Page 1 of Somewhere Along The Line
Catching this train wouldbe easier if I wasn’t missing a shoe. How am I supposed to convince my boss I'm worthy of a raise—that I can handle more responsibility—ifI shuffle into the office on a naked foot?
Something is always amiss in my life but it's typically not this literal.
One worry at a time, Piper.
That's what Dr. Browne would say, and her words echo in my mind as Ihoist myself up the station’s stairs and steer my toes away from a sticky mess on the platform.
My anxiety about the promotion, and how it would fix my money issues, can have itsturn later.
My lungs are desperate for air and my heart pounds reprimands in my chest as I dart into the third car through the disappearing space between the closing doors.
I’m right on time at 7:26 a.m.
The trek from my house takes twenty minutes, yet every morning I give myself fifteen. It’s the story of my life, each day trying to stretch something into more, a little into enough, when that something isn’t elastic to begin with.
Time. Money. Certain responsibilities.
No matter, I can take a marble block and chisel it into the David… well, maybe nottheDavid, but perhaps something sort of resembling a man named David. Maybe one who dropped his cheap beer on the platform last night, chuckling with heavy eyes and this week’s hook-up still tangled in his arms.
Close enough.
That’s what I tell myself at my therapist’s urging: I’m capable, I can figure things out, and it’s okay if the details of my life are not perfect. Dr. Browne thinks positive self-talk is the answer to my anxiety. I think the jury’s still out.
“You’re on my shoe.”
The sound echoes in my ears, the hair at the back of my neck standing up as I try to orient myself to where the voice is coming from. This is a collected voice, a makes-homemade-French-press-every-morning voice, a get-your-shit-together-because-mine-certainly-is voice.
I recognize this voice. Not from a conversation, but from a tense work call this man conducted on the train last week, loudly enough for everyone in the third car to hear.
I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him and not only because he was rude. He looked straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. It made my stomach somersault.
What shoe?I wonder, then suddenly remember—shoes! Ah yes, I’m missing a shoe. And upon surveying the situation—my eyes dragging down from the broad chest in front of me to the floor—I see my bare foot on top of this man’s Cole Haan suede.
Worse, my toenail has edged a deep scratch across the top of the toe box.
An expensive toe box.
“Wow, holy shit. Sorry. Yikes, wow. Let me just—” I hobble on one leg, the weakest attempt at a smile settling on my lips as I grasp the cold metal pole between us for support. The suede tickles as I slide my foot off his and the man moves away, not making eye contact.
It’s like he thinks spending a second more in my presence might cause my chaos to stick to him and impart something messy onto his otherwise immaculate (and immaculately fitting) navy suit.
“It’s, uh… it’s fine,” he mutters, his hand raking into his mousy brown hair and then drawing down the side of his face. The motion projectsGod, I’m tiredandyou aren’t worth my timein equal measure.
“I can pay to fix it,” I reply, glancing down at his shoe and finally up to his face, my smile getting weaker by the second. I force the muscles in my cheeks to rise.
Do I have the money to fix his shoe? Absolutely not. But could I figure it out? Of course. I’m Michaelangelo… or something like that.
“Cole Haan, right?”
The man’s blue eyes perk up and settle on mine, flashing a hint of curiosity before regaining their stoicism.
“They’ve got a program, Cole Haan does, a shoe repair program. You can send in damaged shoes, and they’ll buff or fix or whatever else to make them look new again.” The words tumble out of my mouth at a rapid clip. “My brother Kent does it—sends his shoes in. He’s a banker. He knows things.”
The man shifts uncomfortably, his gaze gliding down the length of my body before settling back on his defaced loafer.
Good GOD, what am I doing right now?
My brain is self-talking alright, but the talk isn't positive.
