Wrong Shoes | 24 June 2021

I hadn’t planned on running that night, and I was wearing the entirely wrong shoes. But being now 3 to 5 miles out from anything but farmland I had to make a choice between hitching and getting to my destination on foot. The moon was already high, and I was halfway regretting jumping out of Johnny’s pick up, but there you have it.

HCH Response

The day at the lake was everything I thought I wanted. Nothing like this had happened last summer. There were no parties, barbecues, concerts, or late nights meeting unexpected people. No cutting loose. True, as I’d gotten older, those occasions often took a toll — but after a year of zoom meetups and holey pajamas I was ready to feel that spark of energy again.

Justin picked me up out front of my apartment at about 11am. His girlfriend was in the front seat, and one of his union buddies was in the back. We were work friends from a previous life, when we made minimum wage and ate from the gas station for lunch. We’d sneak out for smoke breaks, talking so long we got in trouble with the manager. Life was different now, but I always wanted to say yes to his invitations. Who better to follow to a lake party and get my fix of the old days?

The drive was was a lot longer than I expected. In the car, two nagging flies buzzed in my mind. The heat wave and excitement had seen me running out of my door in flip flops, a bathing suit, a shitty pair of cut-offs, and a shittier baseball cap. I threw a tote with a towel, some sunblock and a sixpack in the back seat, and away we flew. My vision for the day only extended to 7 or 8pm. Then there was our company. Jen in the front seat was not thrilled. I didn’t try to guess why. It was like sitting with an impenetrable stone covered in porcupine bristles. Then there was the buddy, who kept his hat down over his eyes and finger-drummed on his knees to the metal Justin had turned up to cover the discomfort. No help there.

We passed Petaluma and exited eastward, heading inland past herds of cows and rows of crops. Nothing on the horizon. I imagined the cows organizing into a gang or a union and felt Pete Seeger smiling somewhere.

The lake was packed with people high on sunshine, like a Floridian spring break. It was hard to keep track of who was there from the Justin circle and who were strangers. I put psyched myself up for the opportunity at hand, and met some people. We had requisite banal conversations. Then periodically, thank God, someone’s better half/bad influence would arrive with an armful of cans from the cooler and things finally started loosening up.

I wandered to the water and waded in. Some friendly folks were in there splashing around and I felt myself thaw to the world. We grinned at the forgotten sensation of having public fun, and the sand and algae between our toes. I boasted, “I didn’t come all this way just to sit next to the cooler!” and applauded when a few women from the party produced brand new inflatable floaties from their deeply-stocked beach bags. They huffed and puffed and laughed at how hard they were to inflate by mouth. Buzzed on beer and vaccine confidence, I insisted, “lemme try, lemme try!”

Another guy who had been on the edge of the splash circle waded over and offered to help. This was Johnny. He was a little aloof, but I’d noticed he had a radiant smile when it hatched. Aloof was good, I thought, when meeting strangers in bathing suits. Certainly better than the alternative? Now we had a task, a reason to talk. We faced each other, blowing into the plastic nozzles red-faced like dueling horn players, competing for efficiency, until we got light headed and cracked up. We handed the prizes over to their delighted owners before shaking hands to introduce ourselves.

I’m not sure how long we talked. At some point we made a run to the cooler and sat on the edge of the water, as the light got lower and the temperature more bearable. He would answer my questions briefly, with good humor and a self-deprecating shrug. He was another union guy. He knew Justin but only from the job site — he didn’t even know his last name. When he asked me questions I remember feeling like I was stepping into a spotlight, and it was showtime — I wanted to keep it going long enough to draw him out. Then that smile would break, and I’d feel rewarded for my effort, even if nothing of substance had really been said.

