Cool Heat

I can feel my feet. Actually, I can only really feel that I can't feel them. This is an odd sensation. I wake with a start and begin turning my body carefully so as to avoid the steering wheel. I stretch my blanket to its furthest, but it still can't manage to wrap entirely around my feet without slipping off my shoulders.
The rain pounding against the window next to my ear distracts me momentarily. It's cold in here, and my feet want socks desperately. Jordan is staring at the roof of the car as I sit up and stretch my legs.
"Yawwwwwwnn. Holy crap it got cold; my feet are freezing."
Jordan looks over just to say, "You sound like a wookiee when you yawn."
"Huh?"
"You know, like Chewbacca. From Star Wars."
"Oh, right. Good morning to you too."
Leaning onto the steering wheel, I can't see outside at all due to the fogged windows. The rain slapping on the roof sounds like a tropical torrent inside the cab of my tiny Neon, and I find myself immensely dreading anything involving an exit from the car.
Exhaling in frustration, I glance back at Jordan, "It sounds like it's raining pretty hard. I really don't want to get out."
Immediately he tells me with audible urgency, "Dude, I really have to piss."
"Yeah, me too. Let's go on the count of three, okay?"
"Sure, that sounds good," Jordan replies.
Gripping the handle of the door beside me with fervent concentration, I start counting; one, two, and then I remember.
"Wait!"
Jordan flinches away from the door, having expected to be rushing outward. "What??"
"Grab your toothbrush."
The doors flung open, we immediately discover that the downpour is little more than a drizzle, but we both hike up our shorts with one hand and begin bounding toward the restrooms anyway. The flannel clad trucker exiting through the door steps quickly out of my way as I rush through the opening. I'm careful not to slip on the tile floor in the lobby as I make my way to the men's bathroom.
"Hey, Jordan."
Looking over the partition between me and his urinal, he responds, "Yeah?"
While still examining my chin and neck in the mirror through downturned eyes, I describe my current revelation to him; "Ya know, Jordan, it's a sad day when the hair on your face is far thicker than the hair on top of your head."
Zipping up and approaching the sink next to mine, he begins to laugh. "Dude, just be happy that you can grow a respectable beard."
"Fine, but you be happy that you can grow a respectable head of hair."
"Yep, I am thankful for that on a daily basis," he says while running his fingers through his hair.
Refocusing on my hygiene, I have another revelation: I stink. While brushing my teeth I scan the walls of the restroom for any paper towel dispensers, but all I see are air dryers. This was our second straight night and fourth in the past ten days sleeping in my car, as well as the third day without a shower, and now it is really beginning to show. I had planned on using some paper towels to swab out my armpits and wash my face, but it looks like I'll have to wait. So instead I finish brushing my teeth and enjoy the warm air of the hand dryer on my skin.
Flinging the door open, we begin to run back to the car. I take a shortcut over the wet grass while keeping my heels flexed upward in an attempt to keep my flip flops from flipping water all over the back of my legs. Slamming the doors shut behind us, I hurriedly fumble for the keys and start the engine.
"Sheesh, who knew it could get so cold in May?"
"I know, it wasn't nearly this cold last night in Illinois."
The engine chokes to life as the heater begins to blow cold air through its ducts onto our legs and faces.
"Remind me never to come to Nebraska again."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad if you bring a better blanket next time."
Thinking back to last night, I step on the gas and tell Jordan, "Good point. You should be glad that I told you to get your blanket out of the trunk before it really got cold."
"All right, D, you've got me there. Where do you want to eat, anyway?"
Looking at the gas gauge, I know that we should be able to make it past the border before we need to refuel. "Not in Nebraska. That much I know."
Leaning back and closing his eyes, Jordan says with a yawn, "Sure, man. I'm sure we'll find a place."

