Searching for Samantha by Harrison Kim

I rummage for footwear in the dumpster here at the train station, where all routes lead uphill.  I carry a big pack with a sleeping bag and tarp, which I hauled from the bus after I forgot my shoes.  When you have no shoes, you have no direction. My wife Samantha, left me as I bent over to take them off.  She stepped down the bus aisle in a floppy floral hat and a blue chemise and when I looked up, she was gone.

I can’t tell you how much time we rode together on that bus, or even exactly where we stepped on.  The buildings had no edges as we rolled by, I wondered if the sunlight wore them down.  The day turned to night and only within the vehicle were we solid, together, and moving.  Yes, the other passengers talked and laughed, but with Samantha beside me I did not feel alone. 

“It feels perfect, being your husband,” I told her, to share our togetherness.

As I said this, the bus stopped and she arched her foot over me.  Her leg pressed hard against mine as she slid herself by.  Her voice whispered something in my ear as she passed.  Did she say that she loved me?

When I looked up, in my stocking feet, she’d moved all the way down the aisle and was stepping off.  All that remained was a whiff of lavender.  I should have made more of an effort.  I should have rushed forward and caught up.  But I had no shoes.  And my pack lay strapped to the luggage rack above, roped with difficult knots.

A child cried.  A father yelled.  The bus lurched on its way again, and Samantha was gone.  We’d been riding in silence as long as I could remember, until I mentioned I was her husband.

I read the jagged piece of paper left on her empty seat.  It said in red felt pen “University Philosophy Department.”

A message for me?   To judge my level of commitment?  No other choice, but to follow her and find out.  At least I knew the University’s direction: uphill.  

 I kept with the bus along the darkened tree lined streets, as lights in neighborhood windows glowed behind thin arbour boundaries.  The final stop was at a neon lit train station, where everyone left the bus under green flashing lights.  It took all my focus to undo the knots and release my pack from the luggage rack.  When I stepped off the bus I was still in my socks!

 I told the driver I’d lost my shoes, and he said he’d look.  He came back with a pair of black runners a few sizes too small.  They looked like Samantha’s. 

I thanked the driver, who remained outstanding in his tall individuality and clear speech, his arms dangling and twitching big and hairy like they wanted to go back to the steering wheel.

“I’m turning the bus around,” he said.  “I’m sorry to say that you must continue forward alone.”

“Please give those smallish shoes to a person that fits,” I offered.

It never crossed my mind to go back and search for myself.  I trusted him, because of his voice.

*2*

I’m not sure what belongs to me and what does not, though I hope these bear-creature patterned socks are in fact mine.  How much can you lose before you forget your way completely?  I know I left my footwear on the bus, but somehow it doesn’t matter, because the past is gone.

I ask for the correct route to the University. People give me directions that I barely understand.  Others don’t seem to know I’m there and simply pass by.  

“That bus driver knows shoes are important,” I think.  “Why did I take mine off?”

My feet felt so hot, right by the heater, that was it.

*3*

A giant green dumpster sits just behind the train station.

I step over, thrust my arms and body up and forward, tilt then bend into the bin, reach down as far as possible and pull out two empty boxes.  I can stand in those for a time.

From around the side step two garbage men.  I know them by their orange outfits.

“What are you doing back here, mister?” one says.

He looks about sixteen years old with freckles and a toothy smile, only slightly surprised to see me.

I tell him I’m rummaging for some viable footwear.

“This could be a miracle,” he says.  “We found a pair of cowboy boots a while back and I put them in the truck.  Should be about your size.”

His voice rings clear and lucid, and I wait with his partner who resembles an elf with a scrunched-up face and blue eyes like crystals.

“You should learn to ride horses,” he tells me. “You’re short enough to be a jockey.”

The young garbage man comes back with a pair of pointy yellow boots, and they fit perfectly.

“Great,” I say.  “Now I can continue on uphill to the University and find my wife.”

