Walking 8.6 Miles In His Shoes

Blogged on Saturday, June 28th, 2008 by Rachael. Filed in Blog365, Essays, Philosophical.

Since Tuesday this week, the first day of Troy’s new job, I’ve been taking him to work every day (we have just the one car), and I’ve also been picking him UP every night (at ONE IN THE MORNING, AUUUGH), because we didn’t have the county transit taxi set up yet for his schedule.

Thursday, I wasn’t supposed to have to pick him up any more, because I’d set up the schedule with the transit people.  I called after 5pm that day to confirm the ride, like you’re supposed to, and found out that had been schedule for 2:20am instead of somewhere closer to, I don’t know, ONE IN THE MORNING.  Obviously, hanging around the workplace for over an hour past shift time is frowned upon, which we found out by accident when I mistakenly picked him up the first night at half past one (hahaha, haha, whoops); and because it was too late to reschedule the driver, I had to cancel it and pick him up again.

By this point in the week, boy howdy was I dragging.  But this story isn’t about me (which is WEIRD, right??), it’s about Troy. The next day, I called and the dispatcher apologized, telling me that the person who’d put in the time when I originally set up the schedule had just put in the wrong hour.  We both laughed and I was relieved that there was a good reason for the mixup.  She said I didn’t need to call later that day and confirm the ride, since it was already set up.  “Great!” I said to her.  “It’s all set!” I said to Troy.

That was Friday’s ride, which was last night.

Throughout the day yesterday, I had THE WORST headache. It was the migraine-y kind, the kind that puts you off food and liquids and sitting and lying down and just generally existing.  I got the kids fed (I ate too, although it was hard to keep it down, ugh), they played, and then they went to bed.  I went to bed too, planning to sleep several hours to get rid of my gigantic headache, then when Troy got back I’d get up and we could hang out while he wound down from his day.  It was THE PERFECT PLAN.

I woke up at 1:40-something, and thought, Good, he’ll be home soon! So I went back to sleep.

I woke up again, suddenly, at 2:23am.  The house was quiet, and he was not home.  I started to freak out, but stopped myself.  Maybe his ride had just gotten mis-scheduled again.  I resolved to wait at least a few minutes, but as I woke up more and more, I just couldn’t.  I called the number for the transit system, and waited on hold for almost fifteen minutes, growing more and more apprehensive.  I hung up, freaked out a little more, then dialed again.  By this time I was waiting by the glass front door, looking outside into the rainy dark with my robe clutched around me, hoping he would appear in the yard soon.  I waited another fifteen minutes on hold, then the dispatcher told me that No, Ma’am, that ride was canceled.

CANCELED?! So my husband has been sitting outside in the rain for AN HOUR AND A HALF? ARRRGHHH!!11!1 YOU STUPID FUCKING PEOPLE, AUUUGH! Although I didn’t actually say that to her, I just thanked her in a quivery voice and hung up.

We don’t have cell phones at the moment, since that was an expense that quickly became optional when our income became less than what was necessary.  I quickly sat down at my computer and Googled his workplace, since I couldn’t remember where I’d put their phone number.  I called them, and their machine politely answered; nobody was available to take calls during the off-hours.

DAMMIT.

Now I was getting really worried.  It’s safe to drive downtown where his factory is, but it sure as hell is not safe to walk that road at night; and if his ride hadn’t shown up, and I hadn’t shown up, I knew he wasn’t going to wait around.  He’s resourceful at the very least, and he’s lived downtown in Detroit before and walked those streets at night, and I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to come home on foot.  So I jumped in the car, trying not to cry because tears don’t help, and drove downtown slower than normal, checking the roadsides and sidewalks the whole way.  I pulled into the factory parking lot, having not seen him all the way in.  A third shift worker was outside having a smoke, and I asked him if he’d seen a second shift guy hanging around.  “That blond guy? He was here earlier,” and he shrugged.  Was he still there? Probably not.  Did he walk somewhere? He didn’t know.

So I drove back up to my home that was eerily empty of husband, slowly again, checking the sides of the road as painstakingly as I could.  When I got back inside, I called the police to ask if they’d picked anyone up.  “No Ma’am, we haven’t picked up nobody walking,” the officer said politely, and I thanked him in my perpetually-shaky voice.

Now all I could do was wait.  I googled ‘How long does it take to walk eight miles’, and came up with some overly enthusiastic number of 15 minutes per mile.  It was close to 4:30am, and maybe - if he had waited until about 2am and then started walking - he could be home soon.  I snuggled up on the couch with a blanket, pillows, and a still-achy head.  I took one of his dirty shirts and tucked it next to me, so I could smell him.  I can’t explain how afraid I was at that point, not really knowing where he was - knowing he would be walking home if he possibly could be, but afraid that something may have happened in the dark and the rain.

What do I do if he’s not here when I wake up, kept running through my head.

I tried to sleep, but every noise woke me, startled, and had me running to the door to check outside.  Stupid cats and raccoons.  At 5:30, a different noise woke me - it sounded like steps on the stairs, then someone fumbled at the lock.  I jumped off the couch and grabbed the door open, and there he was, soaking wet, swaying a little, balanced against the door frame.  “I’m home,” he said, and I buried my face in his neck and cried.

It is 8.6 miles down the freeway from our house to his factory, and he walked every mile in the rain, hoping that I was still asleep so that I was not worried.  8.6 miles in three and a half hours, on the road I did NOT check.  My husband is the strongest, most determined, most amazing man I know.  I’m sure you’re not surprised I let him sleep in.  :)