Day Fifteen, This Little Piggy

I had a big breakfast, a James burger. It must have been one o'clock. I had been all morning doctoring my feet in a Rite-Aid parking lot. It's a nice way to meet people.

A James burger--I had ordered blindly, I just liked the name--turned out to be two thickish ground beef patties, a deep-fried Polish sausage, onions, mushrooms, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and a slab of deep-fried ham, all on a sesame seed bun. It came with a pound or two of thick-cut fried potatoes. I ate it with a knife and fork. I was just getting a steam on when the chef arrived at my table. "Forgot your bacon," he says. He handed me two thick strips on a plate. I added them to the pile.

I was until two weeks ago a vegetarian. I had been for eight long years. I thought it would polish my karma somehow and make me a better person. But I am still the same sour shit and a little extra protein never hurt anyone.

It has not done my toes much good, though. Don't mind if I share the details. The thick skin on my little toes, developed over years of hiking an extra ten miles a day, has been so pinched and overheated that it has separated from the toe itself and, with a few artful snips of my nose hair scissors, it can be removed whole, inside out like a sock. What remains is the fresh bright pink new skin within. It is papery and still very tender.

I understand snakes go through a similar process. That is why they are so mean.

Because it hurts, I tell you, like the worst kind of toothache. It hurts like a broken heart. It spreads up into your muscles and bones and makes them cold and numb. And it can't be bandaged or braced against. All you can do is suffer.

And walk. I did walk. I walked. I did. I made it a full seven miles. It was my worst day yet but I got to the point where I couldn't go another step. And I checked into a hotel. Again. I am spending far too much money. And I am moving slower and slower each day and America keeps getting bigger.

I have made it as far as Soap Lake, Washington, back into the sage brush again. Soap Lake advertises its healing waters, a la Baden-Baden. They contain all manner of minerals and some sort of fishy oil. They too are home to parasites which, if not promptly rinsed off, will leave you covered in itchy red bumps and, I wish to golly I was making this up, "barnacles".

I was torn as to whether to avail myself of this opportunity. On the one hand I could do with a little magic healing. On the other I have open wounds on my feet. I did wade in for a little while and I felt ridiculous. One doesn't always know how to behave in healing waters. How long are you supposed to stay in? Are they like holy water where a drop or two does the trick or are you really supposed to soak? There were people around so I just sort of stood there, up to my ankles, gazing at the horizon and trying to look philosophical. I gave it five minutes and left. Healing waters kind of stink.

I cannot say they have done me any noticable good. Tomorrow I will soldier on. James burgers must be earned.


MET, at a crossroads outside of Soap Lake, Mr. Wilson, a very old man. He wore a green plaid jacket and a black cowboy hat. He drove a big sedan. "You'll get there faster if you jog," he advised me. "What are you, some kind of idiot?"

I don't guess Mr. Wilson does much internetting, but God bless you, you grumpy old fart.

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