Dirt Between the Toes

I just need a coffee.

The blank page mocked me, its stark whiteness acting as the perfect metaphor for the static in my mind. Maybe if I stared at it for another eight hours, the story would start writing itself! Maybe if I ran my hands over the keys a few thousand times, the amalgamation of letters might combine themselves into something resembling a thought I could then grasp onto?

I just need a coffee.

The machine was broken. I very nearly canceled my reservation when this fact was revealed to me. I almost drove the five hours back home, giving up on the trip entirely. Writing your first novel can be a very daunting task; without coffee it’s almost impossible. I shut the laptop. Maybe the page would fill with prose when I wasn’t looking at it. One could hope.

I just need a coffee.

The clock read six pm, and I wondered how many first lines I had written, only to erase everything and start over again. It’s a funny thing, to have such a vivid visual of the path you want to follow yet being unable to bring yourself to take that first step. I sighed deeply, not for the first time that day.

I just need a coffee.

That had become my mantra, and my excuse. Obviously, the only reason I was unable to put words to paper was the lack of hot, caffeinated bean juice. My will to write was as broken as the coffee maker on the counter, and I couldn’t fix either myself. As peaceful as this cabin was, I had hoped to fill it with the constant tapping of keys and the glorious smell of java; lacking that, it felt like the walls were caving in as I was wasting more and more time. Maybe writing wasn’t going to be my thing after all?

No. That’s just impostor syndrome at its finest. This is what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I just need a damn coffee!

The nearest town was only a few miles away, not nearly populous enough to host a big box store of any sort I could hope to find a Moccamaster or even a Keurig, but even the smallest of towns always seemed to have some kind of all-night diner one could hope to find something resembling coffee. I sighed again, staring at the broken Mr. Coffee, the bane of my trip, and slid my laptop into its case. Instincts informed me that I’d be writing in town a lot more than I would be in this cabin. I laughed at the idea of renting a booth in the small diner, setting it up like an office. Maybe I would find my inspiration there! But no, the distractions would be too great. I’d rented the cabin and gotten away from my old trappings and habits for that very reason.

I did miss my family already, though I’d turned that feeling into gratefulness. Mary had no real reason to agree with me on this trip, but she was my ever-loving wife and supportive of my dreams. At first, she was reluctant, but after hearing me out she’d allowed me to take this trip away to work on the story that had been eating me from inside for years. Mary wanted to read it as much as I wanted to write it. Besides, they’d be joining me in a few weeks, anyway. I couldn’t wait to show them my progress.

The air outside was cool and crisp, the slight taste of pines lingering on my lips as if I’d just sipped from the world’s lightest gin and tonic. I felt lighter, almost refreshed, but my mission was clear now, and no amount of country bumpkin peacefulness was going to rival the warmth of a cupp’a Joe sliding down my throat. Call me an addict, if you want, but at least I know myself.

I coughed hard, as the shock of the air had triggered my lungs to fill with fluid. My mouth tasted of copper, so I spit to the side, not caring to look after it, I knew the mucus would be red with blood. It rarely wasn’t, now. A wave of fatigue washed over me as I neared the car.

I just need a coffee.

* * *

The diner was cozy enough, but the coffee was horrendous. It tasted not just stale, but like it had sat in the pot for weeks on end, only to be poured back into the maker to be brewed again and again, as if that would make any difference. Still, I drank. It was coffee, after all.

The page in front of me, however, remained blank; the story hidden from me like a rabbit in a snowstorm. Words formed at the tip of my fingers, only to stagnate into nothing as my hands hovered over the keys, desperate for any kind of inspiration. I coughed again, into a napkin, but paid it no mind.

At least it was quiet here, proving my original hesitation wrong. The silence seemed off, though, as if my presence alone was its cause, dampening any conversation that would otherwise have filled the diner between the three others that occupied the place. None looked my way, however. Maybe silence was a common thing here, at the one place a hard-working citizen might come to escape the daily grind of small-town life?

