Fifteen weeks ago, the world came down around our ears and I found myself walking home half dazed in the middle of a workday afternoon. The earth had shaken violently not an hour before, and I had ditched the truck on the side of a chasmed riverbank because I could take it no further. The roads were flooded and ripped apart. I could see my street across the river, but I couldn't drive to it.
Luckily I had my old pair of running trainers in the back of the truck. I sat in the back and tied them tightly to replace the flimsy flat work shoes I had on. I rolled up my pants and I set off on foot, like half of Christchurch, in an effort to complete the journey home from the centre of town. A man braver and more foolish than I pulled up next to me in his rugged truck and offered me a ride to the next bridge. He looked as rough as his vehicle and of questionable character, but I didn't hesitate for a second. All barriers were gone, all of the social norms had been shattered.
He drove me as far as the bridge, surely damaging his truck in the process. I got out and continued on my way, half running and half walking along the other side of the river, avoiding the places where the path had fallen away. I neared the home stretch, five minutes left until I could check on the status of my already damaged yet beloved house, and matched my pace with an older woman in the similar situation who was walking in the same direction as me. She held her now impractical high heels in her hands and her stockinged feet were covered in the mud and sand and silt that had pushed its way up through all of the roads in large, bubbling volcanoes. As she walked awkwardly along the uneven ground I asked if she was okay and she smiled anxiously back at me. She was fine, she said, she just wanted to get home. I asked her how far she had to go. I guessed it was half an hour of walking, maybe more, based on the location she gave me.
I looked down at her feet and, in a tone I hoped wasn't patronising, I asked if I could give her my shoes. I explained I was almost home, just five minutes away, and that I didn't need them. She shook her head vehemently, said she was fine, said she couldn't possibly take my shoes, even if we were the same size. I tried offering a few more times, but she wouldn't have it. So we merely exchanged pleasantries and well-wishes, and I started to leave her side. I only got a few paces ahead of her before I shook my own head. I couldn't accept her answer, and I couldn't walk off. I dropped to my knee and started undoing first one shoe, then the other while she approached. I told her I didn't accept her answer and that I was giving her my shoes anyway. She fretted greatly over how dirty her mud-caked feet would make them and I told her that was the least of my concerns. I waited while she laced them up and tested them out. She made sure to get my address from me and I told her it really didn't matter if she returned them or not, because I had another pair and the loss of them was of no consequence to me. She was so grateful but I told her it was nothing, really. Because it was nothing, really.
We finally parted. I ran home barefoot and was glad to see my flatmates slowly arrive over the course of the afternoon, as cell phone coverage was unreliable and aftershocks continued strongly all through the night. The rest of the day's story doesn't bear repeating here. It was an awful time that no one wants to relive.
Occasionally over the last three months I thought of the woman and of my shoes. I didn't regret giving them to her for a second, but they were my first ever pair of running shoes, and they treated me so well for so long, and I still enjoyed wearing them every now and then for casual walks. Even though they had been relegated to second place in terms of use, they were still my favourite. But I did a good deed and I made someone's awful day just a little bit easier to get through, and we all lost so much else in the process that it wasn't an issue at all.
Over the past month especially though I found myself missing them quite frequently. I figured with the amount of time that had passed she had forgotten my name, my street, my address. I wouldn't have been surprised - there are so many things I barely remember from that day, there was so much vying for our attention. I didn't expect to see them back and I was okay with that.
And then yesterday happened. I came home after an easy week of work to find a plastic bag sitting on the door step. I shrugged and left it where it was as I kicked the crooked front door open, assuming it was put there for one of the other flatmates. A while later when I left the house to go out, it was still there, so I picked it up to bring it inside.
That's when I saw them. My shoes! My beautiful shoes! I eagerly ripped into the bag and out tumbled my shoes, their laces, a blank envelope with a card and a box of chocolates. The card read:
- I am sorry I have taken so long to return your shoes. They were an absolute Godsend and I don't think I would have got home without them. Many thanks once again. My home isn't too bad now and I hope yours is also. Many, many thanks, and kindest regards.
I broke out into a smile, so glad that I was presented at such an awful time with an obvious need that I could easily fill. I had wondered so often what had happened to her and if she'd got home okay, and was glad to see that my little act was of use to her.
What's more, I was reunited with my favourite shoes. And I got chocolate.
So really. The moral of my story is that if you do a good deed, there's a good chance you'll be rewarded with chocolate. SCORE.
