Ten Feet Away In The Dark
My feet have been killing me lately . I've been waiting tables for over seven years and have always dealt with the achy legs and feet, upper back tension and sore shoulders. Anyone who has ever been in this business knows what I'm talking about.
So the other night, sometime after eleven, I'm walking home wondering why these $70 shoes haven't stopped the shooting pain in my arches, under the balls of my feet, and at the tip of my heels. This isn't normal waitress ache, and I can't wait to get home and take off the shoes and the knee-high nylon socks and watch my puffy, pink feet throb as they block the view, across the coffee table, between my sorry eyes and my nightly dose of CNN.
I'm about a third of the way home, still thinking about my feet and imagining what else I could possibly do legally to make as much money as I do as a waitress at a pretty fancy Italian restaurant. Every step must be taken with more and more care, and still I'm telling myself I have to at least stick it out for the summer in order to save money for graduate school in the fall. (No, I did not get the assistantship. Over seventy applicants for three positions. Pathetic.)
Two-thirds of the way, and I'm nearing the railroad track bridge, the one I sometimes leave the sidewalk and walk out into the street to cross under, because it seems like the perfect hiding place for any number of fools wanting to do any number of sick, foolish things. I really do have to catch my breath when this four-door Mercedes slows down, not because it is obviously very new and very expensive, but because I'm wondering if I could be in control enough to say what I would like to say, something like, "Don't think I can't outrun you," or something equally, unrealistically controlled, and rational, and cool.
The guy is rolling down the window, not jumping out the door, and before I have time to get too panicked he asks if I know how to get to the Bird of Paradise. I can tell he and his friends are not from Ann Arbor, partly because even most students know where the only jazz club in town is, but mostly for no reason other than they just don't seem like it. It's a strange feeling being alone under this bridge talking to three strange young men in a car, but it seems reasonable enough to give people directions. I tell them it's on the second street up, but then remember it's on a one-way going the opposite direction they need to go.
"What I would do," I say, "is park in this lot..." The driver cuts off my directions and says, "Hey, what are you doing? Wanna go?" (How rude, I think. Do you want directions or not?) I say "no" as calmly and matter-of-factly as anyone could. In a split second I imagine the message they get from my "no": No, but I will give you directions. Before anything else comes out, the passenger in the front seat, the one who originally rolled down his window and asked for directions, joins the fun and says, "Hey, you're a pretty good looking girl. Wanna come?"
I turn from the car and start walking toward home. I am pissed. (They are driving away.) I am pissed because my feet are killing me, because I politely and thoughtfully stopped to give these assholes directions and they couldn't keep their mouths shut long enough to let me give them. For all they know, I could be three months pregnant or dying of cancer or experiencing any other kind of major, significant life event. But all they see is a female who looks good from ten feet away in the dark. There's no "thank you," no "thanks for your time," no "have a good night," no "hope your feet feel better by the time your next shift rolls around."