“More coffee?” The sole waitress stood at my side, brandishing a pot filled to the brim, teasing the idea of a fresh brew. She was older, her face wrinkled with years of slinging bacon, eggs and well-done steaks. Her lips crinkled at the sides without a hint of the smile that had faded away some time ago.

I nodded. “Yes, please.” So, she poured. Her eyes lingered on my screen.

“You one of those fancy writer types?” She asked, with a slight southern drawl broken away by many years lived in Maine.

I blushed. “Hoping to be, I guess.” The blank page mocked me.

So did she. “I thought you had to write to be a writer.” There was the smile.

“You’re not wrong on that one.” My cheeks flushed, and I coughed again, hard this time. I tried to hide the napkin.

The lady stepped back, as if I had released the plague. “That don’t look too good, Hun.”

I almost snapped at her, my frustration at the page and the world nearly boiling over, but I managed to overcome the feeling. My predicament wasn’t her fault. “I’m aware.”

She looked to the kitchen, then back at me. “I'm sorry. I didn’t mean nothing by it.” She looked genuinely regretful. “Coffee is on the house, Hun.” Then she stepped away.

That’s when I noticed it. She was barefoot.

That’s an odd thing for a waitress to do.

I had spent my youth working in restaurants not unlike this one, and one of the most important rules to follow was to wear a good pair of shoes. Hours on your feet, and the more than occasional broken glass ensured that an unprotected foot would meet with many hazards of the workplace.

This small detail is what broke me away from the blank page on my laptop, and I scanned the three other people in the diner. One couple in a booth and another man at the bar, sipping a cup of the horrible coffee. The man was dressed in the usual working man’s outfit, with ruffled hair, flannel and jeans. But he, too, was barefoot. His rough feet hung on the ring around the stool, in stark contrast to the rest of his rugged look.

What in the world is going on here?

I coughed again, my head swimming with questions, my laptop completely forgotten. I stood from my office. The bathroom was just beyond the couple, and as I passed them, I saw that they, too, were not wearing anything on their feet. I let the bathroom door slam behind me.

The hot water on my face had never felt so good, yet it did nothing to ground me. The man staring back at me in the mirror was a stranger, with sunken eyes and rigid cheek bones that were invisible just months ago. His eyes told a story of sorrow and fear. They were the eyes of someone out of options; someone chased into a corner he couldn’t see a way out of.

They were my eyes, and I didn’t recognize them anymore.

I shut the sink off, and retreated to my corner booth, not daring to make eye contact with any of the patrons. I felt so out of place, now, that I closed my laptop, slid it into its case, and turned toward the door. The old, barefoot lady was there, coffee pot in hand.

“You didn’t touch your coffee!” She stated this as if a wasted cup of coffee was the worst thing in the world. Even a cup as horrid as hers.

“Yes, I’m not feeling so good, all of a sudden.” This wasn’t a lie.

She cocked her head slightly, obviously remembering the bloody napkin. “Well, I hope you feel a might better, and quickly.” The sorrow in her voice betrayed the lack of conviction.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and I had the weirdest feeling that she wouldn’t let me leave if I tried, but of course that was absurd. I moved to the door, and she swung the pot around, filling the working man’s cup.

With my hand on the door, I stopped, my curiosity getting the best of me, so I turned back to her. The man raised his eyebrows at me, the old lady looked back. “Can I ask you, why is it that you’re both barefoot in a diner?”

They looked as if this was the funniest thing I could have asked, as the lady clucked her tongue at me. “Oh, Hun. Us small town folk just like the feeling of the earth between our toes. Gets us closer to God, you see.”

The man nodded. “Does wonders for the soul. And the body, if you’d believe it.”

The waitress added, “Seems to me, you could use some dirt between your toes, yourself.”