“Good idea,” says the freckled garbage man.  “I’m working towards a B. A. in Medieval Studies myself.”

“Put those boots on and don’t look back,” says the elf man.  “You’ve reached the bottom and you’re on your way back up.”

“Yes.  Every route from this station goes to the University,” says the freckled boy.  “Take the first train.”

I nod and pull on the cowboys, thank the garbage men for their time and consideration, then shoulder my pack and proceed.  The train lurches in, it’s shaped like a long, silver worm with windows, and I see faces peering out.  Who are they looking for?  Not me, I’m sure.  I jump on with my pack and tarp as the doors open.  Everything fits perfectly.  I’m going in one direction.  And who am I within this direction?  Another face gawping out the window, but Samantha’s nowhere to be seen.  I ride upwards and as I rise the buildings become clearer, roofs glinting and sharp as knife edges while day rises, and the sun shows itself.

The train circles its way along the side of a forested mountain.  I stare back to the darkness of the city below, houses sticking out of the dawn, lights flickering.

“Can you tell me when we reach the University?” I ask a man in a blue serape.

He turns his head and says “Yes, indeed Professor.”

I sit across from him and put my pack between my knees.

“Why did you think I was a professor?” I ask him.

The man in the serape looks at me.

“Why didn’t you think you were?” he smiles.
“Because I don’t remember being one” I tell him.  “First I suppose I’ll have to find my office and read what it says on the door.”

The man in the serape laughs.

“That’s the first step for sure, Professor.”

I check under my seat for leftover objects.

“I started this trip with no shoes,” I tell him.   “Then some garbage men gave me these cowboy boots.  I’m looking for my wife,” I continue.   “She’s wearing a floppy floral hat with a sunflower pattern.”

“That could be a lot of people,” The serape man’s head bends under his seat.  “No wife here.”

“Are you a professional yourself?” I ask, hoping he can lead me to the appropriate areas.

“No, I’m a custodial worker!” He laughs some more.  “It’s a dirty world out there, amigo.”
“I pick up odd things whenever I can,” I tell him.  “You don’t know if you’ll find something useful, or something you lost.”

“Without us pickers, we’d all be lost,” he says.

We depart the train together, step across a tarmac and up a long escalator, all the heads ahead of us like ink drops blotting the light, until we reach the street shining orange and yellow under the rising sun.  I walk towards a series of oblong structures fronted with a sign “Morning Philosophy Lectures.”

“That’s the right direction,” the serape man says.

He already holds a broom and brush and sweeps up as we walk together.

“You work fast,” I tell him, and he says “I’m solid, my friend.  You can count on me.”

I am truly fortunate to have met him.  The bus driver, the garbage men, and this fellow keep me on track.

I smell lavender and duck into one of the buildings.  There’s a stream of students entering a large room and I follow, holding my pack down around my knees so it doesn’t jog anyone.  The lavender smell becomes stronger.  I claim an aisle seat next to a hefty woman who offers me a bar of soap.

“I give out samples,” she says. “I make this myself.”

Lines and dimples appear on her cheeks as I become accustomed to the lack of light.  The soap rests in a small green package featuring a tiny octopus design.

“You’re a good businessperson,” I say, and slide the bar into my pack.

The teacher appears on the podium, and though I haven’t seen Samantha since the bus ride, I’m sure it’s her. She’s taken off her colourful hat, but I recognize her wide face with the alabaster features.  I didn’t realize she stood over six feet tall, because on the bus she was mostly sitting.  I could leap up and identify myself, but I don’t want to ruin the lecture.  She flicks back her long blue hair and begins to speak.

“The moon landing never happened,” she says.  “And there’s a secret alien laboratory near Roswell, New Mexico.”  She tilts her head.  “How do we know this isn’t so?”

She whispers something into the mike and scans the room.

“Isn’t that a good question?” asks the soap-maker woman beside me.

