After the Bath

--Robert W. Hill

One day not long ago I stepped out of the bathtub onto a nylon acrylic bath mat. I had . . . actually, I had been showering, but my shower is into a tub, as you can visualize, I’m sure. Usually I dry myself fairly thoroughly before stepping out. It’s something, I think, about having the water in the tub that leads me to do it that way. I’ll dry one foot, having worked my way downward from my head. Actually, I often do a quick rub of my hair (if I’ve washed it) just to keep it from dripping onto the rest of my body, streaks, you know, running all the way through what had once been dry only a moment before. Then, having dried one foot, that day, I stepped onto the throw rug, shifted weight and lifted my wet foot out of the tub’s vertical boundaries (as in basketball, you can’t break the “cylinder” above the basket when the ball is on its downward flight, or else they whistle at you—some holler—and call it “goal-tending,” a term that seems almost affectionate rather than foul in any way). Generally I will (as I did that day) dry the second foot as I suspend it within the bathtub’s high limits and then step down, having at that point, as I did, come to two-footed human balance again.

But that day (not long ago) I stepped down onto the ceramic tile, cooler than the moist air to which I’d brewed the room; and when I did, my foot spread about half a handsbreadth wide on each side, perhaps even expanding heel to toe by the width of two fingers (I have ordered scotch on the rocks by finger-width, although the fine delineation was not really important to me). And as a result of that spreading, somehow my leg (it was the right one) seemed to be slightly shorter than it had been. Now the startling thing at the moment was, to me, not that I was wider-footed and one-sided shorter, but that my left foot and leg remained as I had always known them (I recognize, of course, that certain microscopic alterations, abrasions, sheddings, and other cellular attrition result in constant change, but basically my left body support held up rather well.

I had the illusion for a moment that, if I should lift my right (flatter) foot up, it would return to its normal configuration, but in /33/ fact it did not. I caught my image in the patiently defogging cabinet mirror, and stretched my neck to see myself oddly heronlike with an elongated widened foot quizzically angled but almost parallel to my elevated and perfectly horizontal thigh. I did wonder if I should step it down again, but came quickly to understand that I could not stand thus naked until my death.

I was pretty certain that, when I set my foot to the floor again, it would spread still further, so I was cautious about its force, even gentle. Surprisingly, there was no metamorphosis at all. Somewhat emboldened, I began to walk to the bedroom to dress. I was aware (I am even still aware) of making slight adjustments to re-equilibrate my pedally skewed posture. (I thought if I should remain in this condition I could call myself Mr. Malaprop, but only to my friends who would suffer so mal a pun. I was not worried.)

Feeling a little more secure when I had made my way across the hallway tiles and onto the large bedside rug, I sat down on the bed to trim my toenails. Unusually naked (fearlessly thinking that I might never see myself in this same condition again), I reached my left hand down and my wide foot up, thus to groom my strange new self. But when I took my foot in my hand, my fingers, which had wrapped around under my outer instep (less difficult than it sounds—quite natural, in fact), and my thumb’s thick meat hooked confidently into the creased sole, my foot shifted within itself and stretched like viscous dough, thinning in the middle. Only slightly startled, for I had not put the widening out of my mind, I let go and stood up. Four neat press-marks showed where my fingers had been, and the standing—even on a rug—caused further expansion of the foot (roughly, I estimated) in the same proportions as the first time, and again felt my equilibrium shift. I was now shorter on the right by about an inch—nothing that an appropriately designed wide, high-heeled shoe couldn’t correct.

I dressed as much of me as I could, straining and pushing a lot to get my right foot into my pants leg, but all seemed well, down to my shod left foot. I found that the volume of my wide foot had not increased and that I could fold its edges up and over to get into my normal shoe and sock (but I could sense that this was temporary). I remained, even after fully clothed, shorter on the right side. /34/

Since it was time to go to work, I realized I needed to hurry a bit, having been delayed by my extraordinary morning preparations. I did not realize at first that, with each step now, my right shoe (foot inside) was expanding, my leg thus shortening. The ankle (as I finally did look down) had bulged slightly and seemed to be feeding itself into the shoe. I had the notion that if this condition should persist, my occasionally painful right knee (“Can’t really do anything for you right now; let’s wait until it locks up on you.”) might be absorbed in the process, thus eliminating pain and anxiety in one swelled foot.

Another problem, though, had emerged as, readying for work, I took those fewer than fifty steps around the room. The foot was getting in my way. I had begun to have to swing my leg outward from the hip to clear walking room for my left foot. “Walking like a Stiffo,” my dad would’ve said (we used to play at physical games—distortions—like that). Shortly, so to speak, my shin was diminished by half its length, and I was having real trouble standing anyway close to upright. It crossed my mind that I’d seen young people scooting around town with one foot on a skateboard, one foot pushing. I remembered scenes in cities when legless beggars propelled themselves about on castered platforms. Perhaps a stilted skateboard for my right side (it might need to be adjustable).

By the time my knee was bulged and absorbed (relieving me of my pain and anxiety concerning it), I was assisting my motion out the door into the parking lot by crutching with my right hand. I was pretty sure I could make my way into the car, but the dual brake and clutch pedals would be something of a problem—nothing I didn’t think I could handle.

And I did manage fairly well. In fact, it seemed (untruly, I suspect) that the sitting and not using my right side support was a kind of pause, time to think a little. I wondered where I would park. I was sure nobody would notice. I had been at this job for many years. I was well known, part of the furniture, so to speak.

The Davidson Miscellany

Spring 1981: 32-34