Shoe Story

Erik Seadale

Square in the middle row of the racks were the chukkas I had been looking for. Each was cut from a single piece of leather, solid but elegant. I turned a shoe over to find the tag, but there was no price on the sole; closer inspection revealed only a smoky smell, as if someone had been wearing it to a campfire.

"An excellent value, those."

I turned to see an old, very tall, nearly hairless, man who had entered silently from a door in the back. He was breathing heavily, but noiselessly, as if he had just come up the stairs, which he no doubt had. He limped badly as he came in and looked at me with the sad eyes of a bloodhound that has missed its spoor. An unmistakable air of melancholy hovered about him and seemed to bend him under its weight. It was, I thought, an air inappropriate for a merchant during tax-free week.

"I’m Crouch. You’re wearing a size twelve?" he said, more a statement than a question.

"Yes. Do you have it in stock? And my left foot is…"

He was fantastically observant. "A little larger than your right. I may be old, but I’m not blind. I’ve got ones that’ll fit you. I’ll give you a size 11 ½ right, and a size 12 left. I’ll just go downstairs again and pick them up."

"I don’t know that I can afford two pairs of shoes."

"I’ll only charge you for one pair of shoes," he said, walking back to the stairs.

I sat in one of the chairs and wondered if he would find another customer who wanted the same shoes, in the same size and had a right foot larger than his left. Or what if such a customer had already come in, and my coming was a stroke of luck for him? But I did not wonder for long because he soon returned with shoes in hand.  Next page