Samantha continues.  “When you see someone, how do you know they’re exactly the same person you saw a week ago?”
“She could be reading my thoughts,” I tell the girl. 

I check under my seat for dropped or hidden items and find a floppy hat.  I hold it up and scan the inside for any name tags.

“Oh, that’s mine,” says my next-seat companion.  “Thanks for picking up.”

Her breath smells the same as her soap, like flowers.

“What direction can we go in our lives when everything changes?” Samantha states.

The top of my wife’s head shines under the fluorescent lights.  Her body stays in shadow, and after a time, I notice only her moving mouth, and her voice becomes a hum.  I let the sound soothe my body into a light doze, then wake up as she references me.

“I sat beside a man on the bus today who said he was my husband,” she states.  “A man wearing bear-patterned socks who didn’t know where he was going.  He may still be riding that bus and wondering, where are my shoes?  And where is my wife?”

Some people giggle as the stage lights go out.  I stand up. Samantha bows and vanishes in the podium shadow.  I cross my arms and hold them tightly round my shoulders as tears roll down my face.  The girl beside me also stands, stares at my wetness for a moment. 

“You need to wash those away,” she says, passing me a tissue, then turns and moves down the row.

I touch my face.  The teeth and eyebrows are still there, but what’s behind them?  What is the meaning?

All this movement, this riding buses and trains and walking up hills, has taken me only to a place where Samantha leaves again.  I’ve been trying to catch up for so long, since before the train, even before the bus in the times I don’t remember.

The stage lights flare on, and I stare up to the massive cedar beams holding strong the lecture room roof.

I turn, lift my pack, see the janitor sweep down the aisle, this time in a green and red plaid uniform instead of a serape.

 I walk along the aisle, bending down to look for pertinent objects.

Then I notice the podium.  A pair of runners sits on the shiny floor under the microphone.  They’re light blue, wide with undone grey laces.

“My shoes!” I exclaim and run to the front, drop my pack and sit on the podium edge, pry off the yellow cowboy boots.

So many things take away my focus, but this calls all my attention.  I hold the runners up to the light.  One of them contains a piece of paper, which falls out.  I pick it off the carpet.

“Queen Liz Hat Store,” it reads.

How do Samantha and I connect across the space of the world?  It seems by tiny notes in our footwear.

“Here’s another message from my wife,” I tell the janitor.

I sit on the stage and put the shoes to my nose.

“Lavender” I say, then drop the runners and pop them on my feet. 

It feels like home.

“What are you going to do with these?” the janitor asks, holding up the cowboy boots.

“I can only keep one pair of footwear at a time,” I say. “So, they’re all yours.”

“Finding a place is one thing, but finding someone special is another,” the janitor tells me.  “You’re a lucky man, to have a wife.”  He puts the boots under his arm.  “Thanks, Professor.”

“Maybe I was supposed to speak at this lecture,” I say.  “Maybe I was supposed to stand on the stage and talk in these shoes, but Samantha wore them instead.”

“What’s your name?” The janitor asks. “That would be a start.”

“You did call me Professor,” I say.

There’s no other piece of paper in my pocket except the hat store message.  There’s nothing in my head except for the here and now.  Samantha asked the right question.

“What direction can we have in our lives when everything changes?”

Some things must be steady, like love.  If they disappear, we lose who and where we are.  There’s nothing left to carry on.

 I could be a miracle. I’m chasing down Samantha, and now I have another place to find her.  The Queen Liz Hat Store.  I will travel there in my pair of wife-given runners, with their firm tread.

My bulky rucksack sits just below the podium. The blue tarp remains rope-knotted and tied on top, a tarp the colour of Samantha’s hair.

“I’ve been carrying this burden all day,” I call to the hard-working custodian. “Which I have not forgotten.”

Everything, it seems, is a message that gives me direction.  I lift my pack up, then drop it into place.  It fits perfectly around my shoulders, like a woman’s arms.

Harrison Kim

Image: A pair of well used running shoes from Pixabay.com