Shoes (After April 24)

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story is one of 10 that have been accepted for publication in the book Spurs of Inspiration, the Mayborn Literary Journal, published jointly by the Mayborn Graduate School of Journalism and Hearst Corp.

Peggy Heinkel-Wolfe

I prop myself up against the wall and take my shoes off.    They have a thin strap around the ankle, just like my all-time favorite Brazilian sandals that I wore out in college. I don’t want these shoes getting wet as I jump over the impromptu stream now running in the gutter be­tween the building and my car.

I throw open the door and make a dash for it. After setting my bag and shoes on the passenger seat, I head down the street, a bit later than I want to, but not too late.

I wonder how long it has been raining, because streams of water are rushing into big pools at every corner. If there aren’t other cars nearby, I swing around the puddles. My heartbeat rushes ahead, and I think maybe this storm is not like other storms. I try to remember the low spots on my way. I decide that if the water is too high at the railroad underpass, I will take the freeway instead.

By the time I reach the south side of the freeway, rolling waves of water are racing down the borrow ditch toward the underpass. I can see a lone car sitting there, the driver trying to gauge the risk of going through. But I turn around and head back. As I travel uphill toward the access road, I look down on the freeway. Like a big-city rush hour, there are brake lights as far as I can see. All the cars are at a standstill. I change my mind and turn right, back toward downtown. I still have a little time; maybe I can wait out the storm and try again.

But the rain lets loose, and now I can see perhaps a car length ahead. When I pass the first intersection, I feel a wave of water rush under my car. A few feet further, my windshield wipers start to slow. I am confused. The rain is falling in thick sheets now, was it coming down so strong that the windshield wipers can’t work against the force?

Then the dash lights up. The car is stalling.

And floating downhill. 

I can barely process what is happening before the tires hit the pavement again. I recognize my last chance to get away. I turn the ignition and press my foot on the gas pedal.

A whirring sound, then, nothing.

With the remaining momentum, I throw the steering wheel to the right and roll toward the curb. I try the ignition one more time.

Nothing.

To my right, I see a beer garden-style bar where I once heard that the frat boys hang out. Maybe it’s open for happy hour. 

To my left, I see apartments, but foaming waves of water are rolling beneath my car, each a little higher than the one before.

Then, behind me, I see wall of water coming.

What was the rule again? Six inches of water, twelve inches? How much water before you don’t get out? I can still see grass between my car and the bar, so, like hell am I going to stay in my car. I grab my bag and shoes and bail out on the passenger’s side, and run through waves until I find the bar’s back door.

At first, the boys, who are supposed to be tending bar, barely see me when I come in. Another student had already taken refuge inside. He had put his shoes on the bench next to the pool table, so I put my bag down on the bench, too, and set my shoes on top. Soon another student takes refuge inside. The Bartender Boys had rolled up their pants legs. They push back water coming in the front door with brooms, fans and two high-powered shop vacuums. But they can’t keep up.

Then, one of them hollers to the rest of us, Come Look! Out The Back! An apartment Dump­ster floats by in the parking lot river. I look downstream and the churning, brown water is up to the windows of cars parked at a nearby apartment building. I wonder when it will stop rising. Maybe it will reach the apartment windows. I wonder if my car is still where I left it. I wonder how many inches of water will be inside the bar by the time the storm is done. The cable television feed was failing, but the power was still on. I wonder why no one seems to be worried that we were standing in lapping water while the power is still on.

I call my husband on my cellphone and tell him that I’d lost the car in high water, and I wasn’t sure when he could come get me.

“It’s not safe, Mark,” I say. “I’ll call you when it’s safe.”

Heavy blankets of rain keep falling for more than an hour. The Bartender Boys surrender to the will of the water and let it flow from the front door out the back door. They pass around bottles of free beer. I stand soberly on the bandstand. The power flickers from time to time, but that seems to be from the lightning.

When the rain and thunder subside, I go out to the parking lot and venture toward the street. Other students emerge from apartments and frat houses, and taunt drivers foolish enough to drive through the high water.

People make human chains to help others escape or to push abandoned cars out of the way of emergency vehicles. They cheer at the commuter buses and the wakes of water left behind them, which cause other cars to bob like bath toys. The wakes break over my feet and those of a girl standing next to me who lost her flip-flops in the dark, deep water as she ran from her stalled car.

Finally, the clouds quiet and bits of pavement begin to emerge. My car is where I left it on the curb, with someone else’s license plate wedged underneath a back tire and a full-sized sheet of particleboard pushed up against the grill. After I try the ignition one last time, the Bartender Boys offer to push my car off the street and into the parking lot.

I call my husband and tell him it is probably safe to come get me.

As I wait for him, standing barefoot on the sidewalk, the UPS driver pulls through the parking lot streams to make a delivery of bar napkins.

That night, I dream of untied shoes. Dozens of pairs of black shoes in many sizes and shapes, piled in the corner.

I wonder if I will dream the dream the next night, but I don’t.

After that, I fixate on the shoes in my house. Usually, we leave them by the front door, so as to not track too much dirt. But some shoes are in closets and others are in boxes under beds.

I want to gather all of the shoes up in the living room. I want to sit on the floor and slowly arrange them in a pile in the corner until no one recognizes their shoes.

But I don’t. Instead, a few days later, I pull down the shoe polishing kit and bring out only my own shoes. I sit on the floor and polish all my boots first. Mark brings his work shoes, and sits beside me as he polishes them. Then, I polish my shoes with the thin strap around the ankle. They are a little darker now.

And I wear them the next day.

PEGGY HEINKEL-WOLFE can be reached at 940-566-6881. Her e-mail address is pheinkel-wolfe@dentonrc.com .