Honest Men, Unprotected

I wasn’t sure why the boots bothered me. They weren’t even mine. Basic brown steel toes. Nothing much to speak of, but there they were – laid out in the middle of the rig. I had to take them off of him around the same time my partner was putting the shock pads away. The patient presented with what appeared to be a traumatic heart attack. Basically a heart attack spurned by trauma to the body. It’s what stops the heart of many accident victims. We shocked this one back to life. We did this at least once a week; the price paid for a job in trauma in any big city. Anyway, the victim had a steady sinus rhythm, so we were monitoring him on the way to St. Sebastian’s Hospital.

The boots. He kept moving his right foot. You never know if these things are reflexive or if there is something inside trying to communicate pain or injury. I’ve learned to play it safe and check for injury. I’ve heard a ton of stories about circulation being cut off causing an unnecessary amputation. Once, a three-year-old girl’s foot swelled so fast and so large after a fall from the slide at her day care that the four minute ride to the hospital was enough to cause the loss of her foot. Her shoe was too tight and the circulation wasn’t enough. I think about that every time I drive by that place. Sometimes, I even take the long way home to avoid driving by the area. The memory is still there, though. Merely making the decision to take an alternate route plants her chunky calves firmly in my mind again.

This was a work-related fall. The presenting gentleman was a 33-year-old construction worker. I thought I heard someone in the background say he was the new guy. It’s funny what you pick up while you’re going through the motions of saving a life. One-two-three-four-five. “Isn’t that the new guy?” One-two-three-four-five. “Yeah, thought he did this before.” Charged. Clear. Go again. No breath.

Pulse, compressions, paddles, charge. Check again for breathing. To say it’s going through the motions seems so unfeeling. It’s routine, but for the patient, it’s anything but. Maybe that’s why the boots stuck out. As I loosened the laces, his right foot twitched incessantly. I felt for a dorsal pulse before gently pulling the rest of the shoe off. It was fast, but strong – a good sign. While the bones could have been broken, taking the shoe off prevents constriction from swelling likely saving the foot even if surgery is required. Upon touching his foot, the twitching stopped so suddenly, I had to look up to ensure he was still breathing. He was.

When the little girl was in the rig, we never had to check for breath. She screamed the entire way to the hospital. No screams from this patient. Only the screams of the sirens. Somehow, the screams of people are more comforting.

I removed the second boot. The leather was so smooth, so stiff, not yet broken – much like a wild horse. That mahogany hue reminded me of so many men in my life: my father, my brothers, my uncles. I’m still monitoring vitals but my mind wanders to another time. Many times actually. Dad breaking in new boots after chemicals from the plant ate through the old ones. I could only touch the leather when it was stiff and new. I remember the feel of the laces and the smell of never worn leather. So beautiful only for that day. Once the boots walked the floors of the plant, they could never come in the house again. They stayed in Dad’s footlocker in a separate building I wasn’t allowed to go into. None of my brothers were either, at least not until they, too, started at the plant. I went down to show Dad my report card when he came home from work when I was seven. I opened the door to the cement building and saw him standing there in coveralls worn through and taking his boots off with his gloves still on. They weren’t brown but rather black and I could see silver jutting through the top. “Get back to the house! You know better than to come down here! Get in the house and get in the shower right now!” I remember most those holey boots. I wouldn’t understand for years why I had to shower or how those boots turned so black. Mom scrubbed me so hard that night. She wouldn’t let me wash myself. I never again saw the pink jeans I was wearing. I never saw the feet that filled the boots either.

I put the boots down out of the way. Not more than two minutes could have passed yet time ticked slower than it had in the five or so years I’d been on the job. The rig was filled with the smell of untamed leather. It was a smell almost intoxicating to me. He couldn’t have been on the job more than a couple of days – or at least the boots weren’t.

“Vitals?” my partner, Eddie, asked.

“Stable pulse. Low pressures – 90/50 but steady.”

“ETA two minutes.”

We kept him alive until we got to the hospital and then, as always, wrote up the ER report, cleaned and restocked the rig and went back to the station.

