Shoe Story

Erik Seadale

"You take good care of your shoes, I can see that," he said. "You don’t abuse them. If you can’t take care of your shoes, your shoes that support you throughout the day and ask for nothing more than an occasional polish, how are you supposed to take care of a dog, much less a child?"

"How much are they?" I said, introducing the practical note.

"Don’t worry about the cost. Let me help you."

He bent down and gently slipped the chukkas on me. His was a delicate touch, but not for my ankles or heel; his fingers caressed the leather as he placed them on my feet. I remember the fine blue veins that fanned across his white, nerveless hands and also the ugly red gash near the top of his head.

"Walk about a bit…they feel good, don’t they?"

"Fit like a glove," does not do justice to how they felt on my feet. "On my feet"? They were more like natural extensions of my feet.

"How much?"

"One silver dollar."

"Pardon? You mean you only take dollars, not credit cards?"

"Not dollars, one silver dollar. And credit can’t help me."

I knew I didn’t have a silver dollar, but I dug desperately into my pockets and took out my wallet and money clip. "Look," I said removing the cash from my money clip, "I’ll give you twenty times a silver dollar."

He shook his head with great sadness and said "it’s no good, not this time, not ever."  Next page