Feet

               The woman approached me slowly then said, “I think you could be a foot model.” I raised my head gently, the London rain beating down mercilessly on my back. Her face was full of pity and warmth, a look I had not seen on the face of a human being for many a year. A car drove by, splashing water on both me and my well-wisher. Water drenched me, and I was thoroughly soaked, my ragged poncho that I had pilfered from a thrift shop unable to keep out the wetness. The woman, dressed richly in furs and jewelry , seemed unphased by the whole ordeal. I averted my gaze as she continued to look down at me, mothering me. Unable to comprehend the look that this rich socialite, this bourgeois was sending me, I instead directed my attention to my feet. My feet. About the only part of me that only mattered anymore. The only part of me that retained their former glory. My running feet, still maintaining that semblance of Greek muscular glory, those perfect proportions, and even they had become blackened with the soot that poured out of the myriad Londonian industries and the accompanying slightly acidic rain that wrinkled and superficially carved them.

                “What?” I responded thickly. My brain raced far faster than my mouth. I couldn’t quite understand what the lady was saying. Who was she? A fashonista sent to scour for potential models? I simple well-wisher, perhaps stopping by to give me a pence and wish me a God Bless before disappearing into her life of fine wines, feasts, and parties? A deranged Londoner, quite unable to withstand the inequality that formed 21^st-century England?

                She responded with slowness and great brevity, but firmness. “Your feet are quite remarkable. Of course, they’re rather dirty, but with a bit of proper cleaning, they could do nicely in television ads.”

                She proffered no further explanation but instead stood sphinx-like, daring me to further probe this riddle. Was she joking? She couldn’t possibly be serious. Who was she to talk to this Yankee bum living under a bridge in the poorest section of town? Did she not know that I was a pariah? That my running days were over, that I’d failed in my goal of Olympic stardom?  That I had run with the best of the best and had even held my own with the greatest long-distance runners of my time before the shattering, bone-crunching, career- and life-ending injury? That the lot threw me out on the streets, left me stranded in gutter far from family, friends, and loved ones?

                My mind drifted back to that day not unlike today, when the clouds frowned and cried out all their tears onto the muddy track, and when my tears mingled with theirs as I slipped and fell and twisted my calf into weird, unnatural angles. A day not unlike today, when the rivulets ran fast and quick. That day, however, was only sad, worried whispers from coaches and runners. Whispers that turned into disgust and neglect when the extent of my injury became known. I shuddered in the rain of then and now.

                My unfocused eyes sharpened. I noticed that the lady stood patiently, arm extended, waiting for me to respond. A white card lay in her hand. How long had she been standing there before my reverie snapped? No matter, the fact was, she was still there, waiting patiently until I responded. I looked at my feet again. Could this, my savior from a life of poverty in rural Ohio, from backbreaking labor on poultry farms, turned enemy, turn again into my savior? Were the delicate veins and gentles curves and rich callouses and creased lines of my ambulatory devices really the answer after all?

                Her had still outstretched, I raised myself up slowly the rain dripping off of me like streams draining off Poseidon as he stood from the depths of the sea. I stood erect and calmly took the card.

                “Thank you, madam,” I said.

- James Juchau