The sun dipped onto the horizon. Someone had started a small bonfire. Johnny and I decided we liked that idea. Suddenly I realized that, in my eagerness assert independence at the party, I hadn’t seen Justin or Jen or finger-drum dude in hours. My head snapped reflexively over my shoulder like a kid in a supermarket who could have sworn their mom was just in this aisle. Shit. I really should go check in. “Hey, I need to find my friends really fast, but I’ll see you at the fire?” I said. Johnny nodded and the corners of his mouth lifted in approval.

Why does everyone look the same when you are trying to find someone? Who had I met earlier? Crap. What about the floatie friends? Crap. They wouldn’t know anyway. Eventually I just started asking everyone. “Hey, sorry!” I apologized, approaching a group like I was waitstaff interrupting a raucus table. “Do any of you know Justin or Jen? My friends I came with? I’ve can’t find them.”

After four rejections, I got recognition. “Ohhhh shit, you came with those guys? Yeahhh...” The woman in front of me furrowed her brow and touched my arm. “Justin and Will got pretty messed up — I think must have been like, laced shrooms? I don’t know. Something Will brought. Don’t worry! They are tripping out in the tent in our campsite up the path.” She beamed, proud to have offered the care. I breathed a dual sigh — relief for knowing Justin’s whereabouts, and irritation at this new complication. “Where’s Jen?” I asked, unsure how I would approach her once I knew. Again the furrow. “Oh dude. Um, she got hellllla mad and took Justin’s car. I think she went home. She was fucking pissed. Tore out of here.”

My stomach dropped. Here I was, stranded because I wanted to go to a party, play mermaid with the lake in my hair, get out of the city. I put myself in the hands of fate and here I fucking was. I had followed Justin even though I knew he his spontaneity was a double-edged sword. I had been distracted by handsome boys and floatie contests. Fuck me. I felt myself pale with shame. I’ll never complain about my pajamas again, I swore silently. Just let me go home.

“Do you wanna staaay?” she said. “Like, our tent is full, but you can sleep on the grass.” Before I could answer, a figure approached. It was Johnny.

“You coming to the fire?” he said. The sun was officially down and the spell of his charm was broken in this triangle of bad news. No offense to him, I just didn’t care about the fire anymore, or flirting, or the spotlight, or his smile. Everyone feels like a stranger when you’re far from home.

“Yeah, hey,” I rushed. “My friends are gone. My ride took off. It’s kind of fucked up. I just need to figure it out, so I’m probably not coming over there. It was cool to meet you though.”

“You live in Oakland? I could give you a ride back. I’m in San Leandro,” he offered. The tent mom wrapped herself around Johnny’s arm. “Yaaaay!” she said. “See? It all works out. Johnny’s the best.”

“That would be… great,” I say, both thankful and hesitant by habit. Had I not just wished a way home would appear? Had I not spent all afternoon with him?

“Cool, I’m good to head out,” he said. Again, aloof, but I’ll take it. I nodded and followed him to his truck.

Climbing into the front seat, I didn’t know if I felt more like a passenger in a tow truck that roadside assistance has picked up, or like a girl on a date. Tow truck, I decided. I wished he had a radio or some flashing lights in this Tacoma. We rolled out of the park’s gravel entrance and into the night. It was pitch black on the county highway, save a string of distant and underpowered streetlights. I longed for the blinding efficiency of the freeway fixtures that tell me I’m almost home. Striking up a conversation was like pulling teeth. I tried to summon my energy from the golden hour, but couldn’t. The last hour had tanked me, but not changed him a bit. I was subject to my own mood, inspiration and stress; he was still his distant self. Quickly we lapsed into silence. I stared out the windows and retreated into my mind. There were no more cows (it turns out they really do go home). I thought of the sparkles on the water; I wondered what mushrooms must be like; I kicked myself for being square; I wondered what the name of the tent mom was; I drafted a conversation to have with Justin when this all blew over; I remembered I was out of coffee at home.

It was then that I noticed us weaving on the road. My eyes darted over to see Johnny with two hands on the wheel. His head was pointed perfectly at the windshield, but his mouth slack and his eyes heavy.

