Monday, August 08, 2016
Fortunately it is the height of
summer and so I don’t have to wear closed shoes all the time. Otherwise this
less than Shakespearian tragedy might play out differently, and I might not get
to witness its proper conclusion.
Waiting for a toe nail to fall off
is a lot like waiting for a bus you know will arrive eventually, but whose
schedule is so skewed you can’t completely predict just when.
This drama, however, will mark the
change of life that comes with the move, and mocks some of its significance
much in the way the drunken Trinculo does in the Tempest, or the Fool in Lear,
putting perspective on the whole matter, and making sure that I do not take any
of it too seriously.
The toe, of course, was the victim of too tight steel toe
work shoes I cleverly thought I might wear during the loading of boxes for the
move, believing that I might spare myself injury if something might fall. Thus,
I packed or threw out shoes that I might have worn more comfortably if at a
greater risk, and so suffered through the slow rub of a slightly too long big
toe nail box after box, trip after trip, in temperatures that might have
rivaled one of Dante’s circles of hell.
At first the rubbing seemed tame the way the first drop of
water torture might, something I could easily tolerate – and did during the
short duration. But as time went on, the small torture turned into a
significant pain, and I was helpless to halt it, unable to locate alternative
shoes, and when finally I did, unable to put them on because of the swelling
around the toe and along the side of my foot.
The last day proved the worst because I knew I was damaging
myself, blood filling the entire nail, and puss surrounding it like a frame,
dark red with a white border.
Eventually, I found my sandals and began the slow recovery,
although even at that point I knew if I escaped serious infection, I would lose
the nail. The blood oozed out a few days later leaving the whole nail pale
white. The puss eased and went, and so I walked painlessly with my folly
exposed at the tip of my sandal for any fool to see.
Then came the waiting, and I still wait, watching the nail
loosen. I am too cowardly to yank it off, and so sometimes, contain it with a
bandaid since for some reason, I pump the toe more now than I ever did in my
life before the tight shoes – needing the steel protection to protect me from
the damage the steel tips had done. One such bump two nights ago threatened to
yank the nail completely off, but I pressed it back and bandaged it again,
determined to let by body reject the unwanted appendage.
This, of course, is comic relief to the change I am making,
moving a great distance not so much in miles (a mere 40 blocks) but in physic
distance as I move from Jersey City to Union City in what will likely be the
last significant move of my life, the steel tips of my new home designed to
protect me from unforeseen elements, and to keep this fragile self from
suffering damage that will come quickly, like a bolt of lightning, ending the
charade that has been my existence all the years prior to this.
Even after the nail expires, and after the new nail grows
in, I will look down at my big toe and realize that all of the tragic
implications of this move, all of the foretelling of future events is of no
consequence, as my shoulders rub unfamiliar walls, I hope will not cause any
permanent damage
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