About Feet
Larissa Wise

“Twenty-seven times, you know that? Geez, I rode the ambulance TWENTY-SEVEN times in the past year. And they STILL won’t give me my SSI? Come on! I’m tired of the streets, man.” John sucks air in loudly through his teeth and smoothes peppered hairs away from his forehead as he tells me, yet again, that he’s been denied MediCal.
My foot is falling asleep, so I shift into another position and try again to get a grip on his thick, diabetic toenails. Another resident of the shelter asks him a question, and I rub my nose with my sleeve, leaning in to frown almost cross-eyed.
The toes on his left foot are gnarled and taut from diabetes. The big nails are yellowed talons and almost a half-inch thick. It looks like somebody lifted up his nail and squirted insulation foam in between. I squint, interlacing my fingers to use both palms to squeeze the clippers until zip, a diamond-hard piece of toenail flies off and grazes my lip. I’m pretty sure my lip is bleeding, but instead of voicing any feelings of mild disgust, I press my tongue against the scratch until I don’t taste copper anymore.
“Well, well, well, look who finally showed up,” says John. I turn and see that Tom, one of my good friends and fellow volunteers, has just arrived. With him he brings not only a new box of latex gloves but a new volunteer as well, both which we desperately need.
“Hóla, Tomas.” I stand and wipe my hands down my jeans. “And you are?” I ask, extending my hand to the black-haired girl.
“Hey, I’m Chelsea.”
“All right, Chelsea, I’m going to give you a quick run through of the operation. We start with the white buckets, fill them with soap and hot water over there,” I say, pointing at the maintenance closet.
“In those buckets we clip toenails, scrub calluses … just get all the nasty stuff off. After that is the foot bath with Epsom salts, and then a quick foot massage. In that blue bin over there we’ve got the lotion, the anti-fungal sprays, the files, the nail polish...pretty much everything you would need to take care of some feet.”
She looks a bit confused.
“Yeah, I suck at explaining,” I laugh. “Go ahead and start on the client next to Tom and just follow what he does.”
When I’ve cut down John’s toenails enough that they won’t cause him discomfort when walking, I take the bucket that his feet are soaking in and slowly pour it out, watching the murky gray water and little schools of grated flesh and clippings swim around. I open the egg filer and rinse it out with cold water before tossing it in a bucket of hot water and disinfectant.
After his foot massage I move on to the next chair, which holds a mid- to late-twenties man who is, if I have to choose one word to describe him, red. Red hair, red beard, red skin, red hands, even his eyes have a reddish tone. Clinging to his arm is a pale, doe-eyed woman who looks to be quite a few years younger. Through her loose t-shirt I can see the bulge of her round, strained belly. I feel a little empty space open up under my heart as I think about what her morning sickness must be like, throwing up in the resident’s toilets that reek of bleach and urine, or what comforts her when her back hurts and she would kill to lay down in a tub of hot water.
“This is weird, man,” laughs Josh, shifting in his chair.
“I ain’t NEVER got my feet done. Seriously. I don’t let anybody touch them, not even my girl,” he says, motioning to his side.
“Well I suppose you just don’t get a choice in the matter. It’s absolutely mandatory,” I joke as I start rinsing his feet.
His girlfriend sits at his side, leaning in to him and casting anxious glances at me from time to time. I’ve seen this look before. This is my man, she’s telling me.
“Yeah, me and my girl hitchhiked here from Louisiana. Gina’s got family out here, but they won’t let us stay with them,” he says.
“Why’s that?” I ask, addressing Gina as I use little scissors to cut the extra skin from a quarter-size blister in between Josh’s toes.
“I...I don’t know,” she sputters and blushes hard pink as she holds tighter to Josh. I get up to stretch my knees and grab the nylon bag that contains all the nail polish and hand it to her.
“Here, Gina. Choose the color you want, and then we’ve got some of those little nail decals to put on after.” She begins picking through the colors and holding up each one she likes for Josh’s approval.
“I guess they said they can’t be supporting us,” Josh continues.
“They told us to come on over when we called from Louisiana, but as soon as we got here, they wouldn’t even let us in the door. I don’t know what we’re going to do, man. Gina’s pregnant and all...”
“Oh, you’re pregnant?” I ask, feigning surprise. Gina smiles and nods, putting her hand across her belly.
“When’s the due date?”
“Umm… sometime in March or April, I think. I haven’t been to a doctor yet, so I’m not sure.” I never was good at math, but this is simple and I do the calculations. It’s December. She’s due in March. What am I supposed to say to that? I scratch the back of my neck and look at the ground.
“Did you pick out a color?”