“Are you ok?” I asked first. No response. I reached over and shook his shoulder. “Johnny!” I shouted. He startled and over-corrected the steering wheel, sending my heart rate skyrocketing.

“Sorry,” he said, took a deep breath, and adjusted in his seat. I sat frozen, not sure what to say. In the hours we had spent together, I hadn’t seen him drink more than a couple of weak cans of beer. I didn’t question his sobriety when I walked in the car. This felt like something else.

“You tired?” I asked, more concerned now.

“Mmm, it’s just um, these roads. Mmm. Sometimes I fall asleep. It’s okay though, nobody’s out here.” My mind raced in shock. It’s okay? Shouldn’t we roll down the windows, blast the radio? Should I pull something out of me I don’t have anymore to entertain him, to keep him awake? Tell him to pull over and nap? What are the cheat codes for this guy I barely know? I could offer to drive. I knew I should slap him around and solve this, but in fight or flight mode, I froze.

While I calculated, he nodded off again. This time his head dipped to his chin and he startled himself awake for about 30 seconds. I rolled down my window and turned on the radio. He stretched in his seat and seemed refreshed for a few minutes. Then, as I sat paralyzed watching the yellow and white lines, I noticed us drifting again, lullaby style. Slowly, softly, with no reflectors or corrugations on either side to alert us. I instinctively reached over to the steering wheel and guided it back to the center. My palms had started to sweat. I wondered if I could operate the gas and break without crawling into his lap.

This isn’t going to work, no matter how often I wake him up, I thought. There is nothing that will make a person give up control if they don’t do it willingly. I couldn’t do this. I looked out the windshield and saw try the dry, haylike tinderbox of California grass on the road’s edge. I decided to take it.

My left hand was clammy on the steering wheel. With my right hand, I checked my pockets for my keys and phone, then sent it to the passenger side door, feeling blindly for the latch. The pressure of Johnny’s foot had relaxed off the gas pedal enough that we were only going about 15 mph. It’s a wonder nobody was behind us, even in the farmland. As quickly as I could, I released the wheel and reached down to shove his leg — hopefully knocking his foot off the gas pedal. Blood was in my ears and all I wanted was to be alone. I didn’t wait for the car to lose momentum. Johnny jerked awake again, but it was too late. I had already opened the door and leaped out onto the road.

It looks easy when they do it from trains, in the movies.

It’s not easy.

I braced for impact with my arms cradling my face. My feet landed first, but too fast, and I tumbled onto my knees and elbows. When I stopped tripping and skidding with momentum, I found myself resting myself face-down. I marveled that I was still conscious. I lay smelling the grass and checking my skin for blood — only a little. I rolled on my back and flexed my joints. I think I’m ok. Strangest of all, my flip flops were still on my feet.

Sitting up, I saw no sign of the truck ahead. This was a relief and a disappointment. I’d expected the Tacoma and its absentee driver to pull to a wheezing halt, after I’d shoved Johnny’s leg. However the fact that I jumped betrayed that — clearly, I didn’t think it was going to stop, so I removed myself. The hard part was realizing that evidently he had woken up, because he kept driving, and not stopped.

Was I just some crazy bitch he met at the lake? Was he so disconnected that he just went on his way? What else was going on with him, that I couldn’t predict this would happen?

Why does time pass differently, while you are deep in thought? I shaded myself toward the fence-side to be away from debris. The blades of try grass swished and crunched under my feet, releasing a heady, sweet smell. The moon overhead offered what she could. My eyes slowly adjusted. I thought of how many journeys have been made at night, people fleeing. The temperature is cooler. It provides a cloak. One can hide in the dark. It gives you a head start on the people who would hurt you, or you just don’t want to know. And also, the night is beautiful in her own right. Where the day is demanding, the night can be forgiving. Maybe there’s shelter in the night. I breathed and realized I was feeling better.

Somewhere outside of Petaluma, I saw the fluorescent lights of a gas station. I took off my flip flops, jammed them in my back pocket, and started running.