... ..if the shoe fits ....January 18, 2006   When I evacuated ahead of the hurricane, I remembered to pack my Crest White Strips.  Unfortunately, I neglected to pack anything else and, when I returned home, I discovered I was shoeless.  Actually, I was almost shoeless.  I had fled in a pair of ancient All-Stars and they were still on my feet.  I am neat, but I'm not a dandy. The shoes I owned were kept on the floor of my closet.  I didn't keep them in hanging pockets or built-in shoe compartments.  Before the hurricane, when I returned home from work, I simply stood in my closet and pried off my shoes, one at a time, applying downward pressure to the heel of each shoe with the toe of the other.  This time, however, my manliness cost me.  As the waters rose, an armada of leather, canvas, and rubber set sail.  When the waters receded, the shoes were set down and stranded, like Gulliver, only funkier.   After the hurricane, I vowed to rebuild my shoe fleet, one pair at a time.  It had been many years since I shopped for shoes in an actual store.  I had been using the internet to shop, but for weeks after the hurricane, I had no electricity.  Since I needed a pair of dress shoes for a mediation, I had no choice but to shop at the mall.  Once there, I chose Dillards because of its prices, its selection, and its doors that opened.  You see, all of the other stores in the mall were closed. I'm told our Dillards isn't a large Dillards, but it took me twenty minutes to locate the men's shoe department.  Apparently, I became disoriented near the fragrance counter and I circled it, over and over, like a Chanel-drunk cabbie on a roundabout.  When I finally located men's shoes, I examined the ones on display, sat down, and waited for help. Help never arrived. As I later found out, the helper I was waiting for--a pasty, middle-aged man wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt with a clip-on tie who'd devoted his life to footwear--was long extinct.  The last true shoe salesman died in 1969 while working at a Thom McCann's store in Davenport, Iowa.  Discovered by an after-school stockboy, the dead man still clutched his pewter foot-measure and, remarkably, sat upright on a stool with a slanted footrest.  So I waited and waited, but nobody came.  Eventually, the light bulb came on.  I have to serve myself.  I stood up, walked over to a display rack, and grabbed by its wooden ankle a wooden foot fitted with a black, cap-toe Johnston & Murphy oxford.  I walked to the sales counter and, addressing the clerk there, inquired, "Do you have this in a nine?  The shoe, not the wooden foot."  The clerk scowled and disappeared into the storeroom.  She returned shortly and pushed a box at me. "Here," she said. "Here's your shoe.  Now give me the foot."  I gave her the foot and returned to my chair to try on the shoes.  After a lengthy struggle with the black, waxy laces, I stood up and looked down.  The shoes were laced and tied, but the lacing of the right shoe didn't match the left.  On the right, I'd laced in an over-and-under fashion; on the left, I saw an under-and-over pattern.  Ignoring the asymmetry, I wiggled my toes.  Do they fit?  I walked toward a mirror and back to my chair.  I couldn't tell.  How can I know if the shoes fit? I sat down again.  To my right, three chairs over, sat a black man who stared straight ahead at nothing.  He was about my age and looked like someone waiting for help. "Excuse me, sir," I said leaning to my right, sticking out a leg, "Would you mind feeling the toe of this shoe?" The man smiled and, without saying a word, rose from his chair and knelt down before me. "I sure wish they had one of them stools with the slanted footrests," he said. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2006 by the beastmaster