They were lying, or at the very least, not telling the entire truth. I could tell. “Thank you for the free coffee.”

The working man looked to the old lady, stammering, “Free coffee! How come-” The diner door shut behind me.

* * *

You could use some dirt between your toes.

I had no idea why, but those words stuck with me, and I wrote them again and again into my blank document, hoping that something of them would break through and seize an idea from the depths of my mind. It did nothing but set me thinking of my life, of how I’d wasted so much time believing it’d never end. Just how long had it been since I’d had dirt between my toes?

Years, if not a decade. I’d forgotten the feeling entirely. I looked out the window, then back to my blank screen where those eight words stared back at me. Why not?

I shut the mocking laptop and slipped a small notebook and pen into my pocket. Nature beckoned. I stared at my shoes for a moment, then peeled off my socks, throwing them on top of the shoes to retrieve later. As I opened the door, the fresh air hit my lungs, and I coughed again. The blood was darker now, and I wondered how much time I had left. What better way to use the rest of my time, than convening with nature?

That first step into the grass around the cabin was cold, the dew of the morning had not quite dried up in the sun yet, though the feeling set something ablaze inside of me. Why, as a people, did we become so obsessed with the inventions that pulled us further away from our very natures? We are of the earth, but it seems like everything we do as a species was to help us forget such things.

I looked down at my feet, blades of grass between my toes, and breathed in deeply. I didn’t know it then, but I’d never wear shoes again, if I could help it.

* * *

“Dad! Dad!” Those glorious words filled the air, and I couldn’t be happier. The little man had barely waited for the car to stop moving before he’d jumped from the vehicle and charged towards me, arms outstretched. I scooped him up, reveling in the warmth of his hug. I’d missed him so much.

“How’ve you been, Champ?” I tussled his hair as he looked up at me. “How’s school been going?”

He smiled again, which sent my heart ablaze. “Good. We’re learning about dinosaurs!”

“Oh? What’s a dinosaur?” I teased.

He looked at me, perplexed, but took the bait and started stomping around, roaring, arms raised to the sky to make himself look bigger. “They’re great big lizards that lived way before people!” I laughed again, then heard the car door shut behind me.

I took a deep breath as I turned, the crisp fall air filling my lungs. “Hi, Honey.”

Bags dropped from her hands as she stared in shock. She’d expected to be received by a withering man with lung cancer, eyes sunken and sallow, yet the man that stood before her was anything but that.

I took her into my arms, pulling her in tightly. For a moment, she stood there limply, unsure of how to react, then she wrapped her arms around me and cried. I let the tears fall across my shoulder, my new flannel easily soaking them up. After a few moments, she lifted her eyes to meet mine and our lips pressed together. She tasted sweet.

“How was the trip?” I asked, to break the tension of the moment. Our son had been staring.

Her eyes flicked to the boy before she stammered, “You… you look fantastic, Frank.”

I smiled. I had waited ever so patiently to hear those words, to prove the mirror hadn’t been lying to me these past few weeks. My heart soared as my soul filled with joy from hearing such a simple compliment.

“I feel fantastic! And guess what?”

She raised an eyebrow, “I couldn’t begin to.”

I pulled the notebook out of my pocket and flicked through it, revealing the filled pages. Her eyes widened. “I’m almost done with the book.”

Davey jumped up, “Yay! Is it about dinosaurs?”

I laughed, joy rippling through me. “No, I’m sorry. Maybe the next one, eh?”

He punched the sky, “Yes! About Tony the T-Rex!”

Mary scooped up the bags she’d dropped, and I took them from her. “I brought the new coffee maker, like you’d asked.”

I laughed again. “Oh? Thank you, though I don’t think I need it anymore.”

Her eyes widened again, she’d never thought to hear those words come from me. “How did all this happen, Frank?”

I looked her in the eyes, grateful for all the extra time I had been granted, however long that may be. “Sometimes you just need a little dirt between your toes.”