Shoe Story

Erik Seadale

 It was during the final hours of New York’s week of tax-free savings on clothing and shoes, and I was searching for a pair of chukkas, or half boots. My ideal chukkas were not too high, simply designed, with smooth, not patent, leather. A few times I had come very close to finding the right pair, but they were always a size too small, not black, or absurdly overpriced.

I have never apologized for my love of shoes. To me, shoes reveal the ‘soul’ of a man with greater clarity than his mannerisms, or even his clothes. Not the shoes a man wears to work or for exercise, but the shoes he wears when his time is his own, when he feels free. Some men try to wear shoes that are as different as possible from those they wear at work: For them, it is a reaction, and in this way they show that their work has consumed them. Penny loafers, moccasins, and other slip-ons: The footwear of the lazy slob. Boots? The would-be tough. Jodhurs? The fop. Sneakers? Beneath contempt.

Trudging past the shoe stores on Madison Avenue, I began to despair; the shops were closing and it seemed it might be months before I had another chance to find a worthy pair of chukkas.

With my head downcast and the heavy evening fog, I almost missed the dimly lit store, set amidst the carpet shops of lower Madison. "Crouch & Whithers: Fine Men’s Shoes & Haberdashery," I read to myself, "never heard of them."

The shop hadn’t closed yet, so I walked into the shop and appraised the shoes and boots lining the racks and affixed to the shoe trees; a few hats, mostly fedoras, but a few straw as well, hung stiffly on stands in the corner. Diagonally across from the hats was an old electric radiator generating very dry, very hot heat. A few leather chairs and foot stools were placed at the ends of the rows of shoes. There were no other customers and no proprietor was visible.   
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