You know how you get into a pattern of doing things – they become so automatic that you aren’t even thinking while you’re doing them? Evidently, that includes restocking the rig. We put the gurney back in the back and somehow, put the boots back in along with our cases of equipment. Eddie was doing a final post-run inventory to double check our supplies and came out with the boots. “Looks like he never even wore them. It’s a shame,” he said.

“I’ll take them. I was back there. I should’ve left them at the hospital. I’ll call tomorrow morning and drop them back off at the hospital on the way home after shift.”

“Are you sure? It’s not a big deal for me either.”

“Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I’ve got it.”

Would he use those boots again? Most construction bosses don’t want to take on the liability of an injured worker. Besides that, we didn’t know what the extent of his other injuries was. We take care of life threatening injuries first and if there is time or necessity, look for those that are less severe. He had been unconscious. His heart had stopped. That’s as far as we got until his foot moved. His feet had good color and temperature. Would he be ok? Probably. Would the boots see another construction site with him? Probably not.

We see at least two cases per shift. Some traumatic, some simple, some simply frightened. Older folks fall. Panicked parents look for reassurance. Car accidents. Domestic abuse. The end stage cancer patients that don’t know what to do. Some are quickly out of my mind. The hardest cases are those that remind me of people I knew, not those I know.

Usually, if we find something that belongs to a patient, we contact the hospital and they send over a family member or, as can happen, the next of kin. They want to know if the victim was wearing the item or holding it as we picked them up. It gives them a sense of having been there – to touch what they last touched. I’ve seen widows break down over greasy wrenches and children breathe easy that their favorite bear had a bandage, too. I knew the boots had to go back, but there was something I couldn’t let go of.

My dad had pulmonary fibrosis. Years of leather-eating chemicals in the plant damaged his lungs so severely that he gradually suffocated as scar tissue replaced lung tissue. They say no one knew the stuff was dangerous. He knew. It wasn’t until the boys – my brothers – started working in the plant that I saw the places on their arms and legs that came in contact with the stuff just once as it ate through the plastic over suits and the Carhardt heavy-duty coveralls they wore to work. Dad used to get so mad at them for not covering those spots up. It became more and more clear why he never wore shorts to the beach and why he never took his shirt off when he cut the lawn like the neighbor dads did.

“Dennis made goulash for supper. Better grab some before Kingman eats it all.”

“Did he bring the Tums, too? I’ll be right there. Thanks, Eddie.”

“You okay? Construction guy get to you or something? You don’t know him, do you?”

“Na – just got lots on the mind. You know – almost time for county inventory and all that.”

“Oh yeah. I always forget you’re in charge of that. Well, let me know if you need help. Anyway, come grab some goulash.”

Our station works 24-hour shifts. Consequently, I was there for another 12, at least. A lot of times paperwork keeps us working 26 or even 28 hours. All part of the job. It really isn’t bad. We’re a big enough city to be busy but small enough to have some down time. The county always has a way of filling down time with paperwork and reports and meetings. A lot of busywork that does nothing but give politicians something more to divert attention and funds to and give us useless tasks.

That night, as I bedded down, I couldn’t get comfortable. I really wasn’t thinking about anything much. I rolled over. Being the only woman on my shift, I had a bunkroom to myself. I threw the boots in the bunk space next to mine. The clunk was a heavy one. I forgot how heavy those things can be. We wear lightweight shoes. I always wanted to try Dad’s boots on. They seemed so heavy and so safe. He’d let me hold them while he got the lotion out. Then, the same night he bought the boots; he would always rub the special lotion into each boot and then set them by the stove to dry. “Don’t touch those boots. The lotion has to set into the leather. Leave them be.” The next day, they were gone, and I never saw them, smelled them, or touched them again.

I figured I’d deal with the boots in the morning. Certainly these boots were the last thing the family was thinking about right now. I’d call and let the hospital know I’d drop them off on my way through.

I couldn’t sleep. I could see the boots from my bunk. I was drawn to the laces. Hooked around steel hooks and eyes. I got up and grabbed them. I ran my fingers down the smooth leather of the laces. I smelled that same smell Dad smelled of after he lotioned his boots. I knocked on the toes hearing the dulled thud as I hit the steel. I could see Dad putting them on his hand to stretch out the tongue. I stretched the top of the boot apart and slid my foot in. I wiggled my toes and for a moment, I could almost feel the comfort in the safety of that boot.

