don't want them home alone, especially with as emotionally damaged as they are at this time of their life!"

He held up a hand and I stopped talking on a sob of a breath. I was suddenly mortified by what I'd revealed; I'm normally a very private person. His eyes were very wide, almost like a panicked horse; this was vaguely amusing, and I'm sure if I'd been an observer, I'd have laughed.

"Listen, lady," he said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. His hand went nearly to his knee because his pants were so droopy. "Keep your purse, keep your money. You need this more than I do -- you're breakin' my heart."

When his hand came out of his pocket, it held a wad of cash, which he shoved into my hand. I stuttered, stunned, that he'd do something like this when he'd just tried to mug me. As he rode away, he called out, "Get the kids a pizza or something tonight; treat them!"

I looked at my hand. There had to be at least fifteen - or twenty - hundred dollar bills! I distantly wondered where he'd gotten that much cash, if he'd robbed someone else, or if it was drug money. Then I closed my fist around those bills, shoved it into my pocket and hurried home; my feet still hurt, but right then, even that was nice.

*

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