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August 24, 2003 tick tock
I was born and raised in a southern town, a fact which, as far as I know, has no relevance here. But we didn't go barefoot all the time and, when I was in need of shoes, my mother took my feet and me to Tic Toc Shoe Store on Government Street.
The Tic Toc employees were men, possibly because women workers wore dresses back then and it was difficult to straddle a shoe-seller's stool while wearing a dress unless, of course, the saleslady enjoyed showing her snatch and girdle to little boys and girls. No, the sales staff was entirely male, middle-aged white men who wore short-sleeved dress shirts with ties, PermaPress pants and well-kept Hush Puppies. Their own feet were walking advertisements for appropriate, sensible footwear.
I remember Tic Toc as dimly lit and antiseptic, like a hospital in a brownout. I am not sure about this, however. Perhaps it is I who looks backwards by the light of a dimming candle. On the other hand, I am positive there existed at the entrance a big-ass cut-out of Buster and his dog, Tige.
Neurosurgeons do not operate with the level of care Tic Toc men used in fitting shoes. They utilized silver and black metal measuring tools designed specifically for measuring lengths and widths. When the call was close, it was not unusual for the salesman to solicit a second opinion from another salesman. In such cases, the salesmen would crouch around my little stockinged feet, measuring and remeasuring, scratching their heads and conferring as though deciding whether to launch a nuclear missile or not.
Incredibly, the Tic Toc men also provided advice on style. Even as a child, this amused me. Without hesitation or sense of irony, these Brillcreamed, short-sleeved, tie-clasped, Hush Puppied, Buddy Holly eyeglass-wearing Ward Cleaver-knockoffs offered foot-fashion tips. Their innocence was beautiful. And, more often than not, Buster and Tige watched me leave the store wearing polio-ugly, fine-fitting shoes.
© 2003 by the beastmaster