I laced up the boot and tied it off. It was big for me, but it didn’t flop like I always thought Dad’s would. I stood up and walked around the bunkroom feeling the steel in each step. Leather is so stiff when first tried on but softens in time. Steel toe boots become form fitted to the owner. So soft yet still so protective. They stood for everything lives were built on.

Chemicals penetrated that safety zone for many men in Dad’s plant but yet these felt safe. As though there really was a layer of protection between him and the poison. He knew it was poison. Why did he keep the clothes and boots in a footlocker inside a cement building if they were safe? Other guys from the plant never took those same precautions. When the boys took work at the plant, Dad bought them each a footlocker. It was only then that I realized they never showered in the house after work. The building had a shower of its own and the boys were told they had to shower there only. Mom always had to buy special soap for Dad. After the boys started complaining about the smell of it, Dad said she could buy normal soap for use after the strong stuff, essentially a double shower.

I took the boot off. I breached an unwritten rule we all had at work. We never get attached to the cases we serve. It’s something we can’t live by, but we do try. A case gets to each of us sometime throughout the days, weeks, and months. We have counselors available to help us through those times, but more often, we rely on each other. When Dad died, Eddie suggested I see the counselor. Eddie knows me better than almost anyone. I have spent holidays with he and his wife and their children for years. I knew I didn’t need to see anyone and it bothered me that Eddie thought I did.

I put the boot back with its partner and finally fell asleep. I awoke multiple times that night. Each time with the feeling of a lingering dream covering me. I felt like something was just outside my grasp. I could feel something, could almost see it, smell it, taste it. They weren’t exactly nightmares that woke me, but they weren’t really peaceful dreams either.

“Ready to head out, Eddie?”

“Yeah – paperwork is done so I’m heading out. See you on the Tuesday shift next week, right?”

“Sure thing – I’ve got to run by the hospital to drop off the boots and then off for the weekend.”

I knew I had to return them, but smelling the leather protectant mixed with the earthy clay they’d been working in with the remnants of the rich leather itself was almost anesthetizing to me. No one called about them. I stopped at St. Sebastian’s, but couldn’t get out of the car. The boots just sat there on the seat beside me. I felt an odd familiarity – almost intimacy with them. I wanted to pick them up, but it felt like the air between the boots and I was charged. I brought them home. It was Friday. I didn’t have to work again until Tuesday. I wasn’t sure why I was bringing them home, but I did.

At home, I threw the boots in the stack of mangled shoes and boots by the door. They fit in. They looked like the serious protective father to the kitten heels and worn out Nikes. I left them there and ran some errands – grocery shopping, laundry, all that good stuff.

When I was a kid, shoes were a big deal in our house. Dad always made sure we had new shoes and that they were brand name. He yelled whenever Mom let me get flimsy flip-flops or high heels. “She’s going to end up with bad feet. You don’t want her to live with that, do you?” I didn’t understand his issue. The boys sometimes wore hand-me-down shirts and jeans, but never shoes. They always had their own new shoes fit for them by the town shoe expert. We couldn’t buy shoes at any department stores or discount stores. We always had slippers for after the shower, and we had better wear them. Bare feet were absolutely not allowed except in bed.

Saturday morning, I picked one of the boots up. The right one – the one that had been attached to the twitching foot. The one that beckoned me in the first place. It wasn’t warm like it had been then. It was even stiffer than it had been that day. I turned it over and imagined the foot that had walked the short mile in that shoe. I thought of the many miles Dad walked in his many pairs. I thought about the prayers he spoke when he was sick about not having his children walk the same miles in his shoes.

If this man hadn’t have fallen at the jobsite, he wouldn’t have had his heart event and thus wouldn’t have crossed our path. My path. These boots would be walking through mud and clay. They would be supporting this man nailing trusses. They would be absorbing nails into the fleshy soles and protecting toes from dropped steel beams. Had he ever built anything before? Was this his first construction job? What would he do now? What good were the boots to him now? They protected his feet, but not his head, his hands, nor his heart.