Two weeks pass and Gina has become slightly more sociable, friendlier. I gently rub the calluses on the outline of her foot while Josh does his chores in the kitchen. Aside from the calluses, her feet are smooth and feminine, with slightly short and chubby toes. Fine hairs coat her ankles and legs. It’s nearly impossible to shave in the “shower closet” that the residents use, which consists of a 2x2 tub of sorts and a short hose with no nozzle.
I want to ask her about her relationship with Josh. I get the feeling that there’s something not right. She’s the faithful and doting future-wife, but her eyes are fearful.
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” I ask. “I went the year after Katrina and stayed for about a month and loved every second of it.”
“No. I never traveled much.” She grins and rolls her eyes. “I’ve never been out of Louisiana before now, actually.”
“Really? Wow, so this is all new to you. Did you work back there?”
“Yeah, I worked at a gas station. That’s where I met Josh, too.”
Bingo. I ask how long they’ve known each other.
“Oh… about a year. We’re going to get married soon. Have a little family, a house. When he gets his job he’s going to buy us a car, too.”
“Has he had any luck finding a job out here yet?”
“Well, we haven’t really looked yet. We’re still settling in.” My mom’s wisdom echoes in my head: You have to choose your battles.
“That’s crazy that you hitchhiked all the way out here with him. I don’t think I could have done that, especially being pregnant. Wasn’t it a pain?”
“No. Hell no. Definitely not. Where he goes, I go.” She says this too quickly, and the fear that I’ve often seen surfaces in her eyes. I’m about to press further, but Josh comes in and collapses in the chair next to Gina.
“What were you ladies talking about?” he asks, looking only at Gina.
“About how much I love you.”
He looks at me, and I nod and force a smile. “Sounds like she’s crazy about you,” I say. I massage Gina’s feet with my thumbs, pushing hard on the sole and easing up as I near the toes.

The next week I am walking into the shelter, balancing a cup of coffee on top of the bin of foot supplies. It’s a cold night, falling under the category of emergency conditions for the shelter, which means that there will be more people in the shelter and more feet to wash. I’m just about to walk in the door when Josh comes tramping out, flinging his backpack over his shoulder and bumping into me, which sends my coffee splattering into the bushes. He stops and turns, and I’m about to brush off his apology, but he ignores me and yells into the doorway, “GINA! Now! Let’s go!”
“What’s going on Josh?” It’s getting dark but I can see the anger flaming in his cheeks as he rushes past me.
“We’re out of here! They’re nothing but a bunch of liars.”
“Who’s lying? Josh! Who’s lying?” I ask. Over his shoulder he says, “They said I’m drunk and I can’t be here. Whatever, man.” He throws his hands up and keeps walking. Gina comes out lugging a bulging suitcase with wheels and a sleeping bag tied on top. It’s starting to rain and all she’s wearing is an oversized sweatshirt.
“Gina.”
She doesn’t look at me as she hurries after Josh.

“Ahhh! I hate you Greg,” I say, throwing down my cards in defeat. “I totally thought I had you this time.”
Greg grins and chuckles deeply. “I played this game too long to not know when someone’s bluffing,” he says. We sit on his blanket and watch the other people at the park, waving at those we know. I pull out a smoke and pass him one.
“So, have you still not heard anything on Josh and Gina? I’m worried about her. It’s not right for her to be on the streets.” Greg lights the cigarette and inhales deeply.
“I guess I’ve been hearing a thing or two,” he snickers, not looking at me. I’ve known him long enough to know that when he’s not looking at me, he’s not saying something.
“Go on. What did you hear?”
“Don’t worry about it. You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, yes I do. Tell me or else I’m going to have to beat you up,” I warn. He laughs and takes another long drag, regarding me out of the corner of his narrowed eyes. There’s a long pause before he mumbles an answer I can’t hear.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Josh is pimping Gina out.” He says this slowly, enunciating each syllable.
I continue to stare unchanging at his face for a few seconds.
“WHAT?! No.” I shake my head back and forth. “No, she’s pregnant. Who did you hear that from?”
“Her and Josh are shacked up just down the street behind the motel. I’ve seen her working myself. Hey Steve!” he calls over to a man walking by. “What do you know about Josh and Gina?”
“Who? Is that the pregnant hooker and her boyfriend?”
Greg cocks his eyebrow and looks at me. “There you go.”
There you go, I think. There you go. Brief flashes of action cross my mind, things I could do to rescue Gina, ways I could maim Josh without getting in trouble. The longer I sit there thinking about it, the more Gina’s words cross my mind. Even if I tried to help her I know her answer, and that’s what’s killing me.
No. Hell no. Absolutely not. Where he goes, I go.