A Living Magazine - Day 327 - Homecoming - Southwick to Westfield

I'd set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. and was glad to had woken up then. After sunrise this place would have been much more visible. I rose and packed up.  I noticed that my feet - which had been getting more and more sore - were especially so, as I put on my shoes. I knew it was blisters, but I didn't have the time to treat them. I took off toward Westfield... 

I thought this was funny. Man, you could get one hell of a whippet from a can this big!

There was a whole lot of nothing between Southwick and Westfield. Even for these relatively short treks lately, I'd been easily slipping into what I call "Drifting." I'd just space out and let my mind wander while the miles passed by.

Once I'd  made my way through the borders of Westfield, I headed straight out to Starbucks so I could get online and check for motel rooms. On the way I passed some interesting buildings...

Originally located further down on Maple Street,

the Dewey House was moved to its present location.

I'll bet my sister remembers this. We had one just like it.

When I reached Starbucks I settled in for a good long work session. All the while I was also working with Joyce to try and contact the Elm Motel on Franklin Street. But they would not answer. I NEEDED a place to rest and wash up. I knew my feet were in bad shape, and it was time to remove the socks and treat them. 

Finally as the dark clouds moved in, I felt that I had no choice but to walk there and try to get a room on my own. I set out just as the rain drops started (of course). It was a four mile slog down Main Street, to Elm, then to Franklin--where the motel was. I went into the lobby and rang the bell 3 or 4 times before the East Indian woman showed up. 

She said, "What do you want?" I told her I wanted to rent a room for a day or two. "Smoking or non-smoking?" I wanted non smoking. "No non smoking left." Okay, I would take smoking. "One left. Two beds." I told her that was fine. She leaned in close, "You can not complain about the smoke smell!" I was becoming pissed off at her terse and willful attitude, but I held my peace.

I told her that I had an expired Maine ID, and that we had tried to call ahead of time to make sure it was okay, but they never answered the phone. "Who called?" "What was the name?" This time I leaned in close and told her that it would be stupid for me to tell her since no one answered the phone. She looked completely unfazed, and then, amazingly, again, asked "smoking or non smoking?"

I stepped back and just looked at her. She began to process the room. "Smoking is $71.35" I told her that was fine and handed her my card. She asked for my ID, which I gave her. She didn't give me a hard time about the expiration, but rather that it said, "A. Charles Wall" when my credit card said "Alexander C. Wall." At this point I was ready to just snap the cards out of her hand and sleep in the fucking rain for another night. Life was hard enough without this retarded exchange. 

I think she caught on that I had lost my patience and simply scanned the ID card, swiped the credit card and had me sign the receipt. "Rrroooom Seventee" she said, handing me the key card. I walked outside and saw that the rooms only went to SevenTEEN. Then I made my way through the downpour to the room. It stunk of stale cigarette smoke and was basically held together with duct tape. But I didn't care at that point. I just needed to take care of my feet. The first thing I did was sit on the bed, remove my socks and survey the situation...

Most of the white or yellow patches you see had to be cut away and removed.

I sterilized my knife and my sharp pair of scissors over my Bic lighter. Wiping the carbon residue off of these surgical instruments, I also washed my feet in the tub, and then proceeded to snip away the dead skin. As I did so a steady stream of clear liquid drained out from the blisters and ran down my feet. Dabbing the excess and then peeling away the skin the pain finally hit maximum level.

It was completely expected though. I don't even wince anymore. I know the extreme pain will only last for a few minutes, like eating a hot pepper. Then once the skin had been removed and the draining complete, I soaked my feet in the tub for a while longer, getting used to the pain of raw nerves exposed to the elements of water and then air.

When I could tolerate standing again, I stripped down and took a shower. The soap and shampoo running under my feet gave a new burning sensation. Yet, the nerves were becoming numb from exposure. By the time I stepped out and dried off, they were not so sensitive. I hobbled to the bed and elevated my feet up on a pillow to let them dry.

I had had enough for the day. I was not in the mood to write or work. I clicked on the TV and watched Man vs. Food until I fell asleep. And, after waking later, turning off the TV and lights and slipping under the covers, I fell asleep and was out for the rest of the night until sunrise.