Dad got a cold that wouldn’t go away. Mom took him to the doctor and then to the specialist, the surgeon, the hospital, and finally, home. His lungs were scarred, and the oxygen machine would help for a while. He came out to the living room every day for a while. Then only whenever company came. Then company came to his bedroom to visit, sitting on the commode to talk about neighbors and work gossip. He always had socks on. Even when he was too hot, he wore his socks. I never thought much about it. I had never seen him without them so why start now?

The phone rang. It was Eddie.

“Hey there. Did you ever find out the condition of the construction accident?”

Just like us, no names, just case descriptions. “No.”

“Wasn’t anyone at the desk?”

“I’m not sure. I drove right by. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I’ll be dropping by this morning on my way out to run some errands.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Eddie, really, I am fine. I just forgot. They’ll be there this morning.”

“Okay. If you’re around, stop in for dinner tonight. We’re trying out the new grill.”

“We’ll see. I just might.”

I grabbed the boots. The leather was stiffer than it had been the night before. They somehow felt older, heavier, something. Their earthy scent mingled with the vanilla normalcy of my apartment.

I headed out to run errands and head to the hospital. All morning I ran errands with the boots in my car, fully intending to stop at St. Sebastian’s to drop them off. It would give me a chance to inquire about his condition. It was out of character, but not unethical. There is an unwritten rule that once we treat a patient, we do have the right to inquire about the outcome. We just become so accustomed to the business that we don’t usually inquire.

I pulled into the same spot as I had the day before. I did get out of the car and headed in. Beth was working the intake desk. She’s always so easy to deal with. She’d excuse my lack of name recall for the patient. Some of the intake nurses insist you give them name and all the details before they’ll eek out an ounce of information. Beth isn’t that way. Thankfully. Of all the names I could recall of people I’d helped, his was lost in the mind mist. It’s what we call the fog that we all get after working a series of long shifts. Autopilot thankfully kicks in to get us home after many of these shifts.

“Beth, so good to see you. Stuck working on Saturday?”

“Have to take my turn once in a while. What can I do for you?”

“I have a pair of boots that belong to that 33-year-old construction patient we brought in the other day. Somehow, they were left in the rig.”

“He passed away last night. Another heart attack.”

“Did he have any family or anyone that I should get these to?”

“No – it was the strangest case. No next of kin could be found. The county took his remains this morning and is going to do a county burial.” A county burial involved cremation with a combined memorial service along with all other unclaimed deceased in the county. The cremains are then kept for six months and then unclaimed cremains are sprinkled in the county cemetery.

“What do you think I should do with the boots? I’ve never had this happen.”

“We usually donate any goods to the thrift store.”

When Dad died, it was after a long period of what he called existing. He said it certainly wasn’t living, so it had to be just existing. By then, both the boys were also not in good health. They weren’t dying, but they just never felt good. They were both married and had families of their own. They came home to visit, but never stayed long. Mom and I picked out Dad’s clothes for the casket. As I grabbed a pair of socks from his drawer, I asked Mom why Dad always wore socks and always wanted such expensive shoes for us.

“Honey, there are a lot of things Daddy never wanted you to know about.”

“Like feet? That’s ridiculous.”

“Do you want to know why?”

“Yes, I do.”

She led me to the end of the bed and let me take Dad’s socks off. As I did, she said he knew the chemicals he worked with were dangerous and it killed him to let the boys go to work there, but there really were no other good paying jobs in the area. He knew no matter what the plant managers said nothing that did this to skin and bone could be good. As the chemicals ate through the leather, it also ate through the socks and the skin and finally, the bones. I looked at his feet. His heels and the top of his feet looked as though they had been gnawed off with jagged teeth and burned to the bone but his toes had never been touched.

I took the boots back with me. This young man was dead. He wore the right equipment. He worked an honest job. The boots protected this man’s toes, but what did it matter? The steel protected his toes but not his heart, not my father’s lungs, pride or family.

The memorial service was small but nice. I took the man’s ashes. His name was Jason. I took the ashes and the boots out to the cemetery where my father, and now my brothers are buried. I get the sense that they would have liked Jason. Honest men, unprotected.

Jennifer Stallsmith is a freelance writer and lifelong resident of northeastern Wisconsin. She currently resides in Green Bay with her ever-so-patient husband, Brad, and their two cats. She finds inspiration in the everyday items we often take for granted.