The Empty Drawer
Once upon a time there was a mild-mannered young man named Roger who went hiking alone in the mountains. He had not bothered to bring a map, because he knew that downhill was always on the left going home. However, it was a cold and rainy day; a thick fog descended; and Roger, having pulled his hood over his head to protect his face, did not notice that he had walked over the summit and descended the other side of the peak. When the sun finally emerged and burned away the mist, downhill and uphill no longer meant anything except dizzy slopes down which the pebbles rattled into oblivion.
Roger wandered for days before he was found by the helicopter of a fire ranger, which was itself lost on its way to a brushfire in Temagami. For all of those days, Roger chewed on mosses and ate the snow that lingered in ragged patches under the black boulders. These were not nutritious, although a pink algae in the snow gave him first strange visions, then cramps. By the end of that time Roger was suffering from riboflavin deficiency, a disorder characterized by rough, scaly skin, and photophobia. In his visions he became a hawthorne spray of spun glass that shattered when struck by the sun’s hammer. He saw a ferocious creature made of molten iron and threw his shoes at it to drive it away. The ancient dwarf pines where he sought shelter could only shade one square foot of him at a time.
Afterwards, in the cool, dark hospital room, Roger watched the ripple of leaf-shadowed light on the ceiling and felt at peace. But though the nurses removed the IV needles and the cold compresses one by one, Roger’s skin remained rough, especially his feet, which had been particularly exposed after he lost his shoes. Some chemical synergy of the mosses, sun and hallucinogenic algae had made the change permanent.
Roger was tough, and soon resumed his normal life as an accountant, even making an occasional camping trip on weekends. However, he soon noticed other changes. Roger was accustomed to wearing plain black socks, which his mother purchased at Winners and mailed to her beloved, absent son. She lived far away, in the Ottawa valley and had very little contact with him, and so she sent him these socks very diligently so that he would know he was loved. Roger had had to devote an entire drawer to the packages, which he opened only when his other socks had worn through. It was six weeks after he returned to work that Roger opened this drawer, and found he had only one pair left.
Roger had never purchased his own socks before. He was surprised when he went to the store to see the huge variety of stripes and Argyll that presented itself. He also discovered that socks were more expensive than he had expected.
Despite this outlay of time and money, it was less than a week before Roger found himself facing an empty drawer and a garbage bag full of black cotton-spandex rags. He returned to the store, and this time bought only two pairs, more expensive but made of sturdy wool. He then went to the dollar store in the same mall and bought a darning needle and some yarn, muttering shamefacedly to the uninterested cashier that it was “for his girl-friend”. Roger did not have a girlfriend. Even female clients jumped back, startled, when they reached out to shake his shark-skinned hand.
Roger’s life found a new pattern. By day he sat at his desk, taking care not to shuffle his feet or fidget lest he should hasten the friction process. By night he sat in front of the television and darned his socks, thinking bitterly of how there would never be anyone to darn them for him. On the day when he took off his jacket and found a gaping hole in the elbow, he was so prostrated by despair that he could not turn on the television and simply lay on the sofa. When he got up to shuffle into the kitchen, his heels had worn two bald dimples into the upholstery.
In was in these days of darkness that Roger’s boss called him into his office.
“Is everything all right, Roger?” the man said. “Not, ah, financial difficulties, by any chance? Very awkward for an accountant to admit to, I realize.”
Roger, who would have been happy to have some straightforward financial difficulties instead of the ones he now faced, looked dully back at him. His boss chuckled uncomfortably.
“Right then. So let’s, ah, put the threadbare clothing back in the attic, shall we, and remember that nothing inspires client confidence like a professional appearance.”
Roger left the office and then the building, not even stopping to take his favourite pen or coffee mug. Halfway home he stumbled. Looking down at his feet, he saw that the thin shaving that remained of the sole of his shoe had at last parted ways, and his footwear, like his life, lay in ruins.