Grappling with Gangrene

The canvas of my cot smells like dirt. Throwing myself onto my back, I inhale and exhale methodically hoping for relief. My entire body aches for the second day in a row, and now it's getting worse. Every other hour or so someone climbs into my tent to ask how I am. This time it's him, the next time it's her. When someone else finally tosses back the flap of my tent, it's dark, and I haven't slept a wink.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks, I feel that way too."
"Y'know, Ben is coming to pick up Jake tomorrow morning. If you're not feeling better by then I say you head back into town to see a doctor."
Yesterday I would rather have stayed, but the realization is dawning on me that this isn't a simple flu from which I'll be recovering after a few hours' rest. "Yeah, that sounds good."
After turning back toward the dusk, he glances back at me, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion. "And you have NO idea what's making you sick? Are you absolutely positive you didn't eat something you shouldn't have?"
"No, no idea!" I declare.
But I do know.
During our first day here almost four days ago, I untied my shoe and turned to Steve, "I think I got a sliver in my foot when we were rock climbing earlier."
"A sliver? Where?"
Peeling off the sock, I twist my right foot up and over my other knee. "There. Do you see it?"
Grimacing in disgust, he replies, "Yeah. Does it hurt?"
"Yeah. It went straight in there, deep."
"Did you bring any tweezers?"
"No, but I did bring this."
Reaching for my Camelbak, I pull my Swiss Army knife out of its permanent home in a side pocket.
Steve asserts his suspicion with a face of skepticism, "You're just going to slice it out of your foot?"
Smiling like a confident fool, I nod.
The deed having been done the previous afternoon, I wake the next morning and begin to pull on some fresh socks. Setting my right foot on the ground, a surge of pain streaks through my leg. I flop down immediately on the cot and begin to examine the sole of my foot. Right in the center of the arch of my foot a grotesque green bubble is growing around the site of yesterday's excision. I sigh, thinking of the easy solution to problems of pus: drainage. Grabbing my handy knife again, I slice the bubble at its base and squeeze it until empty. Mopping up the mess with one of yesterday's dirty socks and clapping my hands together after a job well done, I take care to place a sterile band-aid over it and finish putting on my fresh socks.
On the morning of my premature departure, I can barely do anything. Glancing around to ensure that no one is looking, I pull my leg slowly toward my chest. As my throbbing knee bends, the sock encasing my infected foot comes into few. Its elastic fibers are straining visibly against the swollen skin. Rolling it down toward my ankle, delicately, softly, my ankle has disappeared. Where my ankle should be is a gray trunk of flesh. The dark skin of my foot reflects the ripples impressed into it by the just-removed sock as I cradle it in my hands. "Ah, crap. I'm an idiot," I grumble in frustration.
I lay my head despondently against the car window during the bumpy ride down. "You got all your stuff in the trunk, Dallin?" Ben asks.
"Yeah. I didn't really bring much."
My Camelbak bounces around on the floor between my feet with the should-have-been-disinfected Swiss Army knife in its pocket.
"Well, that was smart of you. We'll have you home soon."

Running Past 17th Street

The surf washes along the shore, just reaching my feet. The coolness enshrouds the sole of each foot, reminding me that it's getting too late to go running in.

"It's been a long day."

Glancing to my right, I ask what he means. 

"Oh, I dunno. Just after the drive and everything."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, it could have been worse."

"Uh huh." 

Standing in silence, he leans forward to grab a handful of small stones and begins tossing them into the waves. Picking up a few rocks for myself, I start chucking them out into the ocean too.

"You know, Port, you still throw like a girl."

Towering over me in stature, he moves his grizzled jaw only to laugh at me.

"Laugh all you want, I can still beat you up."

Finally he replies, "All right, see if you can throw a rock farther than this," and he hurls one out farther than I can hope to match.

Clutching a speckled stone in my hand, I nearly rip my arm out of place trying to get it past his mark.

Laughing again, he says, "What were you saying about being a girl?"

"You're blind, bro; mine must have gone at least twice as far as yours!"

"Haha, sure. Whatever makes you feel better."

While rubbing my sore shoulder, I look up and down the beach. To our left at least seven piers jut out into the ocean before the falling dusk blocks anything more from my view. 

"Is everyone already back at the hotel?"

Giving me an odd look while I remove my sandals and stretch, he curtly affirms my assumption and asks, "What are you doing?"

"I think I'm going to go for a run. Take off your shoes and come with."

Hesitating, he asks, "But won't our shoes get stolen?"

"Ha, maybe your shoes, but not my sandals. Come on."

The damp sand mercifully cushions each step that I take, giving me reason to run faster. Porter heaves beside me as we pass one pier after the next. We're forced to take a detour around a fisherman sitting on a cooler next to his fat hound. The sight of his fishing pole puts the nerves in my feet on alert for the next few minutes. Every grain of sand is suddenly palpable as my soles expect a painful hook with each succeeding step.

"Is this the eighth or ninth pier?" Porter manages to ask me through two wheezing breaths. Stopping next to a wooden pillar, I clutch my knees and shake my head. 

"No, gasp this is the gasp tenth pier."

"We've been running wheeze forever; let's wheeze head back."

Running back, I had no idea how far we had come. Now that the sun has gone down, I worry that I won't be able to recognize our section of this monotonous beach. With each step, my feet sink unmercifully into the damp sand; the arches of my feet searing with pain. Damn sand.

At last having passed, I think, nine piers, we stop. 

"Our shoes wheeze should be here wheeze, right?"

Scanning the dark beach from my stooped position, I can't focus on anything. 

"Yeah, gasp somewhere around here gasp. You keep looking."

Lying out on the sand, the waves glint menacingly at me in the moonlight. I just hope that I'm lying close enough for the surf to soak my feet.